Knickers Ahoy!

One word to describe being neutropenic - palaver. It was all systems go to figure out why my white blood cells, my neutrophils, were pretty damn low. It was really important that I wasn't put at any risk to infection as I had no cells to fight anything off, so the following precautions were taken:-

. I was moved back to a private room
. I had to wear a surgical mask whenever I left my room
. All staff were to wear gowns, gloves and masks when entering my room
. All equipment in the gym was to be wiped down with antiseptic wipes before I could use it
. I was not to enter the dining room but eat alone in my room for all meals
. I was taken off all medication that could make me neutropenic; it was goodbye to Gabapentin, my nerve pain relief, and on to Amitriptyline instead
. I was to have blood taken daily

The main problem was, the nurses did not seem to have a set procedure for what to do if someone is neutropenic. It seems ridiculous, but depending what nurses were on shift the procedure would change. Sometimes they wouldn't wear gloves or gowns or a mask, and as one nurse said to me 'I'm not ill, I don't have anything'...so, she could predict when she would become unwell? My lovely Norwegian nurses would always gown up completely when they saw me as a precaution, but lets face it, the hospital had air vents. I had to take my mask off to eat and drink. The germs would find a way!

It made me a bit paranoid at the time actually, I felt like I could see germs everywhere and I was scared of the smallest of sneezes. My doctors explained that if my neutrophil count were to drop below .5 then that's when they would really worry. On average, a persons neutrophil count should range from 2 - 6 (I'm pretty sure we're talking about the thousands here, not just a couple floating around!) The lowest my count was, was .7 and the highest it got to was 1.87, but never above 2. There was no sense to it, each day it would go up and down like a yoyo.

What was going on now!?

Physically, however, I was getting stronger each day, and it is incredible looking back at how fast I began to progress. As I began to move more, as I slept better, as began to have less and less pain, I began to feel hope.

By week six, on Monday, I did my first walk with a tall rollator. Five incredible steps, wobbly and unsure, but steps nonetheless. I couldn't believe it. By Tuesday, I did my first sit to stand without using my arms to push myself up. By the end of the week I walked with my frame from the gym to my room.

I remember this as being one of the toughest yet probably one of the most rewarding moments of my life. That Friday I told my parents to wait in my room at 4pm instead of coming to find me in the gym and wheel me back to my room. My physio's followed me with my wheelchair and they also put a walk belt on me to hold my trunk up ever so slightly. My eyes firmly on the floor, I took each step slowly but surely, sweating with my mask on. As I went down the corridor I dared not look into anyone's eyes, but in my peripheral vision I could see my nurses with ear splitting grins, patients smiling with encouragement and my physio's encouraging me every single step.

I walked into the room to my Dad with his phone filming every moment. I sat down in my chair and we cried and clapped and I felt so, so happy. Drained, exhausted, sweaty, shocked, but proud. I'd did it!

By the beginning of week seven I was holding onto the parallel bars and learning to side step. I could get onto bed without a slide board or push up blocks, but just one giant leap. I was lifting 1kg weights and doing fifty arm to shoulder flexes. I could lift my leg off the bed! I could pull up my own knickers!!!

But I was still neutropenic. I mentioned in a previous blog that I had one more nasty procedure to deal with. It was time to take some bone marrow...

Norwegian Nurses and Neutropenia

Turns out, I wasn't the only one getting fed up of nearly fainting all the time; my physiotherapists found it frustrating too, as it was very hard to get me to do...well, anything. It was time for blood pressure medication, Hydrochlorothiazide, to be taken at 6am and 12pm for optimum results. I also had to wear a velcro band, kinda like a corset but not in any way sexy, around my middle.

Drugs work. For the first time, I could finally sit up without feeling dizzy, and this really helped with...getting better. I began to get some small movements back in my arms and legs by week three, and by the end of the week I could use a slide board to get from bed to wheelchair with a two person assist. I would have to lean forward and put my head on my physio's shoulder, and another physio would help lift from behind and we would slowly shuffle/slide me to wherever I needed to be.

I had trouble trusting the nurses to slide board me, and as I had been moved out of my own room to a ward full of people, I always felt like there was the pressure of being watched (although its not as bad as people watching you swing helplessly on a hoist). The nurses expected me to be able to do more than I could and I felt like I was just going to go crashing to the floor!

Lucky for me, I had three beautiful nurses who were always there to look out for me. If you are unlucky enough to end up in hospital, trust me when I say, if you have these three looking after you, you will get better in no time! Three student nurses from Norway were on their placement in my Rehab ward, and they arrived the same day as me. Pia helped me with my first slide boards and was incredibly patient, strong and also not afraid to tell off any of the other nurses for sliding me wrong! I had Pia almost every morning to help set me up for the day, and she always made me smile (especially when she would try her English accent out on me...'Wud ya like a cuppa tea!?' Brilliant.

I also had Sandra and Rikke, friends and housemates with Pia, who would braid my hair for me and chat about travelling and music and normal things. There are only so many games of Scrabble I could play with my parents, and we were all going a bit stir crazy! So having these three nurses, around my age, to talk to me and treat me as a person, not a patient, meant a lot to me. And they were all fantastic nurses, talking and smiling and caring for everyone. Thank you ladies!

By the middle of week five I could slide board with just one person assisting. And something else amazing was happening. I was learning to stand. A physio to the front and two either side of me was how we did it at the beginning. Two would push me up and hold my legs whilst I put my hands on the physio in fronts shoulder. Learning to stand again is HARD.

'That's it Tarsha, brilliant! Legs bent, tummy tucked, shoulders forward, head up, squeeze your bottom, lean to the left...too much, back to the middle...come on Tarsha, keep holding!' 'I'm standing!' I yelled! Everyone in the gym turned and smiled at me, and calls of congratulations were echoed throughout the gym. Triumphant and exhausted, I sat back down after around a ten second stand. Five weeks of not walking, not moving, learning to do everything again...and I had stood.

Being naturally very flexible, it was so confusing to learn how to stand. My legs would snap back like solid bananas and I couldn't grasp the concept of 'soft knees'. My back would arch back and I would thrust my chest forward trying to find my balance. My poor front physio would generally get a knock in the head as I fell forward, and it was incredibly difficult to try and find my balance.

But I was finally getting somewhere. All those exercises I had been doing for two weeks were beginning to pay off, and I trusted the physio's 100% when they helped me to stand. Despite the pain I was ecstatic, I couldn't wait to tell my parents I had stood for the first time! By the end of that week it was only one person helping me stand as I would push myself up on the parallel bars. It was great to have some use of my arms again.

