Tim slept from midnight to mid-afternoon. He finally got up, shuffled out to the kitchen and leaned against the wall.
“Good morning,” we said.
“Good morning.” His eyes were unusually round.
“How are you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did you have any of those ‘falling forward’ things?”
“One. I just roll over.”
He started rummaging around in the fridge, backing out of it every so often to stare at it blankly.
“Need something?” I asked. “Milk? Juice? Bread?”
“Sleep.” He went back to bed.
A couple of hours later he woke, made himself breakfast, read his newspaper.
Took a nap.
He got up sometime after nine to watch Wall-E with us.
Before we all turned in, we reminded him he has an appointment with the optometrist tomorrow.
“I won’t be able to put away the dishes for you tonight,” he told me, “because it would come out of my sleep time.”
That was at midnight. He has to be up at noon.
Is it depression? Boredom? The cold he’s getting over? The fact he takes Elavil to sleep at night and a swig of Nyquil if he wakes up too early? He says it’s none of the above, that he’s just so tired he could sleep even more. He says he feels fine otherwise.
Maybe he’s just hibernating.