Liam’s Story 

My entire experience has been a covid experience. No one has been allowed in the hospital with me; the pandemic has been there throughout, from the death of my mother, through my diagnosis and treatment. 

Maggie’s have been particularly brilliant to my wife and to my dad. Given I’m not able to drive any more, they’ve been called up to duty but still not able to come into the hospital. It’s the supportive nature of Maggie’s that stands out– it’s as though they never can’t do enough.

Maggie’s has been a little island of calm in a stormy sea. 

My diagnosis

It started with a long bike ride – 80km. When I got back, I made tea while my wife and daughters took the dog out for a walk. Next thing I knew, I was lying in a pool of blood, and was woken up by banging on the door.

It was the peak of the first wave. At hospital, we were in there with lots of covid patients,. It  looked like I’d just overdone it on the bike. But a nurse noticed I must have bitten my tongue quite badly, because I was struggling to eat, and concluded that I had probably had some sort of fit. I was booked for an MRI, but due to Covid I was told there would be a bit of a delay.

My mum had also missed a load of chemotherapy appointments during this time: she was having treatment for leukaemia, but was struggling with her temperature. We got her home from the hospital that week. On the Friday I was called in for an MRI to take place the next day.

It all happened very quickly. My mum died, and I was diagnosed with glioblastoma the next day.

Managing Emotions After Diagnosis

I had to go and tell my dad that both things had happened – his wife had died, and his son had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

I also couldn’t go to my own mum’s funeral.

When I had surgery, my wife couldn’t visit me on the ward.

 The surgery lasted 8 hours, and I was out within a couple of days. I had 38 days of radiotherapy, and after that, ten months of chemotherapy – and counting.

My Family

 I’m 50, I was Head of Catering at Manchester University. For years I ran a café right by Maggie’s without knowing what was there.

I have 3 children and I am married to Jen. There’s Joe, who’s eighteen, and a scientist. He’s just finished his first year at Manchester. Caitlin, 16, and Esme 14. When we’re talking about my cancer, Caitlin uses dark humour to great effect. We all know it’s been quite a traumatic year for the whole family.

I’ve found that the most important thing is that you’re always honest with your children. They are definitely cleverer than you think or give them credit for, so there’s no point in disguising what’s happening. And with glioblastoma, it’s clear. There’s no good story to come from it. Some people live longer than others, but there’s no magic cure. The only way to deal with it is honesty.  You think that there will be a magic wand that will solve you. But there are still some cancers that are terminal, like mine. Denial doesn’t help anyone. The hope is that you’re an outlier rather someone who falls between the 2-4 year life expectancy.

Maggie’s

I remember when the specialist nurse said, “Go to Maggie’s”.

 The first thing that struck me was how beautiful and calm it is. Mum was a massive gardener, and the gardens around it are just sublime.

Nobody judged anything I said, I instantly felt I could ask anything. It was the same with dad and Jen. They have spent more time in Maggie’s than I have. It’s a tremendous calm place for them to be. Maggie’s is an oasis of calm with empathetic people who are happy support you. You could be talking about nothing but it’s not irrelevant. They are understandable, empathetic and knowledgeable. If they don’t know the answer, they don’t pretend: they go and find the person who does.

What’s lovely as well is you can judge your time by the seasons. Of course you can get your head down, and run from scan to scan, or chemo to chemo and be worried – but at Maggie’s, you can see nature moving its way through the seasons. You feel at ease knowing you’re part of something bigger than you. You can judge your time by what you see at the window. It gives a diversion amongst everything else.

For Jen, it’s really revealed the disparities between mental and physical health support. Obviously my cancer is being treated physically, but then there’s the issue of the mental health support for my family, as well as me.

Reflections

 In the last eighteen months, I’ve gone from thinking about being a granddad and watching these graduations, to all of a sudden that being put in peril. It’s been a reminder to not ever take the future for granted because it might not happen.

But I’m also lucky enough to have done so much stuff, and realise I’ve had many lucky breaks, and good skillsets, to deal with adversity.

 Last week, I cycled Coast 2 Coast for Brain Tumour Research. We did it in three days moderately slowly, but we had a great time and raised over £12k. I did it to raise awareness as well, and to spend some quality time with Joe. I also play cricket every week – not bad for a bloke with incurable cancer!