Byron Comp grew up in Williamsport, PA.  He graduated with a B.A. in Theology from a Seventh-day Adventist college in Tennessee, but quickly discovered that preaching was not his metier.  After stints as a truck driver and radio newsman he earned a degree in Computer Science and entered the field of local - and wide-area networking.  When illness struck him in 1999, his focus turned first to survival, and then to writing a book that would give support and hope to other victims of Guillain-Barre' Syndrome.  If you or your group are interested

in having Byron speak to you, please request further information through Contact Us.

FROM THE BOOK

And then something really great took place: my older son, Byron II, arrived on Friday afternoon, July 9th, from his home in Michigan for a three day visit.  He'd called to check on my progress several times during the past six weeks, but the last time he'd seen me was back at Emory when they'd just begun giving me the plasmapheresis treatments.  Needless to say, he was happily surprised when he entered my hospital room this time, and saw me awake and alert.  My facial muscles didn't work yet to allow me to smile, but it was better than when I'd been all drugged up and in all that pain. 

One of the first things he asked my wife was, “Doesn't he ever blink?”  Which I didn't.  I could now open my eyes and close them about two-thirds of the way closed, but the autonomic function that causes us to blink every minute, or less, hadn't come back yet, so I lay there staring all day long.  I guess it was disconcerting to him at first, but he soon got used to it and didn't pay much attention to it after a while.

We spent a great weekend together, all things considered.  Byron took Diane out for dinner Friday evening, giving her a chance to talk to someone other than me and my doctors and nurses for a change, although I'm sure most of their conversation still centered on me and my prognosis.  But it was a break from the usual grind for her, as was that Sunday, when Byron spent the day at the hospital with me, allowing Diane to go home for a few hours without having to worry about my care.  And Byron did more than his share to help cheer me up and assure me that progress was indeed being made. . . .

As the visit began drawing to a close and we'd discussed all the important matters any of us could think of, the respiratory therapist came back into the room to see if I was ready to have the speaking valve removed.  (The reason only the therapists were allowed to install or remove the valve was because they had to carefully inflate or deflate something called the “cuff”, a part of the trach tube itself down inside my throat.  They had a special device with a gauge attached to it which they used for this procedure, and neither the nurses nor my wife felt at ease trying to do it.)  I was about to tell them I was ready, when my son, standing by my bed, began sobbing softly, and whispered, “Dad, before they take off your valve, tell me one more time that you love me.”