This article will not follow my usual format, and may not beof interest to some, but it will explain to all of you why I have not beenwriting for the last few months.

Six weeks ago today, on 11th December, I woke upto find something wrong with my face. A swift visit to the bathroom mirrorconfirmed my suspicions: the left-hand side of my face was not working at all.My smile was a grimace worthy of Conan Doyle’s ‘Man with the Twisted Lip,’ my lefteye would not blink or even close, and there was a sharp pain in my neck.

A couple of hours later I found myself getting out of anambulance at the Accident & Emergency Department of Derriford Hospital inPlymouth, something I had resisted heavily but upon which the wonderful EmergencyTeam had insisted, in case I had had a stroke. I knew, in the back of my mind,that they were wrong. In fact, I knew exactly what had caused my condition, as itaffected my mother many, many years ago. But I am not a medic, in any sense ofthe word, so I waited patiently as we crossed the rutted, potholed ambulancecar park surrounded by a latticework of metal screens (because this hospital isundergoing major reconstruction) and entered the lobby where the Stroke Teamwas waiting for me. I cannot praise all these people enough. They are workingin awful noisy, crowded conditions, and yet their professionalism anddedication are admirable. I was pushed into a corridor where the team of aboutsix people stood around me, introduced themselves, and waited for the senior consultantto diagnose my condition. After only a couple of questions and tests, theyagreed on the verdict: Bell’s Palsy, and I was taken off to a different area ofthe department.

The waiting area where I was left sitting next to an elderlyman, was not too crowded, but felt like an indifferent kind of no-man’s-land inwhich people were sorted out. On one row of chairs a woman lay covered in athin blanket, asleep and, according to my new companion, waiting for a bed. Atelevision mounted on a wall played soundlessly. A lady hospital orderlytrundled around with a blood-pressure-testing machine, whilst behind me was acounter where new arrivals queued to be assessed. The lady orderly (forgive my archaicterminology, but I haven’t been admitted to hospital for many years) asked meif I’d been ‘triage-ed’ and I had to ask her to explain what she meant. Had Ibeen seen in one of those consulting rooms, she asked, pointing to some doors.I hadn’t, so off she went to another patient.

After a while a tea trolley waswheeled into sight, manned by two tired-looking volunteers, the kind of peoplewho have hearts of gold and have seen just about everything awful there is tosee in a hospital. One of them approached me: would I like a hot drink? Shemight have been offering champagne, the thought was so welcome. She returnedfrom the trolley with a plastic cup steaming with hot tea, and the offer of abiscuit. My half-paralysed mouth wasn’t up to a biscuit, and in fact had greatdifficulty with the plastic cup of tea, but that’s another story.

As we waited, my elderly ‘neighbour’ and I watched a silentprogramme of ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ on the television, and got chatting, asyou do. He was delighted to be able to offload a wealth of his history to awilling listener who was having trouble saying anything at all! My lips, Irealised, were simply not responding to my brain’s signals. When I spoke, Isounded as though I had a very large toffee in my mouth.

When at last I was called and made my way through one of themysterious doors they proved indeed to be consulting rooms, and there sat anenthusiastic young doctor in front of a computer. She apologised for the wait –to my astonishment, because how could she have controlled that list of peoplewaiting? Then she proceeded to give a swift summary of what had happened to myface and what to expect, as well as prescribing a massive dose of steroids. NowI’d already been on steroids in November, to sort out a chest infection broughton by the same virus the senior consultant had told me a few hours earlier hadbeen the probable cause of the Bell’s Palsy. The virus had caused temporarydamage to my facial nerve. This nerve, the 7th cranial nerve,spreads from the brain stem in two parts, travelling across the face like thebranches of a tree, and affecting eye, tongue, mouth and ear. I wasn’t veryhappy to be about to take steroids again, but they are the only thing which isprescribed for Bell’s Palsy, and by now, I would have taken anything the doctorsuggested. The news that it would take at least three months to clear came as ashock. The best news was that I could go home!

A surly taxi driver agreed to drive me back to Tavistock foran extortionate amount of money, but at that point I would have paid a fortune toget home. Communications with Mike had been virtually non-existent, as both myelderly companion and I had found we had virtually no signal on our phones. Imanaged to get a message out to him, and by the time I arrived back outside ourhouse, he was waiting, as was my son who had dropped everything and drivenacross from Exeter.

From that moment, life changed. Eating, drinking, sleeping,even talking were all new challenges. Over the next few days I became adept atdrinking with a straw whilst pinching together my left-hand lips. Eating with aspoon, sleeping with my eye taped down, endless fatigue and sharp pains acrossmy face became the norm. I have a severe dry eye condition anyway, and thedoctor had been concerned about future problems with my left eye, so I tookmyself off the computer, off my mobile, and off my Kindle. I avoided answering thephone, and I avoided contact with people. I felt like a pariah!

After three weeks things began to improve, but very slowly.But you don’t care about pace, because you are just so glad to see the smallestsign that it won’t last forever. I found I could read hardback books withouttoo much eye strain, and as we have such a large collection of books in thishouse, it has been a joy to revisit some old and well-loved volumes, manycompletely forgotten about.

So here I am after six weeks, back on the computer for ashort time to write this. I’ve eaten lunch without having to mash it up like atoddler; drunk a glass of water without a straw, and been able to watch someTV. The only things bothering me now are the ongoing fatigue, my lack ofstamina – I’ve been going for a short walk every day, but I find it exhausting –and awful tinnitus in my left ear, which pulsates and beeps with infuriatingconstancy. And my left eye still cannot blink.

I must not complain, because had this in fact been a stroke,I’d be in big trouble. Mercifully I’m on the mend, and perhaps in another sixweeks I will be almost there. And here I must thank my marvellous husband for his patience and hard work looking after someone who at times can be a most intolerant patient!

If you’ve reached the end of this, thank you for reading it!I’d love to hear anyone else’s experience of this strange and little-knownillness, so please do use the comments. Otherwise, I hope to be back to normalwith some gardening posts in a few months’ time.