On December 1st 2002, while
driving south along the M6, I discovered that I couldn't whistle. I don't
know why I wanted to whistle; perhaps it was because I was on the way home
after a particularly busy week. The previous Sunday evening we had
recorded two editions of 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue' in front of a live
audience at Blackpool's Grand Theatre. Next morning I drove up to
Edinburgh for a lunchtime meeting with a group of writers, with whom I
spent the week outlining 13 episodes for a children's drama series called
'The Shoebox Zoo', then back on Saturday to visit my mother in Preston,
before driving home again on the Sunday, which was when I must have felt
the need to whistle, and discovered it was impossible.
At home
that evening the need to whistle didn't arise, but I did notice that my
mouth felt odd on the left hand side; not numb exactly, or puffy, but sort
of weak and loose and…odd. I began to suspect what was going on, and
so it didn't come as an enormous surprise the next morning when I woke to
find the left side of my face completely paralysed. I revealed the
condition to my wife, Emma, as gently as I could; having caught sight of
myself in the mirror it appeared that my face in repose took on an
expression of shock or despair, and if I tried to smile, what came across
was a most unsettling (and uncharacteristic) leer. She coped with this
apparition pretty well, but was concerned about the cause. As a
non-practising qualified doctor I knew a little about Bell's Palsy, at
least enough to diagnose myself and rule out the more frightening
possibilities such as a stroke. A visit to my GP confirmed the diagnosis,
and I was duly prescribed a short sharp course of prednisolone and
acyclovir (no famcyclovir being immediately available). After that, all
being well, I could look forward to a lopsided month or two, followed by a
complete recovery. Meanwhile, I had to phone my agent.
The call
to my agent, also called Emma, was a matter of some urgency, as the
following morning, Tuesday, I was due to report to the set of 'Holby City'
to record two episodes playing the role of a cardio-thoracic surgeon. It
was only fair to let the producer know that, although I was fit enough to
work, 50% of my face was simply not up to the job. It was too late to
recast the part, so I said I was prepared to give it a go, and with luck
we'd get away with it, but if the results were unacceptable then a rethink
would be required. There then followed a series of phone calls between my
agent Emma, my wife Emma, and the producer - yet another Emma - about the
state of my face, how bad it really looked, and whether viewers might
think I was ill or had suffered a stroke, or was drunk, or just playing
the fool. We decided to go for it, so it was off to Elstree for three days
recording.
The production staff and the cast were very
understanding and supportive. My performance as Mr Loftwood was perhaps a
little more muted than normal, but I think we got away with it. It was
helped in the Operating Theatre scenes by the fact that I wore a surgical
mask, and in the other scenes they managed to favour my good side to the
camera, although there were moments when Mr Hyde was rather more in
evidence than Dr Jekyll.
On the Saturday at the end of the first
week of affliction we had a family dinner party to celebrate our son Tom's
18th birthday. I sat at the head of the table, and towards the end of the
meal noticed that everybody on one side of the table was in great high
spirits, while those on the other side seemed rather dour and gloomy. My
wife pointed out that those sitting on my right could see me smiling and
animated, while those on the left saw only the paralysed, grim and
unresponsive side of my face, which put a bit of a damper on their mood.
Even when people understand the problem, they still can't help reacting to
the message they perceive the Bell's-palsied face to be sending out,
however unintentionally, and it is also very tedious having to keep
explaining to people why you look the way you do.
The other
peculiar sensation was of the affected side of the head having its own
personality, being cold and unresponsive, unlike the 'normal' side, which
at times felt somehow out of control. If I smiled or laughed, it was as if
the left side was un-amused, and saying 'get a grip of yourself!' while
the right side contorted itself uncontrollably into half a grin or giggle:
a strange and disconcerting experience. Eating and drinking could also be
troublesome, with a spurt of tea or gravy suddenly scooting out of the
affected corner of the mouth. I could understand why people suffering from
this embarrassing condition often like to hide themselves away and avoid
social contact wherever possible. Unfortunately my diary was not prepared
to allow me this luxury. Next Monday, December 9th, I was to record
another two editions of 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue', this time at Sadlers
Wells in London.
The audience of a thousand or so responded to
my opening contributions rather coolly. Perhaps they were overcome with
sympathy, or concern, or confusion, or fear, or perhaps were simply not
minded to mock the afflicted. It therefore seemed a good idea to explain
to them about Bell's Palsy, and how it affected the facial expression, and
indeed speech. The loose lips find it difficult to pronounce Bs and Ps -
which makes it especially cruel of the medical profession to call it
Bell's Palsy. When someone asks you what's wrong, you tend to reply 'It's
Whbhell's Whphalsy!'
That Thursday saw me at a school
prize-giving, and once again I had to explain the condition to the
assembled sixth-formers. It also seemed prudent to let them know that, in
view of my lopsided leer and one winking eye, Social Services had been
informed! In the days that followed there was a radio pilot in which I
played a character who was supposed to be pretty leery anyway, so that was
all right, and then a signing session for Dr Who fans to promote an audio
episode I'd been in. The 'Whovians' who flocked to get the signatures and
buy the merchandise may just have thought I was in some clever prosthetic
make-up, and on that occasion I didn't feel the need to do any explaining
at all. After that, a few meetings, brief visits to the odd party, and
Christmas. By the end of January I was counting wrinkles gain, and by
February my face was back to as near normal as it ever was.
I am
very well aware that I got off lightly. The condition ran its course
according to the textbook, and the prompt medication may well have helped.
However, I am also aware that some people recover without treatment, while
others are treated but have problems lasting many months or years. One
doctor wrote to me saying that she had suffered for 12 months, then fell
headfirst down a flight of stairs in New Zealand, and on regaining
consciousness found she was cured. She does not recommend this course of
treatment. What causes the condition is also currently unclear, although
it does seem to be associated with the Herpes simplex virus. Then again,
we can't rule out the old tale that sitting in a draught brings it on; my
own week of driving long distances and sitting in a draughty Edinburgh
hotel bedroom working on a lap-top might be seen to point in that
direction. One thing I did learn from my own, comparatively brief
experience of the palsy was that, once they understand what the problem
is, people are much more supportive and sympathetic than you might
suppose.
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