In 2000 I had a stroke that paralysed the left side of my body, and what I remember most vividly after the shock of it all subsided is how I developed a craving for hope, which dwarfed any junkie’s craving for his next fix.

I was worse than obsessed. As nurses, doctors, cleaners, ambulance operators and anyone else walked passed my bed, I would try and attract their attention to beg them to tell me if I could be as I was before the stroke. Not if I would. Just if I could. Was it possible, was all I needed to know to stop the panic in my head.

The odd few nurses and occasional doctor I managed to ambush would listen to me as I tried to talk and write notes then simply reply, “We’ll have to see when we get your results back.” Then they would get away as quickly as they could.

Not one of them would commit themselves. To be fair, I’m sure they didn’t know. But they could have lied, humoured or encouraged me in some way. I wasn’t asking them to tell me how I could get better. I just wanted to know if I could.

In a weird way, by not committing themselves they helped me. When nobody offered me any hope at all, I got furious and resolved to get myself back to how I was if only to spite them.

I find it amusing now when I think back.

Cynically, I believe a few doctors took credit for my recovery, despite having nothing whatsoever to do with it. So far from spiting them, I paradoxically made them look good.

To this day I cannot remember the name of one of the doctors who treated me, so little impact did they have on my recovery.

However, I do remember the neurologist who used to visit me in the ward every Friday and ask me to squeeze his hand. Never once did he greet me by name. To him I was just patient 27.

Eventually, with the help of a squash ball, I got my hand to work as well as my healthy right hand. Of course I didn’t let him know I was improving. Until one morning I couldn’t contain myself and nearly broke his neatly manicured little hand. I never saw him again.

From that bit of bloody mindedness came the realisation I could be ok if I worked at all my other problems as hard as I did trying to hurt the neurologist.

It took me two years to get back to normal.

Every now and then I think about much quicker my recovery might have been if someone had given me hope – I’m not sure. Is bloody-mindedness a secret, somewhat strange form of hope?

And I do believe everyone needs hope.

Just the belief something can improve, change, come right, be saved … gives more meaning to life than just wishing things would improve.

I think that to have hope is an act of rebellion or defiance, a bit like being bloody-minded.