Tipping Point

With luck, I got an immediate appointment with another doctor. "I have Guillain-Barré!" I blurted out when the internist greeted me, but the doubt clearly registered on his face. "I've seen only one patient with that," he said. Like an ambitious med student, I recited a precise, methodical account of my symptoms. The stunned doctor then examined me. I had no reflexes, and I had to grip the table when he asked me to stand.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back."

Minutes later he returned and ordered me to go upstairs to see a neurologist, who shocked my limbs with electricity and measured the response of my nerves and muscles. After a final 80-volt zap, she confirmed that I indeed had Guillain-Barré, which has no cure—except time, if you're lucky. The cause remains unclear. Though scientists have not isolated a cause, Guillain-Barré is often preceded by a viral or bacterial infection. Two weeks before traveling to Vietnam I received three vaccinations while recovering from a cold, a combination that might have caused my immune system to misfire.

For a time I regarded my condition as a twisted, hostile betrayal. Defying expectations, my body had embarked on a blundering, self-destructive path—a siege against the self. I could no longer rely on the energy and drive associated with my identity. One day I was helping run a Silicon Valley company and the next I couldn't open a package of cookies.

For a year my legs and hands remained numb and episodically paralyzed. I'd try to take a few steps, thinking that everything was fine, and then, like an infant learning to walk, I'd tip over. For days I lay on the couch, unable to move. I woke from 16 hours of sleep and felt as if I hadn't rested in weeks. Profound exhaustion prevented me from talking on the phone for more than five minutes. Unable to properly grasp a pen, I watched my handwriting regress to a young child's scrawl. It made my work life difficult. I was frequently too listless to be effective, so I would leave the office on my compromised legs and go home to sleep. Fortunately, my employer was sympathetic.

The recovery period for Guillain-Barré can be weeks or it can be years. In my case it was the latter. Over the next several years I eventually regained the full use of my legs and a portion of my stamina, although climbing the subway stairs in Manhattan, where I now live, wipes me out, and sometimes I stumble while getting out of a chair. But my friends take delight in noting that I'm once again a fast walker, even by New York standards.

When I started swimming again I couldn't finish one lap, and certainly not in a straight line. But while submerged in water—that vital, miraculous dimension—I felt liberated from my illness. In Vietnam a wave had knocked me to the ground, but now my leaden fatigue seemed to dissolve in the beautiful blue. I built up strength gradually and began to swim faster. Secretly I believed that speed would inject my body with its former powers.

These days I swim not to beat my personal best or to compete with the person gliding past me. Instead I dive into the pool to savor the simple, pure act of traveling through water, and to emerge 20 laps later, exhilarated by possibility.

Rompf lives in New York City.

© 2008