A Suitable Case for Rehab

Apologies for being absent from the blog for the past five weeks or so. Apologies, too, for not being terribly responsive on my rather limited array of social media thingies.

As with most things in my life, there is a story.

I will try to tell it as succinctly as possible because it is actually physically hurting to type this out and my progress on it will be grindingly slow and riddled with mistakes.

“Jesus, Ken,” you might well say, “what the hell happened to you?”

Sit back, I’ll tell you and, as I said, I won’t take long.

It will be five weeks ago today, Sunday, that I carried the small aquarium style tank up the stairs in my friend’s house. The tank contained Tiny the Newt, who deserves a blog post all of his own someday. My friends were going on holidays and I enjoy calling around and looking after Tiny when they are gone. This time they were going for longer than usual so I had to learn how to clean out Tiny's tank too. I was carrying the tank back upstairs (less repetition, Ken, this typing stuff burns, remember?) when my legs started to feel heavy and sluggish. I announced I might be coming down with something and went home.

The next morning I drove to work, climbed the four flights of stairs to my office and immediately decided I wasn’t up to working. I went home again – something I had never done in my life before that day. I sat on the couch. I was convinced I was suffering from a post-flu fatigue. I’d had a good lick of it over the Christmas. A day of couch and Netflix would see me right.

The next day, Tuesday, I found myself using walls, chairs and tables to aid my progression around the house. Post-viral fatigue, I said. Couch and Netflix. You’ll be fine.

On Wednesday I offered to give Patricia a lift to yoga. Parking is tricky at the place. Walking might be a challenge but I could sure-as-shit drive a half a mile. I stepped out my front door, holding on to the jamb, and my right leg went from under me.

I went down.

“Hang on,” I said to Trish, “give me a second to get myself organised here. I’ll just get myself back up.”

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t get myself back up.

Eventually, by some awkward trial and error, I made it to the couch.

Reading this, you’ll reckon that it was ambulance time for yours truly but I am nothing if not a stubborn old fuck. I promised to see the GP the next day. Post-viral fatigue, with a little wonky leg action thrown in. The GP will sort it in a jiffy.

The next day, Trish and I went to the doctor. She parked as close as she could to the surgery and I got inside somehow by hugging walls and window cills and hanging on to doors.

The doctor looked me over and said he had read an article just recently and he reckoned he might know what was wrong with me. In truth, Mr. Google and I had spent some time on the subject too and I also had a fair inkling what I had.

He said, “You need to go to The Accident and Emergency Department immediately. I think you have Guillain-Barré Syndrome.”

And sorry about the repetition, fingers, but I rather thought so too.

As we left his surgery, the kind doctor said, “I hope and pray that this does not prove to be too bad for you.” I agreed with him on that as well.

You can look up Guillain-Barré Syndrome if you want to know more about it. It hurts too much to type it out. Perhaps the most famous GBS sufferer is Sufjan Stevens. When I told my younger son I had it, he already knew a lot about it on account of Sufjan. It is important to say that outcomes are generally good and I do seem to be headed for a good recovery myself.

Fingers Crossed.

I was admitted to hospital and they found a bed for me. Several days, one CT, one MRI and one Lumbar Puncture later, the diagnosis was confirmed. Guillain-Barré. By then, the confirmation came as a considerable relief to me and my family. There were other things this could have been and none of them would be terribly high on anybody's wish list.

There was medical stuff that had to be done to help me and that took five days. During that time, the limited response I could still muster from my legs slipped away and my hands became ungainly and awkward and alive with electrical pins and needles. Which is why it still hurts to type this. I could stop, I know, but I’m a writer at heart and this writing-pain seems to make me feel happier and stronger. That’s writers for you.

After the medical stuff was done, I was rapidly dispatched to an excellent Rehab facility where I quickly started on my brand new hobby – learning how to walk again.

And that’s where I’m at now. Well almost. I’ve been allowed home for the weekend and should be home permanently quite soon. It turns out I’m quite a good student of walking and - no, God, strike that. Out of respect for the other people who have had this syndrome and who fought tooth and nail to walk again, I’ve been fucking lucky. I’ve had it easier than many of you had and I know it. I respect your battles, fellow GBS People. Make no mistake, I’ve had to work hard too, but perhaps not as hard as some of you.

So, anyway, that’s my excuse for missing some blog posts. Good, eh?

I have a way to go in my recovery but I’m on a good trajectory. I don’t need, want, or request anything from you except perhaps your continued friendship, which is highly valued.

I may write more about what it is like to be in hospital for the first time in fifty years. I may write about the excellent people who have treated me and looked after me. I may write about the fellow patients I have met.

But, for now, I think that's enough.

Fingers; rest.