In the summer of 1991, Michael Corke was planning his wedding. But his life would soon end in an unusual way.
He was 40 years old, a music teacher at a high school in New Lenox, Illinois, well-liked, healthy, ordinary in every good sense of the word.
He had a fiancée. He had a career he cared about. He had the rest of his life stretched out in front of him.
Then he stopped sleeping.
Not in the way most people mean when they say that. Not lying awake for a few hours, not waking at 3am with a busy mind. He stopped sleeping the way a machine stops working. Completely.
At first it seemed like stress. A busy period. Pre-wedding nerves. These things pass. Except this didn't pass.
The nights piled up, blank and endless, and Michael Corke lay in the dark and did not sleep, and then he got up and went to work, and the days began to blur at the edges.
Within months he could no longer walk properly. His balance went. Then his mind started to go with it, dementia creeping in at the corners, the kind that makes a person seem drunk, then absent, then like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
He began to hallucinate. He would lose touch with where he was, who he was talking to, what year it was.
His doctors diagnosed depression. Then multiple sclerosis. They were wrong on both counts, but they could be forgiven for it, because what was actually happening to Michael Corke had barely been described in medical literature.
There were almost no words yet for what they were looking at.
He was admitted to the University of Chicago Hospital. By this point, around 130 days had passed without sleep.
Doctors, desperate to give him any relief at all, induced a coma with heavy sedatives, barbiturates, the kind that can drop a person into unconsciousness in minutes.
His body went still. His eyes closed. But his brain kept going.
EEG readings taken while he lay in the medically-induced coma showed no sleep activity whatsoever.
The most powerful sedatives available to modern medicine had successfully paralysed his body and done absolutely nothing to his brain. It simply would not sleep.
The part of it responsible for sleep had been eaten away, quietly and completely, by a disease so rare it had only been given a name a decade earlier.
Fatal familial insomnia is a prion disease. A protein in the brain folds the wrong way. It shouldn't be possible, proteins are not alive, cannot be k*lled, cannot be reasoned with or treated.
They simply misfold, and then they cause other proteins to misfold, spreading through brain tissue the way rust spreads through metal.
The thalamus, the region that governs sleep and consciousness, is destroyed. First sleep becomes difficult. Then disrupted. Then impossible. Then the person d*es, because it turns out sleep is not optional.
Those who witnessed Michael Corke in his final weeks described it as watching a man age forty years in four months.
He d*ed in 1993, one month after his 42nd birthday. His wedding never happened.
🚨🇺🇸 Shawn Ryan on the Epstein Files:
“They are legitimately proactively protecting pedophiles by redacting the abusers names. Listen up everybody, the f*cking White House is protecting pedophiles.”