Nick was in Stoke Mandeville Hospital for just a couple of weeks, between the hospital and rehab centres in Oxford. The difference it made to all of us, however, once he finally had a bed there, was incredible.

Being a mere five miles from home meant I could spend far more time with my son, without taking any time away from the rest of the family. It meant my partner could grab a lift back to the hospital from work, saving me hours of driving and huge amounts in petrol, giving him chance to call in and see Nick and still get home at a reasonable time after a 12 hour shift at work. Family and friends were closer too, so even those who worked long or awkward hours could get in to see Nick.

The nurses were friendly, professional and caring, working on the ward instead of an agency rota. They took time to get to know the people they were caring for, not just the cases. They also actively encouraged Nick to be as independent as possible. For me, as his Mum, the relief in that was indescribable. I can only imagine what it meant to Nick. On more than one occasion he was treated to take-away meals and it seemed nothing was too much trouble if it helped.

I have not included in this diary details of the care in one of the hospitals, mainly out of respect for my son. Suffice it to say that all the worst tabloid horror stories found some echo there and it ended with an official complaint to the director of nursing after one particularly harrowing evening. So Stoke Mandeville, after this, was a blessing.

The physio, Russell, was excellent.  We could see consistent levels of care going into Nick’s recovery. We had speech therapy, a specialist head injury nurse, even a physio who came and worked on the right hand daily…

One day I arrived as Nick was going to the gym and was invited to come along. There were always mixed feelings about that. The first time I had gone to the gym with Nick had been the first time he had really seen out of a window, and seen himself in a mirror.  Looking outside through the sheet glass of the Radcliffe had highlighted for Nick how long he had been trapped inside, and made him wonder  if he would ever be able to get out there again. He had wept. Then they had shown him a mirror and my heart broke.  And how do you keep that reassuring smile of hope fixed on your face for him when you can see what he is seeing, see the horror, shame and fear in the crossed eyes…

So, I steeled myself for the gym, watching each muscle movement, learning where the deficits were and how to help him address them. The physio got Nick up on his feet at the end of the session, with support, of course.

Then, as Nick was wheeled back to his bed, the physio pulled me to one side and kindly explained the problems Nick was facing. He told me that the balance mechanisms were shot, the coordination problems so bad, the brain damage so extensive that “Nick will never even stand on his own again, let alone walk.”

And while I was and remain grateful for his honesty, my answer remains pretty much today what it was then: Want to place a bet on that?

Nick, achieving an impossibility