Rebuilding Me: A Journey Through Injury, Illness, and Identity By Dusty Wentworth

It Started Like Any Ordinary Day

I was playing a video game with my children, home for the half-term holidays—just laughter and shared moments.

Then I stepped into the living room and collapsed.

Pain exploded in my head. My vision vanished. My wife called an ambulance. By the time paramedics arrived, I had lost my speech and was convulsing.

I was rushed to hospital and sent straight to the stroke unit. But after a brain scan ruled out a stroke, I was redirected to A&E.

A Hidden Threat

A doctor noticed blood in my eyes and referred me to an optometrist. With no clear answers, I was discharged.

That night, an anxious consultant called. I should never have been sent home. The scan revealed a brain aneurysm, and they feared it was leaking.

I returned to A&E the next morning. But no one knew why I was there. I deteriorated in the waiting room. A lumbar puncture was eventually done—too late to be conclusive.

Within 24 hours, I was blue-lighted to Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

The Diagnosis and the Collapse

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t walk. I was confused.

The aneurysm was stable, they said. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), linked to trauma and PTSD from my military service.

Too unstable to go home, I was hospitalised until March 2024 and sent to a neurological rehab centre.

Then on 3 April 2024, the aneurysm ruptured.

Emergency brain surgery followed. Doctors didn’t think I’d survive. I spent almost four weeks unconscious.

Eleven Months Away

When I woke, I was moved to my local hospital and eventually back to rehab. I was finally discharged in September 2024—eleven months after I collapsed.

The Pile-Up: Rehab, Disability, and the Weight of Compound Suffering

Rehabilitation wasn’t just recovery. It was relearning how to exist.

The memory loss triggered a deep identity crisis. I now lived with:

Seizures, spasms, and tremors

Partial blindness and photophobia

Significant hearing loss

Impaired speech

Life in a wheelchair

But that was only part of it.

I call it a multiple pile-up:

PTSD from military service

Fibromyalgia’s chronic pain

FND’s unpredictable disruption

Brain damage from the aneurysm and Subarachnoid Haemorrhage

Each condition amplified the others. Pain triggered anxiety. Anxiety triggered seizures. Seizures stole my speech. It became a vicious cycle—physical, emotional, existential.

Rebuilding What I Can't Remember

I couldn’t remember my children being born. I had no recollection of marrying my wife.

I was surrounded by love I couldn’t remember receiving, in a life I didn’t recall living.

I considered ending it—not out of weakness, but because the emotional toll was unbearable. Grief for memories lost. Guilt for forgetting those who never forgot me.

But slowly, I began to relearn love—not through memory, but through connection. Through their patience, their stories, and the way they said my name.

Resilience in the Rubble

In the wreckage, I found something familiar: resilience forged in the military.

As an infantry soldier, I learned grit, discipline, and endurance. That training pushed me through grueling physio. Through small steps toward independence.

It became the catalyst—a fire of determination to rebuild.

Coming Home to New Battles

Coming home wasn’t a finish line. It was a new battlefield.

We had to move to a wheelchair-accessible property. But referrals made during discharge weren’t followed up. Some disappeared altogether. Others were met with silence.

Months passed without occupational therapy assessments or the support I was told to expect.

I wasn’t asking for privilege—just for dignity.

Acceptance and the Road Ahead

To move forward, I had to release what I couldn’t change.

The anger. The frustration. The mourning for a life that no longer existed.

Not because I was okay with it—but because acceptance allowed me to begin again.

Acceptance isn’t resignation.

It’s saying: “This is my life now, and I will shape it with everything I’ve got.”

It lit the path to progress. It gave me permission to rebuild the best version of my new self.

Never Let Go of Hope

Hope may be small, but it is mighty.

It won’t erase pain. It won’t fix everything. But it keeps you going. It lifts you when nothing else can.

Even fragile hope can move mountains.

Understanding the Conditions

Here are key facts to help others understand what I live with:

Functional Neurological Disorder (FND):

Affects brain signal processing without structural damage. Estimated 50,000–100,000 people live with FND in the UK. It accounts for 5–15% of neurology outpatient visits.

Brain Aneurysm & Subarachnoid Haemorrhage (SAH):

Aneurysms are vessel bulges that may rupture, causing bleeding around the brain. Around 30,000 ruptures occur annually in the US; 40% are fatal. 66% of survivors live with lasting effects.

Fibromyalgia:

A chronic pain condition often linked to trauma. Affects 2–4% globally—up to 1 in 20 in the UK. It’s more common in women and linked to fatigue, sleep issues, and cognitive difficulties.

PTSD:

A mental health condition caused by trauma, including military service. Affects 1 in 10 people in the UK. Rates among Iraq/Afghanistan veterans are as high as 29%.

Final Thoughts

This isn’t just my story—it’s a reflection of what many go through in silence.

If you’re facing your own pile-up of challenges, know this:

You’re not weak for struggling. You’re strong for surviving.

And if you’re supporting someone like me, thank you. Your presence matters more than you know.