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.