Dusty Wentworth

There are moments in life when everything fractures – your identity, your memories, your body. When you're not just changed, you're remade. For me, that moment was the rupture of a brain aneurysm – a subarachnoid haemorrhage that erased 14 years of my life and reshaped everything I thought I knew about myself. I woke up in a hospital bed unable to walk, unable to remember much of my adult life, and unable to recognise the man I had once been. And so began the slow, gruelling journey of becoming someone new. A Life Interrupted Before the aneurysm, I had been many things – infantry soldier, bodyguard, husband, father, protector. I'd survived war zones, lived with PTSD, managed chronic pain, and kept moving forwards. But none of that prepared me for this. The aneurysm didn't just threaten my life, it rewrote it. Functional Neurological Disorder, fibromyalgia, partial blindness, tremors, and cognitive damage became my daily reality. My body no longer obeyed me. ...

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 Civ...

Have you ever tried to piece together your past, only to find that half the puzzle pieces have vanished? It’s a strange thing, memory. We take it for granted until it’s gone. We assume it’s always going to be there for us – like a loyal dog, wagging its tail at the mention of a familiar face or beloved place. But what happens when that loyal companion simply… doesn’t come back? This isn’t some thought experiment or hypothetical musing over coffee. This is my reality. And, perhaps, it might be yours too – or someone you love. I lost a significant portion of my memory following a ruptured brain aneurysm and a subsequent subarachnoid haemorrhage. The man I was, in many ways, disappeared that day. I thought, at first, I could just soldier on (I was good at that once) and start afresh. New memories. New me. Sorted, right? Not quite. Because memories aren’t just about the past. They’re the blueprint of who we are. And when that blueprint gets torn up, you can’t help b...

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. T...

There are moments in life that mark a significant turning point—not because of what you gain, but because of what you finally accept. For me, designing my own wheelchair with Paul from the Mobility Centre was one of those profound moments. Let me explain. After a sudden brain aneurysm, months of grueling rehab, and grappling with memory loss and a diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder, one question haunted me: “Who am I now?” It wasn’t just about what I could or couldn’t do, but about my very essence. Looking in the mirror, I saw a stranger. I’d lost my past—and with it, the continuity of my identity. Becoming disabled didn’t just take away my movement; it stripped away everything I thought defined me. So, when I found myself designing a new wheelchair, it wasn’t merely a practical appointment. It was a declaration. When I was first discharged into a Centre for Neurological Rehabilitation, I faced a daunting 30-week wait for NHS wheelchair services. I simply couldn’...