But then they did a blood test. And my doctor came up to me one morning on this fantastic week five and said 'We need to move you back into your own room. Your white blood cell count is extremely low, meaning you're neutropenic. We don't know why...'

Crap.

Vomcano

"On no, please can I have a sick bag?"
"Yup, just hold on...one second...hang on...here we go"
"Thanks...bluuuuuuuurgh bluuuuurgh bluuuuuuuurgh bluuuuuurgh...blurghblurgh...blurgh. Right, anyway, where were we?"

I was getting pretty good at the old tactile voms. And also used to talking about poo and being naked in front of people (gosh I do make hospital sound like bags of fun). I was having my shower assessment done by my Occupational Therapist, lets call her K. She chatted away merrily as I attempted to scrub my body with my T-Rex arms, sitting in the shower chair and occasionally throwing up. Squeezing bottles was ridiculously hard at that early stage, but I surprised myself at how much I could do. I could even hold on to the shower head and spray down towards my numb little toes, un-moving and pale below me.

The aim of Occupational Therapy (OT) is to get people back into being independent, doing normal things even if it was eating with built up cutlery or making themselves a cup of tea. During my shower assessment K explained to me that it was easy to get the nurses to just wash me, because I was so exhausted and everything took so long, but every day I had to try. There were few victories those first few weeks, but as time progressed the small things started coming back. Oh, it was a proud, proud day when I could open the cap on my toothpaste.

In physiotherapy I was doing some basic exercises in the gym, with assistance. A simple task like pulling my knee into a bending position required a physio to support my ankle with one hand, and slowly ease up my knee with the other hand whilst I tried as hard as I could. It's bizarre really; I would look at my legs and try so so so hard to bend and move them, but it just wasn't happening. However, with the physio support I could feel my muscles screaming and trying their best to do their job. By doing sets of ten for each exercise, and building up by ten each day, I would eventually gain control back. And I say eventually.

My notes for week three go like this: -

'Sets of ten in gym with help. Pain. No movement. Shower assessment. Fucking hoist.'

I think the starkness of these notes are self explanatory. I tried to take strength from the other people in the gym (I won't name names), but there were people who had had amputations, strokes, brain hemorrhages, car accidents, diving accidents and other strange neurological diseases. It sounds terrible to say, but at least I knew I was going to get better. People, going through much worse than I, who had been there longer than me, would still stop and smile and say hello.

I think it comes down to one thing, one human trait that we all have. People have said to me I have been brave, that they couldn't have gone through what I've been through. Truth be told, I cried every day. For weeks. I still cry now for goodness sake! But you know what? In the words of Regina Spektor, "People are just people like you".

And you just get on with it.

Rehab

They tried to make me go to rehab...and I said yes, yes, YES. Despite being unable to move, I was swiftly transferred down to the Rehab ward after only nine days of diagnosis and treatment. I was sure I'd get to the gym, miraculously stand up, start pumping my guns and soon be as fit as a horse. Either that, or they would take me out the back and do what they do with horses whose legs no longer work...gulp.

I had become on friendly terms with my nurses in Medical Ward Two, and they affectionately called me T-Rex. One of the nurses who used to dress me would ask me to lift my arms in the air to pop my T-Shirt on...oh how we would laugh. 'Sorry T-Rex, I keep forgetting you can't do that!'. Because I had quickly become so familiar with these nurses I felt like I was leaving friends and going to a big school with scary new people. It was fine. Mostly.

I was wheeled down to my very own private room, complete with a shower room and a window over looking Subway. Lovely. Actually, it was all rather exciting. My Mum decorated my room with photos of my friends and we were all quite positive. The thing with GBS is, only you can get yourself better; yes I had the five day transfusion, but it's only with physiotherapy and perseverance that I would recover.

Whilst I had the right attitude and was willing to work hard, I had a slight draw-back. Pain. When I went down to Rehab, I started to get excruciating headaches. Fortunately, I had never suffered from a migraine before, but now I have complete empathy for people who get them. I was told that the Lumber Punctures could have caused these headaches, but as I was to suffer through them for weeks to come, that began to seem like a less likely option.

Along with utter exhaustion, nerve pain and crippling headaches, I found those first few weeks a nightmare. I was sleeping a few hours a night, relying on medication to knock me out, but waking every half hour or so to buzz for the nurses to roll me over. Not being able to roll over in bed or pull my legs in when they fell out of the side rails was simply awful. I began to dread the nights, knowing they would drag on and on. I would beg for pain relief all the time and by the time morning rolled around I was spent.

And I had an early start. From that first day, I had a timetable made up which meant I had a full day, from 8.30-12.30pm I would be in the gym, then from 2-4pm I would be in, that's right, the gym. I also had Occupational Therapy (OT) for an hour a day as well. Let me tell you now, it would be almost 7 weeks before I was on time for 8.30am!

Being that I could do nothing, I would have to wait until some nurses were free to hoist me into the shower. By the time I was showered, dressed and ready to go, it would be around 10.30-11.00am and I would be wheeled to the gym. I was to become to close to one nurse in particular, and overtime we had our own little morning routine, but more about her later on.

When I talk about the gym, I obviously don't mean your regular fitness centre. This gym involved parallel bars, tracks along the floor, arm bikes and tilt tables. Apart from all the equipment, you have the physio's. I cannot praise them enough, each and every person in that gym was fantastic. I was lucky enough to have the head of the department in charge of me, and I knew straight away there would be no messing around. Firm but fair, I would be pushed and encouraged from day one.

I had Thursday and Friday that first week and I tried so frekking hard. We would practise my sitting balance and I would be swung over the edge of the bed where I would reach out to the hands in front of me and try desperately not to fall face first over the bed. I would also spend time on the tilt table. This is where many problems began.

I am tall. Not crazy tall, maybe just above average around 5ft 9". But my height meant that my blood pressure would plummet very quickly, leaving me dizzy and sick. A tilt table does what it says on the tin; I would be strapped in, then slowly we would tilt me up. The aim was to get to a standing position to get my body used to being upright and also put some pressure onto my feet. Could I make even 50 degrees? Nope. My face would apparently drain of colour and before fainting I would be lowered back down. This was only the beginning of the blood pressure drama, and it soon became apparent that this was yet another problem.

I felt lousy. I could do nothing in the gym but faint, and OT? There was a peg test, nine innocent holes in a board and nine thin, smooth plastic tubes. The aim? Put the pegs in the holes. Sounds easy right? I couldn't get one in. I would pick one up, drop it, try and pick it up again and do the same. I came down feeling positive, but I soon felt like shit. I knew it was just the beginning of recovery but I was angry and tired and fed up of constant pain. It is so unbelievably hard to be positive when you are in agony.

