In a Former Life By Dusty Wentworth

There’s a moment in every life that feels like a complete reset—a line dividing who I was from who I am now. For me, that day was 3 April 2024.

That afternoon, I managed to wheel myself to the local shop for the first time, supported by a physiotherapy assistant. It felt like a small victory—an ordinary act, yet monumental after everything. But on the way back—barely 100 metres from the centre—everything changed.

Suddenly, it was as if an axe had split my skull. My body turned to jelly, drenched in sweat—hot and sticky, like I’d been plunged into boiling water. My left arm went limp, numb. I couldn’t self-propel anymore. By the time we reached the car park, I could barely speak. I was wheeled straight to my room; staff took my vitals as I slumped in the chair, unable to transfer to the bed. I remember the nurse calling for an ambulance. Then—blackness.

The next thing I heard was the low mooing of cattle. I thought I was in a barn, perhaps during the American Civil War. I was hallucinating, confused, convinced a man in the bed opposite was dead. Then, suddenly, clarity: I was in Addenbrooke’s Hospital, having survived emergency surgery for a ruptured brain aneurysm and a subarachnoid haemorrhage.

A consultant at my bedside greeted me with stark honesty: “Hello, we didn’t expect you to live.” I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I just stared.

A Fractured Return

In the days that followed, I was told I’d been transferred back to a hospital closer to home. That was a relief—Addenbrooke’s had been terrifying, not because of the care, but because I had no memory of how I’d got there. Familiar faces greeted me at the new hospital. Staff remembered me from before my rehab stint. But I had no memory of any of them.

Even my own name sounded foreign. People kept calling me by it, and while I understood it was mine, it didn’t feel right—like someone mispronouncing your name or calling you by a nickname you never chose.

Eventually, a nurse explained I’d spent several months in this very room due to complications from FND, waiting for a place at the rehab centre. It seemed I had come full circle. But I had lost between 14 and 15 years of memory. I could recall my wife, but not our wedding. I recognised her face, but not our children.

The Loss of Identity

We rarely consider how deeply memory weaves into our sense of self. But without it, I was adrift. My last clear memories were from when I was 36. I woke up at 50. It was like time travel or death followed by reanimation. The world was different. I was different.

I had to come to terms with losing not just my memories but the man I once was. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger—eyes unfamiliar, face unfamiliar. The man I once was seemed like a distant memory, fading with each passing day. I felt like I was losing myself, piece by piece.

I had to rebuild. From scratch.

Back to Rehab

Three weeks later, I was readmitted to the neurological rehabilitation centre. The return brought a strange sense of familiarity: everyone knew me, but I knew no one. I worked with neurologists, physiotherapists, psychologists, speech therapists, and occupational therapists. But my greatest struggle wasn’t just physical—it was existential.

I was eager to push my boundaries, to discover what remnants of the old me still lingered. But stepping back into the world, I was struck by how much had changed—what once seemed harmless now felt offensive, and what I thought I knew about society felt like a foreign language. Society offered no accommodation for my memory loss; it expected me to catch up or be cast aside.

Still, I made progress. I relearned how to transfer in and out of my wheelchair independently. I began weekend visits home. But our house wasn’t wheelchair accessible, and adapting it was both structurally and financially impossible. We had no choice but to move.

Homecoming

Visiting home brought me genuine joy. I began reconnecting with my wife and children. But not everyone could accept the new me. Some family members clung to expectations of the person I once was, pushing me to recover my old memories—hoping, perhaps, that I would somehow revert. But I was not the man they remembered. That caused me to withdraw.

After nearly a year in clinical care, I was offered the option to stay longer. But I declined. I felt stagnated—unable to grow under those conditions. I needed to move forward.

A New Life, A New Voice

Coming home was emotional. My children looked at me with surprise. My wife—my anchor—continued to support me in ways no clinical service ever could. I began to take control: setting recovery goals, designing a new garden with my family’s help, discovering passions I never knew I had—DIY, gardening, and more. My tastes changed. My personality evolved.

And then came the blog.

What started as a private journal blossomed into a platform. I began writing about issues that ignited my passion: disability, welfare reform, masculinity. I was disturbed by how masculinity seemed almost a dirty word nowadays. According to the UK Government’s 2023 survey, over 38% of young men felt unsure about how to “be a man” in modern society. The void left by a lack of guidance is filled with toxic influencers and radical ideologies. We don’t need less masculinity—we need better models of it.

My blog gained momentum. Engagement grew. For the first time in years, I felt truly heard. Writing became my therapy, my purpose, my passion.

In a Former Life

Yes, when I say “in a former life,” I mean it literally. I lost my old life—and I mourned it. But I’ve come to accept it. None of us can go back, but we can choose how to move forward.

My brain is damaged. My body has limits. I live with disability, PTSD, FND, and chronic pain. But I am not done. I am not broken. I am not finished.

I am reshaping my life, one paragraph at a time. And you’re still reading—because I am still living.

A Final Word

If my story resonates with you, or if you know someone facing their own battles—whether physical, mental, or emotional—please remember: it’s possible to rebuild, to adapt, and to find purpose amid adversity. Your journey is unique, but you are not alone.

Share your story. Reach out. And never forget: no matter how hard the road, hope is always there, waiting at the next bend.

Keep moving forward. Keep writing your story. Because even in the darkest times, you are still living.

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