.:i think i thought a thought:.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

About the author

Jean-Dominique Bauby was born in Paris in 1952. On December 8, 1995, a stroke rendered his brain stem inactive, and he was diagnosed as suffering from “locked-in” syndrome. In 1996 Bauby set up ALIS (Association du Locked-In Syndrome), and in 1997, days after the publication of The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, he died. The book sold its entire print-run of 25,000 copies in one day.

About the book

After suffering a massive stroke, Jean-Dominique Bauby editor-in-chief of French Elle, and the father of two children, found himself completely paralysed, speechless and able to only move one eyelid. His mind was as free as a butterfly but his body was immoboilised, as if trapped in a diving bell. By blinking as the alphabet was read to him, Bauby “dicated” this remarkable, painful, witty tribute to the resilience of the human spirit. Read an extract from the book… “I had never seen so many white coats in my little room. Nurses, orderlies, physiotherapist, occupational therapist, psychologist, neurologist, interns and even the department head — the whole hospital had turned out for the event. When they first burst in, pushing the device ahead of them, I thought it meant that I was being ejected to make room for a new patient. I had already been at Berck a few weeks, and was daily drawing nearer to the shores of awareness, but I still could not imagine any connection between a wheelchair and me. No one had yet given me an accurate picture of my situation, and I clung to the certainty, based on bits and pieces I had overheard, that I would very quickly recover movement and speech. Indeed, my roving mind was busy with a thousand projects: a novel, travel, a play, marketing a fruit cocktail of my own invention. (Don’t ask for the recipe; I have forgotten it.) They immediately dressed me. ‘Good for the morale,’ pronounced the neurologist in sententious tones. And in truth I would have been pleased to trade my yellow nylon hospital gown for a checked shirt, old trousers, and a shapeless sweater — except that it was a nightmare to put them on. Or rather to watch the clothes manipulated, after endless contortions, over these uncooperative deadweight limbs, which serve me only as a source of pain.”

source: Times UK