My drugs were increased. I was weaned off the Morphine and began taking Endone, a strong opioid that would help my headaches but leave me drowsy and nauseous. I was also taking my normal bowel medication and having Clexane injections in the stomach each day to thin my blood to help prevent Deep Vein Thrombosis (I also had to wear TED socks for this...more on them later). I was taking Paracetamol, Ibuprofen and OxyContin. I later found out OxyContin is a highly sort after drug in Canada and is extremely addictive...you know it's good if the Canadians are after it! I was on Gabapentin for my nerve pain relief, not that it helped much.

I quickly became depressed and fed up. I felt like I was never going to get better. If I hadn't had my parents with me I think I would've easily slid into some serious depression. I couldn't imagine moving my legs or using my hands again.

But I was sure as hell going to try bloody hard.

Mum

My Mum is awesome. Having her by my side, along with my Dad, made this whole hospital experience bearable. Hugging my Mum for the first time was emotional for the both of us, and I remember being very aware that, like when I hugged my Dad, I couldn't wrap my arms around her.

Despite this being the first time my Mum had flown such a long distance alone, she explained that during the flight she felt calm, happy to know that she was on her way and not at home waiting. I think that seeing that I was still me and was talking and acting the way I normally would reassured my Mum at the time; in many ways she had drawn the short straw by staying at home as she couldn't physically talk to me.

My Mum arrived on a Tuesday, a week after my Dad, and she came bearing gifts and cards from home. I remember trying to open one of the envelopes but it was too hard...overactive hands and weakness would hamper all my attempts at simple tasks, like opening a bottle of water. Mum had decided to spread the gifts out over the week, an excellent decision as everyday was 'Treat Day'!

Having my Mum around was not only great for obvious emotional support, but also for practicalities. No offence Dad, but your attempt at hair brushing was a bit scary! Not that I don't appreciate the effort, of course. Mum would go on to help me shower and other essentials, as well as paint my nails and pluck my eyebrows to make me feel more human.

Because I felt disgusting. Is there anything more unattractive than gym shorts, greasy hair and eyebrows so long they could be trained to grow into a beard? I think not. Another thing my Mum did was exfoliate my hands and feet. Ah, the sweet relief this would bring. Having been reading Melanie Reid's 'Spinal Column' in 'The Times' every week for a few years, my Mum had picked up some tricks. Melanie Reid fell off a horse in 2010 and broke her neck and back. Incredibly, she has since been documenting her recovery each week, which was part of the inspiration for me to start this blog. Mum had unknowingly been picking up tips by reading this column, and one thing that stuck in her mind was Melanie's exfoliating.

As I have mentioned I was experiencing unrelenting neuropathic pain in my hands, and eventually my feet. When my Mum first got a warm bowl of water and gently started exfoliating my stiff hands, it felt good. By the time she had finished and they had been patted dry, it felt like I had new hands. They were light instead of heavy, smooth where they had been rough and that cold burning sensation? Miraculously gone. Whilst this blissful relief only lasted for 5-10 minutes, it was nonetheless a wonderful feeling from that constant pain. If you are reading this and you are suffering from any similar neuropathic pain, I would recommend trying this out; if you find you get some relief repeat the process around 2-3 times a week (you certainly don't want to rub yourself raw!).

I am so lucky to have such great parents. My Mum would patiently exfoliate me and rub my aching shoulders. For the first time ever she could rub my feet, the one good thing about being paralysed; normally I am so ticklish I can't let anyone touch them! Mum would keep me up to date about everyone at home and the news and all those little things that would keep me going. She is such a strong woman, and it's amazing to think how she took everything in her stride. Thank you Mum.

As I was still in a ward on my Mums arrival, we would do the standard walk around the hospital grounds. Then, on Thursday we came back to my bed to find a bunch of nurses with boxes of my stuff...'We're taking you down to Rehab'. Eek!

The Hoist

My very first wheelchair was a beast. Known as a 'Tilt and Space' it was perfect as it could fully recline and was completely adjustable. My sitting balance at the time was wobbly so those first few walks (or rolls) around the hospital grounds with Dad were great because I could fully lie down for a rest whenever I needed to.

And I needed a lot of rest. Because I could do nothing for myself, the smallest thing like going to the bathroom would be a huge exhausting obstacle, often resulting in tears, near fainting or vomiting. Sometimes all three. To get to the toilet and shower for the first 3-4 weeks I was hoisted. The hoist...how does one describe such an evil yet useful contraption? It's basically a crane with an attachable sling/hammock and this is how it works in ten easy steps:-

Step One: Buzz for nurses and wait for ten minutes or more for them to find two people who could use The Hoist.
Step Two: Be rolled side to side like an uncooked sausage roll that needs longer in the oven, whilst they arrange the sling underneath you.
Step Three: Be hoisted into the air, usually at a wonky angle on the third attempt.
Step Four: Be lowered into the shower/toilet chair whilst head gets banged and toes get caught in crane device.
Step Five: Be pulled, pushed and lifted for the sling to be removed.
Step Six: Use the toilet/shower.
Step Seven: See Step Five in reverse.
Step Eight: Be lifted into bed with sling chafing legs, no knickers and some tears.
Step Nine: Step Two in reverse.
Step Ten: Repeat process as the whole thing took 45 minutes and you need the loo again.

I hated that frekking hoist.

Using the toilet and having a shower turned into a humiliating debacle and I am going to write honestly about it, because there would be no point in me writing this if I wasn't truthful. So here we go...poo. Everyone poos (yes guys, girls poo). As it turns out, when you are immobile your system tends to clog up, and the nurses and doctors are OBSESSED with poo. "Have your bowels opened today?" is something that I was asked around three times a day. As I wasn't moving around, they fed me full of laxatives:- Coloxyl with Senna tablets, Lactulose, Movicol and Pear Juice were to be taken twice daily. Lactulose is a very sweet substance, but tastes disgusting, as does Movicol which is a very salty drink. So GROSS. And Pear Juice? Bloody VILE. Sometimes I would be physically sick after drinking these...but they worked.

All the dignity I had left was taken from me when I could literally do nothing in the toilet. I would be heaved left and right to get my under-crackers off and a nurse would wait listening outside the door in case I fell or fainted off the loo. I would then be wiped by a nurse. I feel this should be embarrassing to write about, as basically everyone I know is reading this blog. But this happened to me and it was horrible, yes, but I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen because it did. I will not feel ashamed by this illness. For weeks, I could literally do nothing.

