Jordan Beaven

Hospital Chronicles: Day 726

There’s something oddly symbolic about taking a “compulsory” Christmas tree photo in a hospital. It’s meant to feel festive, normal, even comforting — yet it also highlights just how far from normal life I still am. Still, I took the photo. Day 726 of being in hospital felt like it deserved documenting.

On Thursday, I had my long-awaited Oxford appointment. It went okay, which in hospital terms often means nothing dramatic, nothing conclusive. It’s far too early to say whether my surgery has been a success. My scans aren’t showing any clear changes yet, so doctors can’t tell whether my bone is finally growing or whether the antibiotic sack left from surgery is still present. The uncertainty continues, and I’m due to be reviewed again in around six to eight weeks.

In the meantime, I’ve been encouraged to try walking more. That might sound simple, but it’s something I’ve been working incredibly hard on. I’m now able to get from my bed to my wheelchair for the majority of my transfers — something that once felt completely impossible. Progress is slow, but it is progress, and that matters.

Physio has become one of the few places where I feel like I’m genuinely moving forward. I’m thriving in it here and I’m hoping to add an extra physio session each week. Being able to push myself, even in small ways, gives me a sense of purpose inside a life that often feels paused.

There’s also ongoing uncertainty about where I’ll even be. I’ve been told I need to return to Basingstoke, but at the moment they aren’t accepting me back. As of yesterday, this situation has apparently been escalated to the hospital chief. Until something changes — and it would have to happen quickly — it looks like I’ll be remaining in UHS.

In less than a week, it will be the two-year anniversary of my injuries. That date hangs heavily over me. My mental health is wobbly and fragile, and it’s hard to put into words just how much weight two years in hospital carries. I’ve been here ever since that moment. Two years of corridors, wards, routines, waiting rooms, and uncertainty.

I lost two years of my life — but I was also given a second chance at living two years ago. The cruel irony is that, two years later, I still haven’t had the chance to actually live. Thinking about it for too long hurts too much, so I don’t let myself go there often.

I’m trying to bring some sense of Christmas into this space. Christmas novelty socks. The Christmas tree photo. Ordering my annual Grinch pyjamas. Small traditions, held onto tightly. But this time of year is devastating. You see families coming together, people building memories, moving forward — while I remain completely isolated from the world beyond hospital walls.

People I haven’t seen for years are out there living full lives now. And sometimes it feels like I have nothing to show for everything I’ve endured, except that I’m now disabled and in a wheelchair. That thought can be overwhelming. Survival doesn’t always feel like enough when you’re still stuck.

Some days are harder than others. Today is one of those days.

A Glimmer of Hope

But even on the hardest days, there are small truths I try to hold onto. I am still here. I am still fighting. My body, slowly and stubbornly, is learning how to move forward again. Every transfer, every physio session, every moment I choose to keep going is proof that this story isn’t finished yet. I don’t know what home will look like, or when I’ll finally be able to live beyond hospital walls — but I do know that surviving this has already changed me in ways that matter. Hope doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it shows up quietly, in tiny wins and unfinished chapters. And for now, that’s enough to keep me going.