He makes a high-pitched growl and wiggles his bum.
I lean down and ruffle my fingers over the top of Butch’s head. His tail whips eagerly from side to side.
I throw my hands up in defeat. “You gonna clean this up?” I ask, knowing full well he won’t answer, or help.
When the mess is cleaned and the dog and I are fed, I settle myself at my desk in front of the laptop. Knowing full well I should be giving my attention to Brandon and Ally, I open up my browser and bring up a Google search.
I type in GBS.
Twenty-three million results are returned, starting with the question, “What is GBS?”
I read about how the cause is unknown, and how the immune system attacks itself. One site details that it can be caused from episodes of gastro, respiratory infections, or flu vaccinations. It’s not hereditary or contagious.What a shitty disease. How can medical experts attempt to cure something when they can’t even determine what causes it?
Reading each of the heartbreaking GBS survivor stories soon brings me to tears. Some articles are recounts of triumphs whereas some are tales of loss. Butch must sense my change in mood, sitting at my feet as I reach for the tissues. I let him snuggle on my lap as I read about mothers unable to care for their own children, marriages failing, family members feeling hopeless, the demands of physical therapy, and above all, the desperate search for answers.
Recovery can take weeks to years. Memory loss can be a short-term effect of GBS. The body works overtime to recuperate and learn basic motor skills again. The long-term outlook is that nine out of ten victims survive, and out of that nine out of ten, seventy-five to ninety percent recover completely. I have to take that positive out of this.
Sam is breaking free from the prison his body created for him a year ago. Whilst some cases seem life-threatening, Sam is over the worst of his.
I choke back tears when I read the stories. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him—bedridden, alone, and robbed of the life he had.
When I read about the senate inquiry into the management of young people in nursing homes in Australia, I’m shocked at the statistics. It’s hard to believe that every year, more than three hundred people under fifty are admitted to nursing homes. Once they’re in, they’re surrounded by death and the dying. They lose their skills, and what social networks they may have had diminish. I can only hope that in time, the government will develop pathways for community living. For Sam, and for all those out there in the same situation as him.
He must know that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. If he doesn’t, then it’s up to me to make sure he does.
When I can’t read any more about GBS and nursing homes, I open my manuscript. For an hour or so I write about Mount TBA and try and set the scene for the first time Brandon and Ally cross paths at the dessert van.
Words come together, but when I read back over them before calling it quits for the night, my heart sinks. I have no idea what I’m doing. The sentences seem so … basic.
What makes me think I can do this?