Dusty Wentworth

There are moments in life that do not announce themselves as turning points until long after they have passed. Others arrive with brutal clarity, altering the landscape of what lies ahead in the space of a single sentence.  Tuesday 13 January 2026 was one of those moments. It was my first medical appointment of the new year, and by the time I left the consulting room, I knew that a door I had been moving towards for the last two years had quietly, decisively closed. The appointment was with my neurologist and focused on my Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). FND remains the most debilitating of my diagnoses, not only because of the severity of its physical symptoms, but because of the uncertainty that continues to surround it. Each consultation carries the same fragile expectation: that a new approach might emerge, a different perspective, or a previously unexplored intervention that could offer some relief. On this occasion, that expectation lasted only minutes. Th...

One year ago, as Christmas lights flickered across Norfolk, I sat in my wheelchair staring at a stack of unanswered job adverts. The season felt distant, muffled by exhaustion and uncertainty. I was no longer thinking about celebration. I was thinking about survival. In October 2023, I collapsed and was taken to hospital. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder. Scans also revealed a brain aneurysm. I was told it was stable. At the time, the focus was on managing the FND symptoms that had abruptly dismantled my independence. I was transferred to a neurological rehabilitation centre as part of my treatment. In April 2024, while still there, the aneurysm ruptured. What followed was a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a four-week coma, and a life that did not resume where it left off. Independence evaporated. Simple tasks became logistical exercises. I was left living with the consequences of brain injury, severe PTSD from military service, fibromyalgia, Functional Neuro...

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. ...

The Unspoken Diagnosis: My Fight for Medical Truth After a Brain Aneurysm This is the story of how a life-threatening brain injury collided with diagnostic failure—and how I had to fight to be believed. It wasn’t fear that hit me first. It was the blur—the smudging of vision, the sudden loss of control, and then, the vanishing of time. I collapsed at home without warning, vision gone, panic rising. My wife called for help, and I was rushed to hospital. I was taken to the stroke unit, redirected to A&E, and later passed on to ophthalmology. Each department ruled out the obvious but failed to offer answers. They found blood in my eyes, but no cause. Eventually, I was told I could go home. But something was deeply wrong. Just after 10:30 that night, the phone rang. An A&E doctor, clearly rattled, told me I should never have been discharged. A brain scan had shown an aneurysm. Arrangements were hastily made: I was to return to A&E by 7 a.m. for an urgent...

What does a man do when his body turns traitor—when his voice vanishes, his muscles shake, and the only strength left is the will to endure? This is my life with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND)—a battle fought not on foreign soil, but within my own skin. Yesterday should have been a day of celebration. My new bespoke wheelchair—a bright orange Quickie Nitrum—had just arrived, coinciding with the first anniversary of my discharge from a neurological rehabilitation centre. But as so often happens now, my body responded to the surge of emotion in a cruel and unpredictable way. By the afternoon, the toll had arrived. Excruciating pain gripped me. My speech was gone entirely. Tremors and muscle spasms rocked my body without mercy. Despite the considerable amount of pain medication I take, the pain always finds a way through. By 01:30, the spasms had become so violent they resembled a seizure. In moments like that, medication is useless. You have to retreat into your mind,...

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’...