WEIGHING less than a bag of sugar I lay bruised inside an incubator, watched helplessly by my family. My granddad stood at the back of the room where I lay, shaking his head in disbelief.

I was born 13 weeks premature at the Northern General Hospital in Sheffield on April 23 1988. I weighed a tiny 2lbs 9½ oz. Like many premature babies, my future looked bleak and my parents faced the possibility of future problems. I was transferred to Leeds General infirmary as facilities were unavailable in Sheffield. It was here where I suffered a brain haemorrhage.

As my nannan, nursing me for the first time, held an oxygen mask up to my tiny face health professionals asked her to leave whilst they performed a lumbar puncture.

Doctors discovered that I had the condition hydrocephalus after they performed the lumber puncture on my battered and bruised body. A shunt was needed to relieve excess fluid as it was building pressure on my brain.

Hydrocephalus is a medical condition which derives from two Greek words, 'hydro' meaning water and 'cephalus' meaning head. Cerebrospinal spinal fluid is a clear fluid that is constantly produced in the cavities or ventricles inside the brain.

Hydrocephalus is the result of either too much fluid being produced or the prevention of circulation of the fluid.

The treatment available for people who suffer from hydrocephalus is a device called a 'shunt' which has the function of draining excess fluid accumulating on the brain, through the valve and through tubing which runs from the valve to the stomach.

My nannan, trying to choke back tears, was fetched to the ward and told by the doctor who had performed the lumbar puncture: "This baby will be mentally and physically impaired for the rest of his life."

My family could not believe this because of the way I had fought for the chance of life. Mum, who didn't cry throughout my battle, had faith in my survival. After stabilising, I was transferred back to the Northern General Hospital.

I was discharged from hospital at the end of July after spending three months battling to survive. Three months later I returned to ward 17 of the children's ward at the Northern General Hospital. Mum told me that she and my nannan were met by the paediatrician and he broke the heartbreaking news to them. They sobbed uncontrollably. I was later moved to Sheffield Children's Hospital, where I was immobilised, to be treated for meningitis.

My nannan, who travelled by public transport daily to visit me in hospital, described my progression to survive as: "One step forward, three steps back."

When my nannan came to visit one day, nurses told her that I could be taken home. Nurses gave her a blanket which she wrapped me in and was then sent home in a taxi to Sheffield. My mum and dad were getting ready to visit me in hospital when my nannan paid them a visit with me cradled in her arms. My parents were speechless. My nannan was immediately bombarded with questions, "Why has he come home Mum, is he alright?" My nannan replied: "He's come home because he's better and he should be at home now." Life then seemed to settle once more.
However, through my school years, the one area which was not fine was my behaviour.

Almost a third of children with hydrocephalus are more likely to show behavioural difficulties than other children without the condition.
At school, I found it difficult to concentrate on my subjects.

Hydrocephalus affects the numerical part of the brain. I found mathematics difficult at school which had a spiralling affect on my other studies.

This difficulty caused my performance to lapse in other subjects and so this was reflected in my behaviour.

I began to express my frustrations out on my school friends, disturbing them in class because I couldn't understand the work given.

I fell behind because of this and started to get myself into situations that I couldn't escape out of. I was regularly involved in arguments with my peers and seen by teachers about my behaviour.

My mum and my nannan received several phone calls daily from school reporting my unacceptable behaviour. I was referred in July 2000 to Cheryl Davis, a clinical psychologist at Sheffield Children's Hospital, by Dr Peter Baxter, consultant paediatric neurologist.

My behaviour led to constant battles with my parents and I felt myself distancing myself from my family.

I began to isolate myself in my room before leaving the house and not returning home until late. My mum, concerned for my welfare, accused me of glue-sniffing because she could not pinpoint why my moods had suddenly changed and grounded me for a month.

After many attempts to try and talk with me about why my behaviour had taken a change for the worst, my family were at a loss on where to turn.
I underwent the assessment and my behaviour still remained unchanged.
One day my mum received a telephone call at work from Mr Dawson, head of year. Teachers called my mum into school for the last time. I was faced with a life-changing decision.

Behave or face permanent exclusion from school was the ultimatum given to me.

From that day forward, I changed into a different person. I could not pinpoint the sudden shift in my personality and neither could my parents.

I began to improve my grades at school and my attitude changed. I studied effortlessly in my subjects, earning me 9 A-C GCSE grades. I then went to study English language and media studies at Hillsborough College.

Showing dedication towards my assignments I qualified with two A-levels, earning me a place on a journalism studies course at Sheffield Hallam University.

Although I have suffered painful setbacks through living with my disability, I have learnt to adapt and live a happy life.

The experiences, both positive and negative, have made me what I am today. The setbacks I have endured have made me a stronger person, determined to succeed.

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