My background is I was adopted at 3 weeks old and I have a half sister, but we aren’t close. My parents died in 1982 of breast cancer and 1984 of leukaemia so I have a fear of hospitals. My wife who I love totally was diagnosed with breast cancer 5 years ago and is in remission so hurrah for medical advancement. I also have 2 amazing bairns who are my world.
Being transferred to Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham was nerve wracking for me. A second MRI and CT scan to view the extent the problem scared the bejeezes out of me.
I was then told the results showed it was an abscess and not a tumour and could be treated with antibiotics which made us breathe a sigh of relief.
Shit, canullas bloody hurt, however a biopsy was carried out that same evening to confirm diagnosis.
I was then told I would be monitored in hospital and it was then the tests revealed that unfortunately the mass wasn’t an abscess, it was a grade 4 aggressive tumour which required surgery, part of which would require me to be awake as it was pressing on my speech cortex.
The consultant explained they had not encountered a tumour like mine before – do you think they say that that everyone? He also told me a further MRI was required and once carried out I could go home pending my operation appointment.
Being told this news in front of your loved ones is heartbreaking but the worst part was that during this time my son was on holiday in Canada so a decision was made not to tell him until he came home. Some disagreed and said I should tell him immediately but I didn’t want to spoil his holiday. My decision my rules. The call to him when he came home is not a conversation anyone would want to have. I kept it factual and brief until he said he was coming over. Scare number two came when he said the journey over here would take an hour and it took him nearly 2. Jeez I worried the whole time. Turns out he had picked up his girlfriend on route which is why it had taken longer.
When he arrived he noted the plaster over the left-hand side of my head and I explained the diagnosis, that an operation had been arranged for 16 July and the risks involved. I also told hin the operation may not work or, having opened up my brain, it was found nothing could be done, however the surgeon was confident it would be successful.
I was let out for the weekend on 12 July and to me, this was freedom. Sorry hospitals but one had started to become institutionalised.
I was re-admitted on the evening of 16th July ready for the operation the following morning. Was I scared? Oh hell yes. I could not sleep the night before, my mind was in turmoil.
Brain Man 