How my family learned that cataplexy is different from a sleep attack
I may have been paralyzed, but I was still mentally present
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It started with laughter — the kind that bubbles up fast, spills over, and refuses to be contained. The kind that makes your stomach ache and your eyes water. The kind you wish you could bottle and save for harder days.
I was on my grandparents’ couch, wrapped in that familiar warmth of family, stories, and something slightly inappropriate enough to make it even funnier.
Then, just like that, my body hit the off switch. Not metaphorically, not gently. But completely.
One moment, I was laughing, and the next, I collapsed — every muscle surrendering at once. My arms, legs, and even my face were gone. I didn’t fall dramatically, thrash, or faint. I simply folded like a marionette whose strings had been cut mid-performance.
Cataplexy is not a sleep attack
This wasn’t sleep. This was cataplexy — but try explaining that to a room full of people watching you go completely still. Inside my body, I was fully awake, aware, and trapped.
I could hear everything. Cushions shifting. My mom and grandma gasping. The sudden, sharp pitch of panic rising in the room like a storm rolling in too fast. My name being called — once, then louder, then with urgency.
“Rachel?”
“Rachel!”
Hands hovered. I could feel movement near me, the air changing. I couldn’t respond — not a twitch, a blink, or a whisper. My body had drawn a hard line: no movement allowed.
If you’ve never experienced cataplexy, it’s hard to grasp the strangeness of being mentally present but physically erased. You become a witness to your own stillness, a silent participant in your own emergency.
The secret word is ‘pomegranate’
My dad was trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. He didn’t quite understand that cataplexy and a sleep attack were two different symptoms of narcolepsy. To Dad, unconsciousness meant absence, lights out, gone; so if I looked like I was out cold, surely I couldn’t hear anything, right?
The Nesmith family celebrates during a family friend’s wedding. From left: Noel Sotomayor, Katie Sotomayor, Rachel Nesmith, Kerry Harrison, David Nesmith, and Susie Nesmith holding Savannah Harrison. (Courtesy of Rachel Nesmith)
Wrong. I heard every word.
There was a pause in the chaos, a moment when his voice cut through — calmer, but still edged with confusion.
“Rachel,” he said carefully, like he was testing a theory. “I don’t think you can hear me, but if you can, the secret word is ‘pomegranate.'”
Pomegranate.
Of all the words in the English language, that was the one he chose. Dad went full vocabulary word on me.
And there I was, completely paralyzed, mentally screaming: “I HEAR THE SECRET WORD. WHY WOULD YOU PICK ‘POMEGRANATE’?!”
But of course, none of that came out.
Time stretched in that strange, elastic way it does when you’re stuck. Seconds didn’t feel like seconds. They felt like something thicker, heavier, measured not by clocks but by breaths I couldn’t control and voices I couldn’t answer.
This wasn’t just a brief episode. This was status cataplecticus — prolonged, unrelenting, and deeply unsettling. Thirty minutes of being a conscious statue while your family quietly unravels around you.
Eventually, my body began to return. A flicker first, then a slight shift, like power being restored to a grid, one section at a time. Fingers regained sensation. My jaw loosened. My voice, somewhere deep inside, found its way back to the surface. And the very first thing I did? I spoke.
“Dad …,” I managed, my voice rough but unmistakably mine. The room froze.
“The secret word …” I paused just long enough for dramatic effect. “… is forbidden fruuuiiit.”
Relief exploded in the room — laughter, disbelief, maybe a few tears — but before I could fully enjoy my triumphant return to the land of the mobile, I dropped right back into another cataplexy attack, slumping to the floor like the punchline to my own story.
Cataplexy doesn’t care about timing, dignity, or narrative arcs. It shows up in your joy, hijacks your laughter, and turns moments of connection into moments of collapse. It blurs the line between emotional highs and physical shutdowns in a way that feels almost absurd — until you’re the one living it.
Your support system is very important
Here’s what stayed with me most from that day: I wasn’t alone in it. Even in the paralysis, even in the silence, I was surrounded by people trying — imperfectly, awkwardly, but genuinely — to understand what was happening to me. My dad’s “pomegranate test” wasn’t medical, it wasn’t scientific, but it was human. It was his way of reaching into the unknown and hoping I was still there. I heard him; I heard all of them.
When I could finally answer — even with something as ridiculous as “forbidden fruit” — it became more than just a moment of recovery. It became proof that awareness can exist without movement. Connection doesn’t always require response; sometimes, even in the middle of something frightening, there’s room for humor.
To this day, I can’t hear the word “pomegranate” without smiling or at least bracing myself, just in case my body decides to laugh a little too hard again.
Note: Narcolepsy News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or another qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Narcolepsy News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to narcolepsy.
