When my time in Baltimore was up and it was time to return to the UK, my brother and I flew back to be home for the Christmas period. I slept for the entire flight, and this was in no way because we had boarded the plane with rum and Coke to avoid paying in-flight booze prices.
I need to point out again that despite everything I was experiencing, the words from my private health appointment were still ringing in my ears: this was "all in my head." I struggled to coordinate my fingers well enough to button up my jeans or take anything out of my pocket, needing to pull gloves on with my teeth—but this was just a phase, and I needn’t be concerned. Yes, using a knife and fork was starting to get out of hand and resembled a scene from an infant school dining room, but if I could just get past this mental wall, I’d be fine.
The tiredness I had experienced in the USA didn't improve upon getting back to the UK either. As a casual smoker of cannabis, I put this fatigue down to being under the influence, treating the fact that smoking alleviated some of my physical symptoms as a simple bonus. My alarm bells, which up until this point had ranged from low to medium, became deafening when I went to drive my car for the first time since getting back. I had to wear gloves because the engine vibrations were driving my hands crazy, and I was unable to change gear because I couldn’t grip the gear stick without my hand slipping.
I went to visit a friend to play video games as we regularly did, but I couldn’t feel my fingers; I had no idea whether I’d pressed a button and couldn’t hold the controller properly. Hindsight is a useless tool, and knowing what I know now, I would never have driven in that condition. On my way home, I struggled to change gear with my left hand and had to stay in third, as using my right hand to make changes, whilst successful, was wholly inappropriate. This was to be my last journey as the driver of a manual car. It was the day before Christmas Eve.
For Christmas Eve, my annual visit to the pub was upon me, bringing about one of the most terrifying situations I’ve ever been in. You can keep any of your near-death experiences to yourself—this was far worse.
After being in the pub for about an hour, the rather normal circumstance of needing to use the lavatory arose. I stood from the table and managed to navigate my way to the target destination without incident. It was once I got into the cubicle that the terror started. I wasn't in desperate need, but after being physically unable to undo the buttons on my jeans, panic kicked in—and with panic comes one of the body's natural responses.
I engaged in an unwinnable battle with my jeans for what seemed like an age, all the while picturing the scene of walking through the crowded pub sporting the latest Levi 501 'Has he just pissed himself?' edition. I didn’t know what to do and was on the verge of resigning myself to the fact that I’d either have to let go or ask for help. I was 25 years old; the prospect of asking a stranger in the gents, “Excuse me, could you please undo my trousers?” was not one that filled me with glee.
Fortunately, I secured a breakthrough, realising that the top button was all I needed and the rest could go hang. Using a combination of the knuckles on my left hand and my right wrist, I managed to get it undone—a feat accompanied by the frantic tap dance that usually attends a desperate need to urinate. I hooked my thumbs into the side pockets, pulled down, and the path to salvation was laid out in the form of an accessible Armitage Shanks toilet.
Upon completion of my duties, I elected not to bother trying to do the top button back up, relying on my jumper to hide the damage before making my way back to the table. Excuses were made, best wishes given, and I arranged my exit from the pub and a lift home.
The rest of Christmas—allegedly earmarked as a time to be jolly—was a washout. When a child receives a sticky-tape-sealed and carefully wrapped gift, they sometimes need help getting through the paper. I wasn’t able to open a single gift without assistance, and there was something deeply humbling and upsetting about being unable to perform such a simple task. The loss of dexterity in my hands, increasing balance problems, and intense pain in my neck made it impossible to find a comfortable position. I spent Boxing Day in the A&E department of my local hospital, only to be told I had a disc problem in my neck and that diazepam should sort me out until I saw a specialist.
The diagnostic test that led to this conclusion should have been followed by a visit from a counsellor—or, at the very least, an offer to show them on a teddy where the bad lady touched me. How was I to know that an exploratory finger up the jacksie would help the doctor determine if my spine was damaged?
Following the advice of Dr Handsy, I booked an appointment with my GP for after New Year. The signs didn't look good when I asked if she'd had a good Christmas. "Not really," she replied flatly, proceeding through cursory tests involving pulling a piece of paper from between my fingers before agreeing to refer me to a neurologist after I shared information provided by Johns Hopkins Hospital.
The fact that I could barely hold my head up during the consultation due to neck pain didn't seem to make much difference. When I asked what I could take for it, I was told I didn't need strong painkillers because paracetamol and ibuprofen would do the trick. They did not.
Things continued to deteriorate. I regularly fell over inside the house and had to be helped to my feet. Any attempt to get an item from the fridge presented a series of hurdles:
- Opening the door in the first place.
- Assuming the door opened, successfully taking anything out.
- While closing the door was easy, falling onto the floor and getting back up again was not.
On 12 January, things took a definitive turn. After watching Madagascar on DVD, I went to stand up, but my legs had other ideas. They collapsed beneath me, sending me into an ungraceful face-dive back into the chair. For love nor money, I couldn’t get up under my own steam. A return trip to A&E was the only course of action left.
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