Showering was another task although I wasn't bothered about being naked in front of my nurses, but it was more the absolute exhaustion it would cause. I would sit in the shower chair whilst a nurse would wash me and my hands would, and still feel, very thick and slow in hot water (thankfully I can still feel hot and cold). If they washed my hair, which has gotten stupidly long, it would obviously take that much longer and I would be swaying in the chair by the end of it. Hoisting me into bed, naked and damp, was shameful and painful. The nurses would then attempt to untangle my hair and I would be completely wiped out, often succumbing to a nap straight after.

Everything I did was tiring. Dad would help to feed me and take me for little walks around the hospital, reclining me and ensuring I was comfortable. Our days would zoom by with the aforementioned tests in my previous post, and every tiny thing took so long. Dad kept me entertained with stories of his past and even started reading 'The Last of the Mohicans', one of his favourite books, to me. I remember one particularly bad morning, before we even had the wheelchair, and I was screaming and crying and banging my head on the pillow; I couldn't bare the thought of another day lying useless in bed and I was having a bit of a breakdown. Did my Dad get exasperated or stressed or flustered? Nope. He held my hand until I calmed down and let me cry it all out. Then he'd cheer me up by making up a song about GBS and I'd join in and we'd start laughing.

I would talk to my family at home each day, and my Mum had decided to book a flight. Before she arrived, my Dad and I were extremely anxious but also very, very excited. The day of the flight, Dad came to see me in the morning before going to meet Mum at the airport. I was having one of my first sessions with one of the physiotherapists, which was going pretty terribly as I recall she tried to get me to do squats on a tilt table (more about those later), when I heard voices. And suddenly there she was. My beautiful Mum.

Rabbit Hole

Pain. We've all had it, both physically and mentally everyone alive has surely suffered pain, from those minor bumps to broken bones and broken hearts. To describe neurological pain is like trying to find the words to describe 'pink' to a blind person. Along with extraordinary back pain and muscle ache from lack of use, those first few weeks in hospital I suffered terrible, non-relenting pain in my hands. A constant cold burning started in my hands a few days after I began treatment and I would be constantly rubbing my hands together even though it bought no relief. My hands would feel stiff, swollen and twisted; I had no sensation and a tingling feeling like buzzing bees trapped under my skin.

When I look back at how much pain relief I was on, it's amazing I could even communicate. I'd had morphine before after major knee surgery when I was nineteen years old (I haven't had much luck with my legs!), however it was a tiny amount in comparison to the amount I was on when I first got to Townsville. I guess an average was around four morphine injections a day along with other pain relief, and whilst morphine makes everything mellow and distant, it did not touch the pain in my hands.

Lucky for me I hardly had a moment spare that first week so I had no time to dwell on my pain. I had neurological doctors, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists, dieticians, medical students, nurses and an Infectious Diseases team come to see me frequently throughout each day. And this doesn't include all the tests! I had an MRI Scan, a Heart Scan, my second Lumber Puncture and a Nerve Conduction Study all in that first week.

When it came to the MRI scan I was told to lie completely still...lucky for them I couldn't move so that was easy enough. They put my head in a kind of Darth Vader mask after taking out all my ear piercings and zoomed me back into the scanner. It took AGES. Lying still and listening to the loud thumping of the machine was hardly relaxing, especially when they kept interrupting to say "Can you still breathe okay? You must tell us if you can't breathe." Yes, I think that is definitely something I would bring up. Afterwards I had to wait for what felt like a long time before I was taken back up to the ward to my ever patient Dad. Crying (those first few weeks I cried more than Alice when she got stuck down the rabbit hole) I babbled to my Dad about my aching and weary bones as he joked and comforted me.

The heart scan was a similar experience to the MRI, in that I had to lie still and listen to a lot of thumping. This time it was my heart beating away on the screen as the technician slavered me with gel, like an ultrasound for a baby, and spent time making notes and doing lots of important looking stuff. From the beginning I have had a high heart rate, averaging at around 120 beats per minute at rest. One day it was 180 and I was just chilling. I have to explain to each new person when they go to run for the ECG machine (I also have an irregular heart beat) that it's all good, it's just the combination of Guillain-Barré Syndrome and low blood pressure that makes it fast. They still like to do an ECG once in a while, just for fun.

At the end of the week I did have to have another bloody Lumber Puncture, which as I have mentioned in an earlier blog, is hardly my idea of a good time. My Dad wanted to sneak away for this part but stayed to hold my hand after seeing how scared I was...and also after hearing me hiss 'You're not going anywhere!' All in all, the second one was a bit of a laugh. One of my doctors, who had the biggest smile, was doing the procedure this time and after injecting my spine with local anaesthetic he swiftly started draining fluid. As the doctor from the previous lumber puncture came to have a look whilst it was being done, I took the piss and said 'This guy is much better than you, he got fluid on the first go!' Oh how we laughed and made jokes about the clarity of the fluid taken (it was completely clear, no drops of blood or anything). It actually looked like vials of vodka, and to be honest the amount I used to drink, it was probably just pure ethanol they were draining. Because my Dad was with me as well it was all a lot less traumatic than the time before. Unfortunately, it was far from the worst procedure I had to have, but that comes much much later.

The final test that week was a Nerve Conduction Study. Eurgh. All four of my neurological doctors were there and a technician; they'd explained what they were going to do before and that it didn't hurt at all. They lied. My Dad sat down after some chit chat and they began. They would put a needle, connected to wires and a computer, on part of my arm or leg and basically give me a little electric shock, where they would measure the delay in the electrically stimulated reflex. I remember understanding parts of this, for example they would say 'Well this here should be 9 but it's only 4'. Basically recording the prolonged or absent waves and the conduction, to test if it was slow or blocked. Interestingly each reflex they tested, even in the same leg, would show different signs of damage.

As my nervous system was damaged they would call this a demyelinating disease, because the myelin sheath of neurones had been damaged. They explained that some of my nerves were just bad on the outside, however I also had some axonal injury as well, meaning that the inner nerve was buggered as well. Imagine a normal wire with its conducting rubber on the outside; a bit of wear and tear on the outside doesn't matter too much, but if the inside wires get frayed or whatever, then you may have to invest in a whole new wire. Lucky for me, I wouldn't need re-wiring, but the recovery time would be longer simply because it would take a longer time for these badly affected nerves to heal.

