Wednesday 5 September 2012

Doctor doctor, I fear it's curtains

Looking back now, everything seems so obvious. So avoidable.

Why on Earth had I not got myself checked out sooner? I was travelling through time once every couple of fags, thinking that I was recognising people that I couldn't possibly have ever even seen before.

Why didn't I think something was up?

Those were pretty much my first words to the doctor that I met around two weeks after my first big seizure - the incredibly friendly, knowledgeable and all-round cool dude that is Dr Kelso at the Royal London Hospital.

He had, and still has, the enviable ability to explain something as complex as a 'complex' seizure to a simpleton like me without talking down to me at any point. He roughly taught me about what was going on inside my head. Physically speaking.

Admittedly, he was simultaneously scaring the living fuck out of me. But the scientifically faultless knowledge I impart to you now is entirely down to his tutelage.

His reassuringly big words - too long to actually remember the meaning of, yet with the gravitas to indelibly etch them onto my brain - instilled a sense of control within me. Or rather, it limited the feelings of helplessness somewhat.

He's a fantastic chap, whom I'm glad to have met and am greatly indebted to. When people have told me that I appear to have taken this string of events in my stride quite well, I feel as though his input in the first few months made a major contribution to that.

He took the lead in our talks and my scans, all the time allowing Helen and I to feel as though we had someone that was on top of things when we felt pretty powerless.

Looking back, it was Dr Kelso that put my epilepsy into perspective. He explained that I didn't have to quit drinking, but I wasn't going to be the life and soul either. I'd had a fair crack of the whip at the bar anyway.

I may not be able to go scuba diving for a while, or indeed lock the door when I have a shower, but I could still wash my own balls.

He was the person that made me realise what would become my motto for the next year or so: at least it happened when I was 28 and not 8. For that I feel incredibly lucky.

He was also the first person to tell me that I definitely had a brain tumour. What a cunt.

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