What began as an ordinary day in the office of the Bucks Herald in Aylesbury, which Paul now edits, ended with him seriously ill in Stoke Mandeville Hospital. For the past 12 months, Paul has been battling with a dreadful illness.

Many people in Banbury will remember Paul, and he and his family still live in a village north of the town. Here, he tells his story.

The Banbury Guardian has decided to publish this story only after ensuring that Paul’s family was happy that we did so. Paul hopes it will help people understand the situation others who have also been hit by a tumour find themselves in.

It was meant to be a lunchtime dip at the Maxwell pool in Aylesbury. It turned out to be a watershed in my life.

Twenty minutes into the swim and I noticed that the water splashing into my face from my laboured breaststroke was causing a stinging pain which seemed to centre on the back of my right eye. It was penetrating and different to anything I had ever felt before.

A few lengths more and, as I reached out to touch the pool wall, an outrageous thought crossed my mind, it could be a brain haemorrhage. I kept swimming but after a few lengths started to worry. Something was wrong, very wrong. Moments later I got out of the pool and headed for the changing room. Could I reach my mobile phone? Maybe I should alert the Maxwell first aider? But my problem was fast becoming more obvious. The power in my left eye was shutting down. I didn’t have the strength to pull my shorts down.

As I tried to close a door it seemed that my hand was going through the wood, my fingers were floppy and out of control. It was time to raise the alarm. “I think I might need some help,” I whispered to another bather. My obvious confusion was drawing the attention of other people. I shivered in the cold. Could I get my mobile from the locker? I knew, instinctively, it would be an impossible task.

Moments later, a member of the swimming pool staff was talking to me. He was asking questions, but all I could mumble back was how bad my head felt. All the time I was trying to come to terms with the fact that everything was going hay-wire. I hated the fuss. But that was relegated beneath other feelings – fear, pain and confusion.

The swimming pool man was obviously worried. I heard the word ambulance mentioned. It was such a relief to know someone was taking control. Reassurance answered my need for comfort.

I was still shivering and the pain in my head was frightening. But comfort came in the form of two men in green jackets. They were asking questions. I sensed their concern. “You’re in good hands…we’ll get you to the doctor…don’t worry…how long have you had the pain?”.

I was soon on a stretcher and looking up at ceilings, glass doors, faces looking down…and still words of comfort. I just wanted to say thank you.

The doors of the ambulance brought a new realism. But the pain was no longer a real distraction, but all-consuming. An injection – morphine – in the backside reminded me I still felt cold and damp from the pool. The men in green were working hard to reassure me. They admitted I was ‘in a bit of trouble’. Another injection and the ambulance was moving faster and we were almost at Stoke Mandeville hospital. I was desperate for the pain in my head to go away, or just ease a little.

I know I was being asked questions as I arrived in the emergency ward. What year was it? Who was the Prime Minister? Where were we? They were questions they wanted the answer to every five minutes.

The knockabout style of the men in green had helped, but I was more distressed by the time I got into the hospital. One female doctor offered enough comfort to receive an insane question from a patient searching for reassurance. I heard myself asking: “I suppose it’s fair to say I’m in a bit of trouble?” “Yes but you’re in the best place possible,” was the predictable but much needed reply. I knew all the signs pointed to brain haemorrhage and I knew the danger. I had to trust in the people around me. In a childlike way I just wanted them to take the pain away.

I can hardly remember the next 24 hours. The jungle drums had been beating and family and friends were arriving and calling to check on my condition. An MRI scan revealed the bleeding but the neurosurgeons at Oxford’s Radcliffe Infirmary were happy enough to leave me at Stoke Mandeville.

Thursday was a long day of waiting for my loved ones. Friday morning started with an off chance visit from a friend. It proved a great pick-me up as events started to accelerate. At this time there was no need to operate to release the pressure inside my head. But time was running out. The surgeons at Oxford had seen the scans and, when a bed became available that afternoon I was transferred by ambulance. My father was enjoying an early evening snack in the infirmary’s restaurant when the registrar marched in and asked him to sign a consent form for consultant surgeon Peter Teddy to operate. It was an emergency. The bleeding had built up the pressure inside my head and my life was now in danger. They had to operate – and quickly.

My father made a quick call to my wife, who had returned home for a couple of hours of well earned rest and to see our two children, and explained what was going on. He signed the form. Forty minutes later and I was at the mercy of Mr Teddy and his team. The doctors warned me of the dangers of infection. A few days and their warnings came true.