Needles and electricity are a nasty match and I was very uncomfortable during the whole process. I was so lucky to have my Dad there to explain in normal speak the doctors diagnosis. Basically, my nerves were a bit fucked. The study confirmed their diagnosis of Guillain-Barré Syndrome, as did the second lumber puncture which showed high protein levels. My MRI Scan and Heart Scan were all good, a big relief.

The plan was to finish the intravenous transfusions to a total of five days, and then get me down into rehab to start the recovery process. I felt relieved that eventually I would recover, but the sinking realisation that I definitely would not be travelling those next few months left me devastated. I was still physically worsening at this stage as well and sleepless nights made me exhausted and depressed. Not to mention the hospital food, yuk!

Regularly talking to my incredible family at home and having my Dad around helped to keep me as positive as I could be, although usually I would have a roller coaster of emotions each day, from absolute meltdowns to making up songs about GBS with Dad (generally to the songs of 'Beauty and the Beast'). My Mum was talking about coming out as well but Dad and I were anxious about the added stress she might have flying out alone, and also we thought we'd surely be back in England in a few weeks. Writing this as I am, still in Australia eight weeks later, we were very bloody wrong!

Wiggle Big Toe

"I have to go, my Dad's here, my Dad's here!" I put the phone down sobbing as my Dad came rushing towards me. I don't think I have ever felt both so incredibly sad and happy as I did that moment. I tried to reach my arms up to hug the man I'd not seen for seven months, but had to make do with a head tilt on his shoulder as he enveloped me in his arms. I had never seen my Dad cry before (although to be fair I looked a bloody state! ECG machine taped to my body, crazy sea salt hair and a hospital gown is enough to make anyone weep).

Laughing and crying we quickly gained composure and I heard about Dads thirty-five hour flight from hell. He actually happened to meet a doctor on his flight who knew about Guillain-Barré Syndrome; trust my Dad to get chatting to probably the only person on the plane who'd heard of it.

To have my Dad by my side made me feel calmer, for here he was to listen to all the medical jargon with me and support me. It was a bloody good job he arrived when he did as well, because that week I was to have an array of medical tests that were physically and mentally exhausting.

One stand out memory that shocked my Dad and I, a memory that made us realise how bad things had got, was when my Dad and a nurse tried to help stand me up so I could get to the loo on a shower chair. The day before I had done it but this time my legs completely collapsed beneath me; my Dad called for help as I lay in a twisted heap on the floor, crying, toes caught in the chair and nothing I could do about it. Several people appeared and I was lifted back into bed and from that day on for many weeks I said goodbye to dignity and hello to bedpans and hoists (but more on them later).

You know the scene from Kill Bill, where Uma Thurman is staring at her toes saying 'Wiggle big toe...wiggle big toe' and miraculously it wiggles? Well, in reality this doesn't work. As that second day progressed, so did my symptoms; I would stare at my feet pleading with them to move, for a toe to twitch, begging for a sign of life. Nothing. Then no leg movement at all. Then I couldn't lift my arms off the bed. I couldn't feed myself, move myself, roll over. All I had was that floppy arm flex from wrist to elbow, shoulder shrugging and head movement. Even my speech began to suffer mildly as time went on...the effort to talk was sometimes challenging.

It's a strange thing to loose all your independence in a matter of days. Imagine needing someone to do literally everything for you in the bathroom, someone to dress and undress you, someone to put a glass of water to your lips to drink. I actually found the worst thing was not losing the use of my legs, but actually losing all the power in my arms and hands. I couldn't distract myself with a book because I couldn't hold one...three chapters left of 'Game of Thrones' and I couldn't finish it...agony! Imagine being put in a position to sleep in, but after five minutes everything aches and hurts and you can't move at all. I am generally a very fidgety person, especially at night, so for weeks I had to keep buzzing the nurses to come and roll me over.

Having my Dad, and later on my Mum, around made everything better. Dad would feed me and move me, but best of all he took the piss out of me! We actually had such a laugh at the whole situation; a classic moment was when I was trying to screw the cap on a bottle of water, trying to use all of the strength I possessed with the only movements I had, and could I do it? No way! I kept dropping the lid because I couldn't feel it, and although of course there were many tears of frustration, having Dad around made me laugh. A lot.

Sure enough, my Dad soon became on friendly terms with all the doctors, nurses, patients, bus drivers and pretty much everyone he came into contact with. I would regularly be told 'Your Dad is so lovely!' and I couldn't agree more. He would arrive early in the morning and leave late at night and I felt, and still feel, very lucky that he was there for me from the start. Cheers Dad!

Weak

Waking up after my first nights sleep in Townsville Hospital I had a chance to really think about what was happening to me. It was Monday morning, I had strange tingly numb sensations in my hands and feet, I could hardly lift my arms and walking was a struggle. I admit, I felt sorry for myself. I remember thinking about my family and how worried they would be; and the chance that whatever was happening could get worse and I could even stop breathing...I couldn't quite take it all in.

I felt sick from fear and turned down an uninspiring breakfast of cornflakes. And then suddenly the day started. Four neurological doctors closed the curtains around my bed and began to introduce themselves, doctors that I would quickly become familiar with.
The thorough exam that they then conducted that day and there after many times a day for the first few weeks, became something that I knew backwards. They would start with my arms most times, seeing how high I could lift them, how well I could flex from wrist to elbow, how tight my grip was as I squeezed their fingers. On day one, I could still lift my arms off the bed by a few inches, however my grip was incredibly weak and my wrist to elbow flex had no control; my arm would flop inwards towards my torso.

They would then move down to my legs to see if I could bend and lift them, which again I could do at this stage, albeit with much effort and little strength. I remember being pleased that I could still wriggle my toes, although pushing my feet into their hands and then pulling them up towards my body was a massive chore. One of the doctors carried out the tests the others would be making notes. I was baffled by the way they recorded the results with numbers and words I didn't understand, although I would begin to understand their scoring system as the week continued (believe me when I say it was not as simple as 10 being strong and 1 being weak!)

The next step would be to use the reflex hammer. Still no sign of any reflexes in my arms or legs. The doctors murmured. They then used the pointed end of the 'hammer' to scrape the sole of my foot; could I feel that? Yes, but faintly, as if through layers and layers of thick skin. "Natasha, we believe that you are suffering from Guillain-Barré Syndrome but we need to do some further tests. GBS is a disorder that affects the nervous system and causes temporary paralysis. Your respiratory muscles can be attacked which is why you must tell us straight away if you find it hard to breathe or swallow.' I'd heard this the day before but it still didn't make any sense to me. I desperately wanted someone with me who could comfort me and tell me I'd be okay.

