Meningitis and the Man with No Fear

The day my brain took a hard left.

If someone told me a deadly bout of meningitis would one day explain nearly all my most reckless, misguided, and occasionally heroic life choices, I’d have laughed. (Then again, I laugh at funerals and when someone trips in the street, so maybe not the best benchmark.)

Let’s rewind.

I was just a lad with a bright future, a nice head of hair, and a brain that—at the time—worked roughly the way a brain is supposed to. Then meningitis came along and kicked that brain around like a football in a pub car park. It nearly killed me—my third encounter with a life-threatening disease in the space of five years.

I don’t remember much about most of the time in the ICU at Sussex County Hospital in Brighton. What I do remember is who I became after. I didn’t know it at the time, but something had rewired up there in the old grey matter. Gone were fear, caution, and (inconveniently) a lot of emotional processing. In their place? Recklessness. Zero filter. And the deeply misguided belief that I was destined to die in a dramatic fashion.

Honestly, it felt like a superpower at first. I wasn’t afraid of anything. Not heights. Not pain. Not angry men wielding machetes. I could leap into danger without a second thought—and often did. But superpowers, as any Marvel fan will tell you, usually come with consequences. Mine included wrecked relationships, a trail of questionable choices, and a career path that looked like someone had let a drunk ferret loose in my underwear.

People assumed I was just bold. Brave. Driven and very funny. I let them think that. Who wants to admit they feel absolutely nothing inside when walking into chaos? That the adrenaline is the only thing that reminds you you’re alive?

Looking back, it all makes sense now. But for years, I just thought I was defective in a charismatic kind of way.

The truth? My brain had gone rogue.

My bout with meningitis did not leave me with sepsis, hearing loss or amputation. Thank goodness. But the effects caused a different long-term disability. Like a socially awkward bouncer at an emotional nightclub—it just stopped letting certain feelings in. And, I struggled with cognitive and learning issues. Just what I needed after my Knoll School experience!

It took years to connect the dots. Years of chaos. But it all started with one illness. One fever. One microscopic menace that slipped into my head after a bout of mumps and rearranged the furniture.

So if you’ve ever looked at your life and thought, "What the hell was I thinking?"—you’re not alone. Some of us got unwired before we even realised we were connected.

Welcome to the journey.

More tales of madness, mercy, and unexpected miracles to come.

– Gary (aka Denny Darke)