Post 43. Staying in the Game: My Battle to Return to School

A mother, a nurse, a teacher, a plan—and one kid determined not to fall behind

You might not be physically ready. You’re definitely not mentally ready. But something deeper tells you—if you don’t find a way to stay in the game, you’ll lose more than just time.

The seed of me going back to school was planted long before I started saying it out loud.

A month before I was due to return for my fourth year at John Fisher secondary school, I was in a coma in Dublin, fighting for my life. Naturally, my name wasn’t called out when registration was taken by new form teacher, Mr Taylor that early September. Mum, likely still in shock and without any grasp of the long, hard road ahead, phoned the school to let them know I wouldn’t be returning for the start of the school year—but to keep my place open. I’d be back that year, she said.

I was looking for a way back IN

By the time we returned to the UK and had more clarity on the mountain in front of me, the idea of going back to school any time soon seemed laughable. That autumn, my weight dropped to around 5 stone (32kg). I was frail, undergoing the most intense string of operations imaginable—many of which you’ve read about. My (formerly) dominant right hand was practically a plank, and I was still learning to write using my left in the few windows where it wasn’t bandaged or full of pins. I was gradually transitioning from inpatient to outpatient—but still in hospital most days. Any talk of school felt detached from reality.

But something stuck with me. A memory from a school ski trip 18 months earlier. My close friends had chosen not to go that year, so I was grouped with lads I didn’t get on with as well—many of them the tough rugby first team types. In the daytime we shared skiing lessons with boys from the year below, and I made the mistake of sitting with one of them at dinner. He was kind, a good laugh. But in the eyes of my peers, I’d crossed a line. He was the year below and therefore out-of-bounds socially, and I was ridiculed.

At that age, the in-group/out-group dynamic is a brutal currency. And in a setting marinated in toxic masculinity, any perceived weakness was met with cruelty. I barely spoke to that boy again. That memory hurt, but it planted something. A refusal to be pushed down a year. A refusal to lose my place.

It was one of the earliest moments where I understood how adversity could plant the seeds of determination. If I dropped back a year, I’d lose my year group, more of my identity, and all sense of belonging. I was already fighting physically—but this gave me something else to fight for.

Readers share with me that I must find this story tough to write and generally I don’t. As I write this now though, there’s something bubbling up inside of me and it’s not a nice feeling.

I just went and topped up my coffee and took a few minutes to process. Classical piano is my chosen accompaniment to my writing, and RIOPY (today’s choice) was really hammering the ivories during those few minutes. I just knew instinctively back then that this decision was key to my overall recovery, but sitting with it just now made me realise just how big a sliding doors moment this likely was in my life. A nagging little sense of anxiety moved around my consciousness, and I can let that bubble up and grow or I can see it through a different lens. The scary feeling of "what if” I wasn’t listened to, if my people didn’t go to battle for me, is there to remind me to be grateful for those people—to never forget.

New York by Riopy, currently my favourite tune to go deep and write to.

This is why journaling is so powerful; a beautifully slow process to write and then rewrite your own story and thoughts. This Substack project has been like journaling on steroids for me—but I’ve had a lot of heavy lifting to do, so you’ll forgive me the boost.

Once my mind was made up, that was it. Dropping down a year would have broken me, and I knew that could have a knock-on effect on everything else. I don’t know how well I expressed it at the time, but deep down I knew: staying in my year wasn’t optional—it was survival.

I went to work. I’m very persuasive when I need to be, and I managed to convince the key players: Mum, Claire (my physio), Ruth (my community nurse), and Pam (my hospital teacher). And once they were in, they really got to work.

Pam went to my school to collect lesson plans and materials. Mum and Ruth visited the school, facing resistance from the heads who thought the whole idea was unrealistic. But they dug in and refused to bring bad news back to me. Eventually, they changed minds.

Even Croydon Council got involved. After a well-timed surprise home visit, they agreed to fund a daily taxi to school and back—giving Mum the vital support she needed. There was no way, with her already packed schedule, she could take on the school run and I was a long way off being able to take the three buses required to transport me there.

A laptop from 1992, cutting edge technology for the time!

Meanwhile, I still couldn’t write properly, but Claire was pushing me even harder on my physio. My old IT teacher, Mr Moore—Tony, as I now call him when we catch up over pints—helped source one of the earliest laptops I’d ever seen. I’d been learning to use a word processor in the hospital school and it was proving useful. But the laptop wasn’t practical for lessons—it weighed a tonne! So a John Fisher alumni named Andy, who had just graduated and was out of work, became my classroom assistant. A future post will tell you more about him, but let’s just say: he was another very important piece of this complex puzzle.

Even as I write this now—33 years later—it still seems bonkers that we even considered it, let alone pulled it off. But we’d gotten used to smashing through glass ceilings. We were in a burns unit led by a mad-but-brilliant innovator. I had the perfect role model in him, the perfect environment of possibility, and the perfect lieutenants to help me lead the charge.

The plan was set: part-time return to school in January so I could still fit in four days a week of physio and rehab. A trimmed-down GCSE plan—just six subjects: English x2, Maths, Double Science, and IT. The goal? Pass the minimum five required to move on to A-levels.

The school even started bringing some classmates over to the house—those outside my tightest circle. The idea was to soften the landing, rebuild bonds, and give me a few allies once I returned. It was awkward, of course. Teenage boys are rarely great under pressure, and even less so under forced social reconnection. But it was better than nothing.

The stage was set. Everyone had done their part. Now it was up to me.

No pressure, then. Remember: head up (always) and face life head on.