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!