View this post on the web at [link removed]

‘Apart from having to drink my pints through a straw, occasionally needing to wear an eyepatch and the classical guitarist nobody could hear, I wouldn’t have changed a thing about the big day.’ - Niall McGourty
“This will be a funny story someday…” is what I told my fiancée en route to the hospital. Really, I was trying to reassure myself. One week before my wedding, I woke up with the left side of my face completely paralysed. Was it a stroke? Definitely my first thought. But no numbness, no smell of burning toast, no slurred speech beyond my inability to form certain shapes with my mouth. No, it was the day I would first learn about Bell’s Palsy, an inconsiderate name for the condition really, as Bs and Ps are difficult letters to pronounce when half your mouth can’t move.
After my diagnosis, I was quick to put on a half of a brave face. Better it happened to me than to the bride, right? No one is really looking at the groom during a wedding, there was no pain beyond the dry eye I couldn’t close, and as the majority of people completely recover within 2-3 weeks, I wasn’t too concerned. Some people wake up with a lot worse than a temporary condition, so I considered (and still consider) myself incredibly fortunate. And in all things non-face related, I am.
Apart from having to drink my pints through a straw, occasionally needing to wear an eyepatch, and the classical guitarist nobody could hear, I wouldn’t have changed a thing about the big day. It sincerely was the best of my life and our celebrant was delighted to have something to say to the next couple freaking out about something minor - “You think this is a problem? I married one couple where the groom looked like a Batman villain”. I am always happy to be a cautionary tale.
But after the wedding, and a week blitzing around Ireland staying in castles and pointing at waterfalls, there were fewer distractions. As weeks turned to months, my internal narrative that I would make a full and fast recovery became increasingly unconvincing. My brain no longer remembers how my facial nerves are supposed to work and activates them all at the slightest provocation. Last week was our first anniversary and last week I was told I’ll most likely be dealing with the condition I have dubbed S.F.S (stupid face syndrome) for the rest of my life.
I’m not a particularly vain person. Any increased asymmetry on my visage doesn’t really bother me. But physically, you feel it almost every second of every day. I have a new appreciation of just how much a face moves, and how mine now doesn’t. It’s now less perceptible to others, for sure, but an unsettling sensation of frustration, tightness and weakness remains with every frown and every smile.
Throughout all of it, my wife Katrina has been, as she always was before, an incredible source of love, comfort and support. It’s difficult for me to put into words just how much I owe her for keeping me optimistic - even when it became clear I wasn’t going to have the funny anecdote of my dreams. To be fair, she’s also the one who has to look at my face more than anyone else and the one now living with my new habit of open-mouth chewing when I lose focus. Her own suffering should not be ignored. But the other big comfort for me was the care I received from our NHS.
Almost every day we’re told that the NHS is “broken”. That any trip to A&E will involve 12 hours in the waiting room and you’ll likely be misdiagnosed by an NHS worker who is overstretched and underpaid. While I have no doubt many have had this experience, it was not mine. Poor outcomes rightly get attention, but we should probably take the time to recognise that most of the time, the NHS gets it right.
As soon as I presented at Wexham A&E, I was quickly prioritised. Within 30 minutes a doctor had diagnosed me and provided me with a prescription. Within the hour I was out the door, within the next two, a pharmacy had supplied me with the drugs I needed for the two weeks until I was back in England. Over the next few weeks and months I got timely reassessments and was quickly put into regular courses of physiotherapy. Last week, I was transferred to the UK’s leading neurology hospital at UCL where I was treated by someone who spoke like a global expert on a specific muscle in my cheek. Through it all, I only experienced diligent, competent and friendly staff. People who really care about what they do and come from all over the world to do it here.
The NHS is facing huge challenges, but we should all avoid propagating the myth that it is “broken” because there are two things one normally does with broken things - you repair them, or throw them in the bin. They no longer say it out loud, but the party currently leading the polls has been quite clear that when it comes to free healthcare at the point of need, they prefer the second option. Their leader has openly called for the UK to switch to a US-style insurance model, the kind that charges thousands for calling an ambulance, the kind that has made sickness the leading cause of bankruptcy in America. It’s the kind of system that probably would have delayed or even deterred me from going to the hospital at all, during those crucial hours where early treatment can set the trajectory of recovery from Bell’s. We shouldn’t be helping certain politicians build a narrative they will use to dismantle something so precious.
I’ve never really been comfortable with face-touching, but my routine now includes a twice daily 20-minute regime of poking and stretching my mug. It’s incredibly annoying, but I’m told it can get me to a point where I may not notice my condition anymore. It’s something I can work towards. Something to be optimistic about. Something I only have because of the NHS, and something I’ll mention to anyone who tells me it’s “broken”.
Niall McGourty is the Editor of the Best for Britain Wire
The Best for Britain Wire is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Unsubscribe [link removed]?