Today, I received the devastating news that friend and fellow floxie, Íon Mórdha has lost his fight with fluoroquinolone antibiotic toxicity.
Over the years, Ion and I exchanged countless messages, voice notes and the occasional long phonecall. He was an unwavering pillar of support for me and so many others. When I was navigating my own regressions and severe neuromuscular events, he was there with vital advice on nutrients, histamines, healing strategies and emotional support to keep me going.
Before this toxicity stole so much, Ion loved traveling, marathons, mountain biking, and filled the world with an incredible sense of humor. He was a bright, guiding light in the fluoroquinolone injured community, and his absence leaves a profound void. He will be deeply, greatly missed.
Last year Ion sent me a short biography describing how his life changed when he became poisoned by fluoroquinolone antibiotics if you care to take a moment to read...
My name is Ian Patrick Moore. May 21st, 2022, was the day my life ended as I knew it to be. The next day, I popped the first ciprofloxacin (Cipro) pill, little did I know that it would be the last time I would enjoy the sun on my face or take a simple walk. The first dose of this antibiotic was the beginning of a nightmare, and the days following were filled with hellish symptoms, both physical and mental. My mind, once sharp and dependable, became a foggy abyss of intrusive thoughts and confusion. Simple things—like walking to the shop or reading a book felt insurmountable.
The first suicidal thought struck me like a lightning bolt. I was walking through my neighborhood, desperately trying to ground myself, when the passing train caught my eye. I thought about stepping into its path, ending the nightmare before it consumed me entirely. An old man saw my hesitation and stopped me, asking if I was okay. I lied. I told him I was just feeling “a little off.” But deep down, I knew that something had gone catastrophically wrong.
The physical symptoms began almost simultaneously. My bladder burned as if it were filled with acid, and I couldn’t sit for more than a few minutes without unbearable discomfort. The sun, which once felt warm and life-giving, now left me shivering and manic, as though my very nervous system was rebelling. I didn’t understand it at the time, but the antibiotics had crossed my blood-brain barrier, wreaking havoc on my GABA receptors and destabilizing my central nervous system.
Within weeks, I was no longer myself. My legs felt weak, as if the muscles were dissolving beneath my skin. My feet burned like they were pressed against hot coals, and the simplest tasks became Herculean. Insomnia set in, robbing me of the one thing I desperately needed to heal. My nights were filled with sweat-soaked sheets and the constant sensation of being on the edge of panic.
Food, once a source of comfort, became an enemy. Certain foods scorched my gut, while others sent me spiraling into fits of anxiety. Every meal was a gamble, and I began to dread eating entirely. The weight began to melt off me, a cruel confirmation that my body was failing to absorb the nutrients it needed.
I was once a healthy 72 kilos, fit and active. Now, I was a shell of myself—frail, emaciated, and barely holding on. No matter how much I ate or how high-calorie the meals were, my weight continued to plummet, sometimes dipping as low as 47 kilos. The contrast was staggering, and I couldn’t understand how my body could betray me so completely.
I sought help, desperately trying to find someone who could explain what was happening to me. My local GP believed me from the start. They listened, empathized, and offered their best support. I will forever be grateful for their belief in my suffering, especially when so many others doubted me. But the doctors I saw afterward seemed uninterested in my case. I went to the local A&E in Bristol, telling them about my burning feet and the suicidal thoughts that were beginning to dominate my days. Instead of understanding or compassion, I was handed another prescription for 4-6 weeks of ciprofloxacin.
When I expressed my concerns, the doctor brushed them aside. She told me about her own experience with doxycycline, how her skin had peeled off her fingers but she’d “pushed through” because the benefits outweighed the risks. Her words were hollow and cruel, a dismissal of the agony that was consuming me.
Luckily, I did not take the full 6-week prescription that the hospital doctor had prescribed. I stopped the ciprofloxacin on my own, knowing deep down that it was only exacerbating my suffering. But that act of self-preservation, while saving me from further damage, didn’t end the nightmare—it only prolonged it.
This pattern repeated itself with nearly every doctor I saw. Neurologists, gastroenterologists, rheumatologists—each one ran their tests, shrugged their shoulders, and told me there was little they could do. The few who acknowledged the possibility of fluoroquinolone toxicity offered no solutions, only confirmation that I was part of a rare, unlucky group.
By the summer of 2024, my body was no longer my own. My muscles had wasted away to the point where even sitting was excruciating. My once-strong legs, the same legs that had powered me through cycling marathons, were now swollen, weak, and useless. I couldn’t climb stairs without assistance, and walking outside felt like dragging dead weight behind me.
The heat only made things worse. My body, now hypersensitive to everything, reacted violently to even a few minutes in the sun. My skin burned, my joints ached, and the nerves in my legs and pelvis felt like they were being electrocuted. Histamine intolerance, once a concept I barely understood, now dictated every aspect of my life.
Ion Mordha
Ion, may the heavy burdens you carried so bravely in this life be finally lifted from your shoulders. May your spirit return to the wild, open trails you loved, riding free, uninhibited, and surrounded by peace. We honor the light you gave to so many of us in our darkest hours. Rest beautifully, my friend; your kindness and strength will never be forgotten. Godspeed.
Minder weergeven
Opmerkinge