Five hours later I was out of surgery and on Osler Ward in the Radcliffe Infirmary. The cyst was above and slightly behind my right ear. Mr Teddy found a ‘bit of a mess’ and struggled to distinguish what he could see. While others worried about the result of the op I slept until some time in the night when the nurses started the endless questions. What year was it? Who was Prime Minister? I came round to find my head bandaged and a blue strand sticking out from the middle of my forehead. I was restless, unsettled by the anaesthetic. Was I glad to be alive? No, my only interest was finding my mobile phone and locating a lilac short sleeved shirt to go to work.

Later on visitors didn’t find much response, but I had the presence of mind to whisper to my 12-year-old daughter to bring me my mobile phone.

The surgeons came and went. “We think it was just a brain haemorhage,” they said. “we’ll scan again and check the biopsy results. But we’re pretty confident there’s nothing else to worry about.”

The words allowed me to relax. For the first time in four days I was thinking straight. Confined to a four bed ward I wanted to stretch my legs, which still sported Norah Batty-like stockings. Flowers, books, cards, chocolates, they all came my way. As the visitors drifted in and out I never really thought that any more bad news might be on its way.

One of the Stoke Mandeville nurses popped in to see me. Her mother was being treated on a different ward. She had been gentle and mild. It was great to see her. The two jack-the-lad paramedics also wandered in. Amazing people. I was flattered by all the attention. I made the ward mobile phone my own. It’s pretty incredible how the human body recovers. Apart from looking like a cross between Mad Max Two and a scarecrow, I felt fine.

By the start of the next week I had forced my father to wheel me outside in the sunshine. I even tried coercing him to take me into town for a quick tidy up at the barbers. But the yellow iodine-tainted scar on my head lined with a dozen or so blue stitches prevented a brief get-away. I was quickly into the routine of hospital life. Morning rounds, endless blood tests, pills morning, noon and night, camaraderie with other patients.

I was so relieved to get through the past few days that I felt cheery and found people were even laughing at my usual weak jokes. Headaches were real headaches. The pain behind my eye was a quick reminder. Then came a moment to remember. Mr Teddy was at the side of my bed. A little chat, he said. I couldn’t help but like him for his quiet charm. His words stopped me in my tracks. “We’ve found evidence of a tumour.” he said. I looked round. “That’s a bit of a bugger,” I said to myself. A tumour meant cancer. I simply thought: ‘It’s got to be beaten’. The plan was to operate again. A bit of a family huddle took place that evening. For the sake of my children it was very light and hearty.

By Wednesday those stockings were back on and I was back in the theatre. Reduce the tumour by taking away a large chunk of its bulk and later attack what remains with radiotherapy. A few days later I hit another hiccup – septicaemia, more commonly known as meningitis. With it came a headache to remember. A day’s respite followed before the infection really hit home.

My head was agony. There was a reluctance to prescribe me further strong painkillers. I was desperate. The pain was something beyond my experience. Unforgettable. Many silly thoughts went through my head. My language was a disgrace.

A week or so later I was caught out again. I had settled into life in Osler Ward and felt more comfortable. I hadn’t expected any more bad news so quickly. When it came it left me for cold. For several days I had waited for the registrar Vivek Josen to see me. When he walked in I started to talk in my usual animated way – about the cricket, dangers of using mobile phones and so on. For once he didn’t seem to take much notice.

And then he broke the news. The biopsy results, he said, had shown the tumour to be a gliosarcoma, a grade four tumour and known to be a bit of a beastie – one that does not go away. We can attack the tumour with radiotherapy, chemotherapy and further surgery, but it will not go away, was the message. Obviously the news was stunning. Breaking the news to my loved ones was the hardest thing I’ve done in my life. My parents couldn’t believe it and then came the question of what I tell the children.

A few weeks later I was prepared for radiotherapy. Every weekday for six weeks I went to the Churchill Hospital for a four minute blast of radiation. The help and support I received at that time was invaluable. A friend, Pud Hawkins, organised a daily rota for friends to drive me the 40-plus miles to the hospital. For their trouble all I bought them was a league of friends cuppa.

After six weeks there were no major problems to report. The end of radiotherapy should have meant an easier time, but two set backs meant two more operations. The first was caused by a tuck along the scar on my head. The surgeons were forced to seal the lining which surrounds the brain. Just as everything began to settle, there was a further infection and this time a bone flap on the side of the head had become infected. It had to be taken out at the end of November. Another stay in the infirmary followed.

To fight the infection a Hickman line was inserted into my chest. This enabled specific antibiotics to be fed into the blood system each day. Community nurses visited each day to insert the drugs.

So the battle for health goes on. Three consultants liaise to fight the tumour.

The latest MRI scan has shown changes but it will take another scan to decide what action is needed. It may be more surgery or chemotherapy. Neither option is appealing, but it has to be done. Now it’s a waiting game and the battle for health goes on. I’ve had another scan which should, I hope allay too many fears. The results will be through in a couple of weeks.

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