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 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...

I began posting my blogs never once thinking about readers. Writing was simply therapy—a way to make sense of life after a ruptured brain aneurysm nearly killed me, stealing my memories and identity. I’d been posting for weeks when, one day, I decided to fill out my blog profile properly. That’s when I discovered the analytics tab. Out of curiosity, I clicked to see what it measured… and I was stunned. People were actually reading what I’d written—hundreds of them! Given my cognitive difficulties, I assumed I’d misread the data. I called my wife over to double-check. She confirmed it. They were real. People were reading. It’s no exaggeration to say that, in that moment, for the first time since waking up in hospital over a year earlier, I felt a meaningful life was possible. That small group of blog readers did more for my healing than seven months in a neurological rehabilitation centre ever had. When my brain aneurysm ruptured, it shattered my life into a million pieces. ...