Dusty Wentworth

  April 3rd does not arrive quietly. It sits there in the calendar like a marker you cannot ignore. Not a date you move past, but one you circle back to whether you want to or not. Two years ago, on April 3rd 2024, my brain aneurysm ruptured. At the time, I was already an inpatient in a neurological rehabilitation centre, trying to get a handle on Functional Neurological Disorder. I was already in the system. Already under observation. Already someone needing help. And still, everything changed in a moment. That matters. Because there is a quiet assumption people make about medical events. That if you are in the right place, under the right care, things will be contained, managed, resolved. That assumption does not survive contact with reality. What followed has not been a clean narrative of recovery. It has been two years of disruption, loss, adaptation, and, at times, a kind of forced recalibration of who I am. This is not a story about overcoming. It is a record of what re...

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...