The doctors continued to explain more about GBS and asked me if I had been ill prior to experiencing these sensations, as it is usually caused by a viral infection, even something as simple as a cold can trigger GBS. The strange thing in my case is that I was not unwell before my toe went numb. I had no cold, no fever, no sickness. Each case of GBS is unique and there is still a lot unknown about what actually causes it, but to not be ill beforehand was unusual.
They explained that in the afternoon they would do a lumber puncture to test the fluid in my spine to help confirm their diagnosis. I welled up. I'd heard and read of the term 'lumber puncture' before and it was another thing to worry about.

That day I saw so many different people and repeated my symptoms a million times over. Time was doing that strange thing where it speeds up and suddenly it was time for the lumber puncture. Thankfully I had two nurses to hold my hands and distract me as I was manoeuvred into a foetal position. Two of the doctors I'd met earlier were back and one explained that he was going to inject me with a local anaesthetic into my lower spine which would numb the area. I whimpered "Please distract me" to my nurses, and they reassuringly chatted about this and that, their children and their normal lives, something that already felt far from my new reality.

After the anaesthetic I was told another needle was going in to try and get some of the fluid out. It didn't work. He pushed the needle in further and I could feel a dull pressure, stabs of pain and I began to cry. "I'm sorry Natasha, we're going to have to get you to curl up as tight as you can and we're going to have to numb the area and start again". I tried to be as brave as I could be, feeling like a small child. He started again. For what felt like a long time he poked and pushed into my spine until I heard him say it was working and the fluid was coming; I was so relieved when it was over and I had the sweet relief of morphine injected into me. Unbeknown to me at the time, that would not be the only lumber puncture I was to have that week.

As the day continued I progressively got weaker, and from being able to walk with assistance to the toilet, I could only do a stand transfer to a toilet chair. I didn't know that this was to be the last day I was able to stand for five weeks. Pain that had been hovering in the background began to breakthrough; the tingling in my hands began to burn cold, again a sensation that would strengthen over those coming weeks.

That night I was told the fluid taken from the lumber puncture could not confirm the diagnosis of GBS, however they were going to start treatment that very evening as if it was this as it could do no harm to begin. They hooked me up to begin administering intravenous immunoglobulins (IVIg) which would neutralise harmful antibodies and effectively stop the GBS from spreading further. I was told to expect to get physically worse despite the beginning of this - they were right.

I went to sleep that night focusing on one saving grace...the next day, my Dad would arrive.

Helicopters and Nunga-Nunga's

The helicopter crew. One word: Phwoar! Like a scene from ER they strode in looking purposeful and important, swiftly transferring me from bed to stretcher as casual as cats. One of them picked up my (rather large) rucksack, 'Crikey, what the hell is in this thing?! No wonder your crook carrying this around!' I should point out here that I have used a little poetic license, as rarely have I heard an Aussie say 'crikey' before, although 'crook' is a common term for being unwell.

Banter continued from the crew on the way to the helicopter and I laughed along nervously. The female doctor in charge turned out to be from London, and as I was pulled aboard she explained that I would have to wear headphones and that an observation machine would take my blood pressure and heart rate every fifteen minute. She said if I needed their attention I should just look up to them, being that I was positioned on the floor and could hardly lift my arms to wave at them. I was told if I found it hard to swallow or breathe I must let them know straight away; I would get used to hearing this over the next few weeks, not that having this repeated throughout the day made it any easier to hear.

Never having been in a helicopter before, I was very intrigued. As the blades started whirring above the doors were closed and suddenly we were lifted into the night. I'd been told to try and relax and sleep for the hour long trip, and as I couldn't see anything I thought I would attempt to do this. Of course, my brain would not switch off.

Now, I don't know if this was vanity or some kind of coping mechanism, but I spent the majority of the flight not worrying about this Guillain-Barré business, but instead worrying about my boobs. Having had to take off my bikini top for the CAT scan I suddenly realised I was in extreme danger of popping out. Christ! What would I do if a nunga-nunga came out?! Would I ask a crew member to pop her back in? What if i asked and they couldn't hear me and in gesturing with my head the other bazooma made an appearance? What if they didn't notice at all? What if they did notice and pretended that they didn't? These were SERIOUS CONCERNS. I wasn't thinking about the fact I could be paralysed and stop breathing at any moment.

Thankfully the girls behaved and stayed out of sight and suddenly we were descending, practically dropping to the ground and the flight was over. It hadn't seemed real that hour, and the fear that I had been pushing back started to rear it's ugly head. I couldn't quite believe this was actually happening. I had just been flown to Townsville Hospital because the doctors were worried and this situation was serious; thoughts of jiggling boobs disappeared.

As they transferred me to the Emergency Department and again easily slid me into a bed, I remember suddenly feeling utterly exhausted. The memory of this night is a blur of questions, observations, reflex tests, blood tests and eventually a transferral to a ward around midnight.

I spoke to my family, having discovered that my Dad was flying out that day and would get there Tuesday, and I explained I was in a ward called EMU. Now, this being Australia I found out much later on that my Mum was relieved I was moved to a 'normal' ward. She (and I) didn't realise it actually stood for Emergency Medical Unit, but at least she had some sense of relief at the time!
I fell into a deep sleep that night despite observations every few hours, and this was actually the last good night I remember having. For after that night, despite being in hospital and despite the incredible care I received from the start, things were about to get worse. Physically and mentally, a hell of a lot worse.

Scary Times

When a doctor tells you they're worried, there is little you feel other than a pure fear. At least, that's how it felt in my case. 'We think you may have Guillain-Barré Syndrome, a disorder that effects the peripheral nervous system.' I remember the word 'syndrome' resonating through my mind and the feel of my heart beating against my chest.
'What do you mean? Is it curable? What if its not this Guillian thing, what else could it be?'
'Well we can't be certain at this time, but the other possibility is Multiple Sclerosis, however we don't think it's that. Guillian- Barré is temporary in most cases, however there is a risk that the nerves in your diaphragm can be attacked, in which case you may stop breathing and then you will have to be ventilated'.

Stop breathing? I could die from this? Or MS?? Not possible, I was twenty three years old for goodness sake! As both doctors comforted me and explained more about GBS, my mind had switched off. When they left me alone I can honestly say I have never been more scared in my life. I was in Australia, completely and utterly alone with no phone credit and no Internet access, consumed in a deep dread. I asked one of the nurses if I could borrow the phone to make a call; how could I even begin to explain this to my parents who were 9567 miles and a 20 hour flight away?

