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...

It was the sunshine streaming through a small gap in the curtains that woke me—an ordinary beginning to what would become an extraordinary day. For a brief moment, as my eyes adjusted to the light, everything seemed… normal. Then I saw my wheelchair at the side of the bed and reality reasserted itself with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. It’s in that moment every morning that I have a choice: do I board the Rumination Express, bound for despair and self-pity? Or do I choose to live, to fight, and to grab hold of the day with both hands—dodgy nerves and all? As usual, the day began with a 14-tablet cocktail, washed down with a strong coffee. Over breakfast, decisions had to be made. The "Family Olympics" had been declared—my niece and her boyfriend had challenged us to ten-pin bowling, arcade games, and pool. Today was the day of reckoning. First task: choosing the right set of wheels. With my custom active-user chair still in production for another two weeks, I op...