Dusty Wentworth

You often hear people, after a major life event, talk about some kind of rebirth — how they’ve discovered a new passion for life and no longer want to waste a minute. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t reborn. I was broken. At first, I was confused, angry, suicidal. I grieved for the man I used to be — because he was gone. What was left felt like a shell: no identity, no sense of self, and the crushing weight of being a burden on my wife. I couldn’t see how life could hold any purpose or meaning anymore. The Day Everything Changed On 23rd October 2023, I collapsed at home and was rushed to hospital. Stroke was ruled out, but scans revealed I had an ACA aneurysm. Errors and delays meant that by the time doctors carried out a lumbar puncture, the 12-hour window for accurate results had already passed. It wasn’t done until 16 hours later, making it inconclusive. Instead, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) — a debilitating condition that disrupts signals between ...

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...

My life changed irrevocably on 14th May 2025. Thatn's the day I published my first blog post—not about a new hobby, but born from a place of profound personal reckoning. After a subarachnoid haemorrhage left me disabled, and a subsequent diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), doctors told me a stark truth: I wouldn't work again. 'Can't' isn't a word that sits comfortably in my vocabulary. As a former soldier, it's been drilled out of me. New challenges, yes. Difficulties, absolutely. But 'can't'? My experience has always been that with the right support, most obstacles can be overcome. And so, my blog became my therapy—my quest to rediscover myself, to see what I could still do. Just over two months later, on 18th July 2025, I've poured myself into this space, sharing my journey, thoughts, struggles, and small victories. Crucially, I've done it without spending a single penny on promotion, relying sol...

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...