I don't recall much of this conversation other than a cascade of tears from me and the calm reassurance of my Mum before I passed her over to talk to the doctor. I couldn't help but feel extraordinarily guilty for putting my parents through this, and the thought of them telling my brother and sister...it cannot be put into words. Writing this as I am now, five weeks later to the day and still in hospital, I can do nothing but cry as I remember those first few days.

Whilst in Proserpine Hospital, the doctors decided to give me a CAT scan to rule out any spinal injuries or lesions. During my initial examination they discovered I had no reflexes at all in my arms or legs, and as I went in to have the scan, I found myself wishing it was this GBS and not anything nastier. GBS was supposedly temporary, but I couldn't stop from thinking what else it could be; what if I had a tumour or worse?

After the scan I had time to calm myself and think. Practicalities first, then I could worry. I borrowed the phone and called the hostel who agreed to drive and bring my luggage to the hospital. I then called my best friend in Western Australia who I'd lived with for the previous six months, but in typical bad timing she had lost her phone the week before (as I was to discover later), and no one else would answer their phones. There was one other person I wanted to speak to more than anyone (other than my family), but he was in Canada and I didn't have his number. I resigned myself to wait for him to call me, knowing my parents would send him a message. Put in this situation I realised who was important to me, and the thought that I would not get a chance to tell the people I loved how much they meant to me was excruciating. I was so terrified that I was running out of time; how desperately afraid and alone I was. The numbness in my fingers and toes multiplied tenfold as my panic grew and I was using my inhaler (bloody asthma) regularly. Researching afterwards I discovered that 20-30% of GBS sufferers have problems with their airways, and I was one of the lucky ones to be unaffected. Obviously I was unaware of this at the time.

I waited. I was told I was being transferred at 8pm that night to Townsville hospital where I was assured there was a great neurological department. Whilst I was more scared than the time I had a 14th birthday house party, told my parents I'd invited twenty people and sixty showed up, I also felt calm. I was in hospital, the best place I could possibly be. Strength in me that I didn't know I had started to build; I would fight this and I would win. It was a bit like a cheesy X-Factor moment when I thought that if I'm honest. Even my own brain was telling me to settle on the cliches.

I began talking to the man next to me who ran a cattle farm, and he had an infected arm after a cow ran him down (good grief!). Having a normal conversation and his gentle reassurance made me feel a little better. In some ways he reminded me of my Dad; a friendly guy who'd talk to anyone. I knew my Dad would be looking at flights at home, and although I didn't want him to spend the money and time to fly out (I was still in denial and was waiting for the doctors to say 'Hang on, we've made a mistake! Really you are suffering from Lack-of-Cat Syndrome which can be cured by playing with kittens for several days, side effects being tiny scratches and furry clothes'), I of course just wanted my parents with me.

Time flew by. My CAT scan was clear and relief flooded through me. My luggage was dropped off and suddenly there was a crew to take me to the helicopter. I desperately looked around for some kind of reassurance; the Junior Doctor came over and took my hand and said 'You're going to be okay. I will call the hospital and see how your getting on in a few days'. I remember she squeezed my hand. 'You're going to be fine'.
Fine or not, it was time to fly.

Boats and Floats

'Bonjour Maman! Still having the best time, on my way to Airlie Beach now. Fingers and toes are still numb but sure allergy tablets will work soon! Hope it's not too nippy noodles there. Love love xx' This is the message I text my Mum whilst on the bus to my hostel from Mission Beach. I was completely exhausted from staying awake the night before, so I snuggled down to forget the oddness that was my extremities and went straight to sleep.

After checking into my hostel, with a surprisingly nice room, I briefly went online and had a cheeky search at some of the symptoms I was experiencing. Hmm...perhaps it's vitamin deficiency! After all, one cannot live off 'Fantastic Chicken Flavoured Noodles' (occasionally beef flavoured if I was going really crazy) alone; and somewhere I'd read online that pins and needles could be a lack of the correct vitamins. I went out and bought some milk, fruit and chocolate, although admittedly I doubted the chocolate would help. After munching down in my room I fell asleep soon after. The next morning was...stressful.

I was planning to sail the Whitsundays, but when I awoke I felt pretty horrendous. To save money I'd been sleeping in my daily contact lenses and my eyes felt awful, and as I went to take them out I realised my arms were a bit heavy; because I had no sensation in my fingertips it was a bloody mission to get them out. The girl getting ready next to me surely thought I had Tourette's I swore so much, and even showering was such a task! What the hell was going on?

I packed a bag with some difficulty, and as I was to find out later, life is very tough when you can't feel anything. Still, I put the rest of my stuff in the hostel storage room, and went to check in at the sailing shop; however, as soon as I walked in I burst into tears and explained to the very kind women all of the strange things that had started happening to me. Whilst I insisted I would still be fine to sail for two days and two nights, I did agree to get a doctors appointment, and I even scrounged a lift off the husband of one of the receptionists.

Feeling like I was making a fuss over nothing, I walked into the doctors surgery apprehensive and confused. It turns out I had no need to worry as the doctor assured me after a 'full neurological exam' (that took less than five minutes) that I was surely just suffering from 'stress and anxiety'. Now, I did try to explain that as a backpacker, the biggest worry I'd had the last two weeks was what I was going to do when my mascara ran out and whether or not to spend $5 on a hat. I was definitely not stressed. Still, I felt reassured so I left the surgery and hitched a ride back into town.

I picked up some supplies for the boat trip, in the form of goon and a six pack of cider, and started walking to the harbour. This ended up being a fairly arduous journey for my arms still felt strangely heavy, as if packed with lead, and we all know goon is no light weight. I feel here I should perhaps clarify the term 'goon'. It was first bought to my attention during my travels in New Zealand a few years before; apparently 'If you can finish a whole goon you're a man' (terribly sexist but there we go). It is basically a box of wine or perhaps a pre-mixed vodka, the equivalent of 21 drinks. Once you have finished your goon you can blow up the foil bag and use it as a pillow, which is often necessary after its consumption.

Anyway, I made it to the boat and got talking to everyone and merry times were had. I ended up discussing my numbness with a very lovely Norwegian couple and a German guy, and the general consensus was that I had a trapped nerve in my back. Plausible. When I awoke the next morning feeling pretty much the same, this explanation made more sense so I began to look forward to the day ahead.

