I move from side to side, shifting the centre of gravity in my chest, left, right, left, right. My knees bend softly, my feet start to lift up, left, right, left, right. I look ahead in the mirror, left, right, left, right. I hold the rail, the sturdy support, left, right, left, right. There’s an unfamiliar jolt beneath me; my body twists and I fall on my back. 

I move from side to side, left, right, left, right. My knees bend softly, my feet start to lift up, left, right, left, right. I watch my whole body in the mirror, left, right, left, right. There’s a sudden movement beneath me; my legs disappear as my arms hang on with my body stretched out behind me and I fall on my front.

My therapist, Kate and I had an eventful session on the second day of my hospital admission for specialist neuro-physiotherapy for the movement symptoms of my FND. We had progressed onto the treadmill to help me access a natural, fluid walk. I’d tried it before, just over a year ago with Kate, when I experienced my best walking for some time. This time, however, took some getting used to. I set myself up well, generating a fluid rhythm in my movement while the treadmill was still. The first time Kate switched it on, I immediately lost control of my movement and fell flat on my back. We carried on, keen not to let it become too negative an experience. The second time Kate switched it on, I lost my legs and ended up hanging on, dangling from the support rail, until I heard Kate’s voice shout “let go!” I’d had enough of the treadmill, but I persevered. When we returned to it the following day, I enjoyed a few minutes of fluid, rhythmic walking.

The thought of the day from the tube station near the hospital, sent to me by Kate that evening, didn’t just sum up our therapy session that afternoon, but my admission as a whole. As well as the physical falls, there were plenty of emotional ones. “You’re with me,” said a friendly nurse on my arrival to the ward. My heart sank a little when I saw my bed was in the middle of a bay of six. It sank even further when I realised I couldn’t even get to it. It was visiting time and visitors had encroached into my bed space from either side. It was noisy. It was cramped. Oh, how I wanted my little home. I sat in my wheelchair at the end of the bed, giving myself a moment to take in my surroundings and situation. Over the course of the evening, with a little help from staff, I gradually reclaimed my bed space, got myself set up for my stay and drew the curtains to create a little cocoon.

But the falls kept coming; disturbed sleep due to a patient skulking around at night, trying to get into my bed and using my bed space as a toilet; watching all the patients around me have daily visitors, when my friends and family were too far away to come; landing on the ward floor when I was transferring from my bed to wheelchair and momentarily lost control of my movement; resignation as I was presented with yet another tray of hospital food…  Somehow, little by little, emptying my toolbox of self-help techniques and creating moments of mindfulness, I managed to rise each and every time I fell. The glory this resulted in was making myself as comfortable as possible on the ward and achieving the physio goals we’d set on day one. I completed my admission and left feeling optimistic about my planned future treatment and return to the ward. It’s not the falling that matters, it’s the getting up that counts.