Post 34. Learning to Begin Again: "My Name Is Marc Convey and I Suffered an Accident…”

The Power of Belief, Practice, and a Hospital School

Back in 1992, there was still decent NHS funding for hospital schools—and looking back, I can confidently say it was one of the most essential resources in my entire recovery journey.

It was a small setup, attached to the main children’s ward and run by a kind and steady presence named Pam. The school was only open for a few hours a day, but it gave me so much: structure, purpose, human connection—and, most critically, the chance to build a vision of a future where I could return to education. Most days I wasn’t in surgery, I was in hospital school, fitting it in between physiotherapy and occupational therapy sessions.

It was a welcome distraction mentally, and it provided a way to test and build back the functionality in my hands, specifically my former less dominant left hand. Sometimes, if I'd just had surgery, my left hand would be too bandaged or painful to do much. But whenever it was free, I’d be practicing writing with it, slowly retraining myself letter by letter. Computers were just coming into the classroom around that time too, and I began using a word processor—mostly one- or two-finger typing—but even that helped open up new ways of learning.

Much better, my child. Yeah right!

It may sound odd, but which hand I was “supposed” to write with was always a bit of a question mark. I was naturally left-footed, brushed my teeth and played pool left-handed—but I wrote with my right. Why? Because a nun at my sister’s (and my future) school saw me picking up crayons with my left hand at the age of two and told my mum that left-handed people were at a disadvantage in society and it was her duty to make sure I was right-handed by the time I started primary school. My mum thought that teachers knew best, respected that opinion and gently (but persistently) nudged me to use my right hand for the next two years instead. And so my right hand became my dominant hand and my handwriting was always awful compared to my siblings.

A dozen years later, that decision came full circle. In that little hospital school, I was undoing what had been drilled in. I was learning to write again, properly, for the first time. Very handy I had natural talent to unlock—but it would’ve been a whole lot easier if the lock wasn’t attached in the first place!

Pam even went to my school down in Purley, Surrey, picked up books, and brought them back so I could start thinking about what I was missing and what I’d need to catch up on. That kind of effort made me feel like I still belonged. Like I still had a shot.

It turned out that Pam, as supportive as she was, believed there was a strong chance I might never write again, let alone return to school any time soon. She wasn’t alone in that view—many professionals around me were unsure. But I never knew this at the time, and I’m glad I didn’t. My own belief in myself was growing stronger, and I was learning not to take authority as gospel, but I had a history of performing much better under teachers who believed in me.

My mum defended Pam’s opinion when we talked about it recently and reminded me that it was the reality most professionals were working with around me. But then she added, “It’s amazing the forgotten memories that are coming back by going through this process. How you proved them all wrong, time and time again!”

That sentence struck me. Whether she realised it or not, it cuts to the core of what this whole journey has become for me. If this project can inspire people to look back, like I’m doing, at their own difficult times and unearth the grit, the growth, the moments they refused to give up, when they listened inwards and ignored naysayers—that’s what success looks like to me.

There’s one more memory my mum shared. One morning, my physiotherapist was off sick, so we were still at home. I was sitting at the dining room table, painstakingly writing with my left hand, forming the sentence: “My name is Marc Convey and I suffered an accident...”

There was no way my new handwriting was this neat!

There was a knock at the door. A man from the local council stood there, briefcase in hand. My mum had applied for funding to cover taxis so I could get to and from school and this unscheduled visit was to verify our story checked out. He didn’t say much, just observed. But after seeing the scene—me, gaunt and struggling to form simple words with a shaky hand—he promised that as long as he was in that job, he’d do everything in his power to support us.

Looking back, I find it funny that I was using such basic language for a 14-year-old. But in many ways, I was starting from scratch—rebirthed into the world after the fire, learning to live again in every sense. Of course I sounded like a child. I kind of was.

Returning to school became my number one goal. I had no real targets when it came to treatment—it would take as long as it needed, and more surgery could always be done. But school? That had a deadline. If I didn’t get back in the new year, I’d likely have to drop back a year. That thought terrified me. It would have broken me mentally. I had to get this left hand working for me.

Looking back now, I’m amazed at how much was invested in me—and how each piece played a part in helping me begin again. The hospital school. The care in the community. The flexibility. The belief (or not, haha). It all added up to something powerful. That dining table sentence—those first clumsy words—weren’t just about handwriting. They were about rebuilding identity. And once I’d been given that shot, I didn’t waste it. I ran with it. And I never looked back.