We split into two groups and got dropped off on Whitehaven beach, one of the many small and stunning islands that make up the Whitsundays. We started on our way to one of the lookouts but I soon fell behind. I believe this is the first moment I got scared; walking was hard. I was struggling to walk up the path stairs but I was determined to make it and eventually I reached the top where everyone else was waiting. The view was spectacular, and if I had been feeling normal I would've been grinning like a cat. Instead I did my best to get some photos, whilst the girl behind me was moaning that we had to be up so early. I wanted to scream 'I can hardly walk and we are in one of the most beautiful places in the world and you're moaning because your tired! What is wrong with you?!' That is something I really despise in travellers; there you are seeing something wonderful and they're complaining because they haven't had their morning coffee or a shower. Crazy.

We then walked across the whitest sand I've ever seen, but we walked so far I was genuinely worried that I wouldn't be able to make it back. At this stage I had to ask one of the girls to tie up my hair because my arms just wouldn't lift that high. In hindsight alarm bells should've been ringing...it's not every day you find it hard to walk and your toes and fingers go numb. But I'd seen a doctor and he said I'd be fine! Lucky for me the Captain moved the boat our side of the island so after a long rest whilst everyone else explored (and after a shallow swim in my stinger suit...I wasn't missing out!) I made it back to the boat with everyone else.

That afternoon we had the chance to snorkel the reef; how many opportunities would I have to do this in my life? I donned my stinger suit and got in with the help of a float and some flippers and saw some truly awesome fish. Big ones, small ones, electric blue ones, many that didn't even look like fish. It was great, and being in the water I felt weightless, a sweet relief after feeling more and more like my body had been possessed by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Then I had to get back to the boat. Shit. I was flipping my flippers as hard as a could but my weakened limbs couldn't handle the current. Crap! Thankfully the Captain saw me and got Liam, the guy in charge of us, to collect me in his raft and I weakly held onto the sides whilst he towed me back. The Captain had to practically drag me up the ladder.

That night, try as I did to join in the fun, I went to bed at 8am. I had a feeling goon was going to help me no more. By this stage I couldn't even turn off the light in my cabin as it was too high, and I was afraid. A fretful nights sleep ensued, and I had those really annoying dreams where I needed to pack and move things but couldn't quite move my body. I was unaware at this point how close to reality these dreams would be...I'd have preferred it if my dream of turning into a polar bear catching fish had come true, but what can you do?

I called my parents the next day and they gave me the second best piece of advise they'd ever given, the first being 'Never turn down an invite!' This time it was simple. 'Go to hospital'.
Another couple I'd made friends with during this voyage had a camper van and very generously drove me to Proserpine Hospital pretty much as soon as we got off the boat. I thanked them and walked into the emergency department. Well, I stumbled, as my legs were behaving worse than the time I attempted a yard glass of vodka, and a nurse half carried me straight to a bed.

Surely they'd quickly exam me, decide a drip of antibiotics would do the trick and then I'd be merrily on my way. Instead they examined me, went away whispering and then Dr Tracy said this...'We're worried'.

Numb

Life was sweet. After working as a waitress for six months in Mandurah, Western Australia, I was finally travelling alone. Forty three days of hiking, beautiful scenery, adventure and of course the inevitable consumption of goon. Then back to England for two weeks with my family and friends, on to Nepal to do Base Camp Everest, travel India with two of my best friends and finally fly out of Sri Lanka three months later. Yup, life was sweet. And then my toe went numb.

I was on the Greyhound bus on my way to Mission Beach after a mental week in Cairns (involving the aforementioned goon, swimming in lakes and down waterfalls, meeting a bunch of cliche travellers etc etc) when I became aware of a numbness in my little right toe. Odd, but I wasn't concerned...I was backpacking so I had no worries! As soon as I got to my cute little hostel I jumped in the pool and went to explore the beach, and by 'explore' I mean I found the beach, lathered myself in sun cream and slept like a king. When I awoke I realised all the toes in my right foot were numb. I went back to my hostel and had a chat with the receptionists to see if they had any advice or had heard of this before. After all, this is Australia, everything here can bloody kill you. But no, we all agreed it was weird but probably nothing to worry about; I mean, I could still wiggle my toes so all good.

I went to bed that night pretty chilled, until I woke around 2am and realised all of the toes in my left foot had gone numb as well. Shit! I leapt out of bed and found the obligatory couple all hostels have, making out on the couch with South Park blaring out in the background. 'Help! I'm trying not to freak out but all my toes are numb and I'm alone and I don't know what to do and I'm sorry to interrupt but fuck what's going on!?' Turns out they were German. 'Huh?' I went back to bed.

The next morning I jumped up, put on my runners and went straight outside for a jog. Believe me, this is not normal behaviour! My jogging tends to be the sweaty, red faced and gasping for breath kinda jog; not anything like those women who run with their swishy neat ponytails, serene half smiles and of course those ridiculously pert, unmoving breasts...I mean, come on, who are these women!? Anyway, back to the jog. As I was 'running' to try and kick back the feeling in my toes, I realised my left hand had started to tingle and numb as well. Never have I ran so fast, desperate to get back to the hostel to talk to someone. The kind female receptionist from the day before drove me to the nearest pharmacy (I was backpacking and was not going to shell out 80 bucks for a doctor!). The pharmacist listened to my, then tearful, concerns. He smiled at me and explained that this was probably an allergic reaction to something and if I took some anti-histamines I'd be just fine. Relief flooded through me. Of course! Why didn't I think of that?

Later that day I went out and bought six cheap Dutch beers in celebration; although I felt exactly the same and in fact my right hand was starting to go numb as well, I was sure all would be well and surely beer was nothing but a great idea. I had a really fun night with people in the hostel but decided to have an early one to get well and ensure I woke up in time for my bus. I had been in bed for five minutes when Jakes, a 6ft 6" Swede, came over to my bed and said 'Tarsha, do your want to go to the beach and make a bonfire?' Erm, yes! We gathered essential supplies (beer, blankets, guitar etc) and strolled to the beach. Now whilst the fire making failed it was a warm night, so we sat amicably under a night full of shooting stars chatting away like old friends. Jokes were made about my lack of sensation in my fingers and toes, for now everything was completely numb, but we hadn't a care. As the sun rose we toyed with the idea of skinny dipping...Jakes had an infected leg, so was I just going to do it alone? Sod it! I stripped and ran straight for the sea, feeling free and hopeful; perhaps the combination of sun rise and salt water and joy alone would heal me! Unfortunately as soon as I swam in I saw a ginormous crab and ran straight back out, but still, it felt good.

That morning I clamoured onto my bus to Airlie Beach, euphoric from such a fun night. Yes I was alone and this numb business was odd, but I was sure it was nothing to worry about. Oh, how wrong I was...