UZ Pellenberg, May 2017
When my children were small, six o’clock seemed very late.
Sometimes it was just too late.
They had played and learned all day long. Discovered new things. Had new experiences. Perhaps learned new words.
And now they were tired. So tired they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore.
Sometimes I managed to lift them up, carry them upstairs and put them in their beds without waking them up. Without them being aware of it.
I’m sure I always came back downstairs with a big smile on my face.
It is now ten to six here in Pellenberg, and I am sitting in the dining room with my fellow pupils. It has been a long, hard day. My hand and arm have been worked on by the physio; I’ve played games that aren’t available toy shops;
I’ve been sat in front of a computer screen looking for things I couldn’t find; I’ve built a tower of all kinds of different blocks; all “new” experiences, designed to make my brain relearn what it first learned more than fifty years ago.
I’ve eaten everything all up, like a good boy, and I feel my eyelids start to get heavy, as gravity starts doing its work on them.
Now I know why my children were so tired back then.
It’s not going to be late tonight.
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