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.

Three years on from suffering a haemorrhage in a swimming pool I’m still living a good life – working, travelling when the doctors allow me, enjoying my golf, friends and family. All the delights are there. Of course, there are major disappointments too. A loss of independence, an acceptance that I can’t drive, realisation that my career has come to a standstill, problems caused by a left hand which cannot identify anything in my pocket, a dodgy memory and a four-inch scarline that moves in and out as I breathe and scares all the old dears on the bus.

But what can you expect after six major brain operations, a six-week course of radiotherapy and six months of chemotherapy? My left hand is troublesome as is my left foot, there are limits to my dexterity at times but I’m still here. That’s why I’m lucky.

Life changed with a 20-minute swim as part of my training for the Banbury Triathlon. Water splashing into my face from my laboured breaststroke caused pain which seemed to centre on the back of my right eye. It was penetrating and different to anything I’d 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. It was. The power in my left side was shutting down. I didn’t even have the strength to pull my trunks down and get changed.

Moments later, a member of the pool staff in Aylesbury was talking to me. I hated the fuss. But that was relegated by 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. The pain was no longer a distraction, but all-consuming. i can hardly remember the next 24 hours. Family and friends were arriving and calling to check on my condition. I was transferred to Oxford’s Radcliffe Infirmary.

My father was enjoying an early evening snack in the hospital restaurant when the registrar walked 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. Almost seven hours later I was out of surgery and on Osler Ward at the Radcliffe Infirmary. The cyst was above and slightly behind my right ear. I came round to find my head bandaged. I was restless, unsettled by the anesthetic. My only interest was finding my mobile phone and locating a lilac short-sleeved shirt to go to work. I wanted my surgical stockings off!

I had the presence of mind to whisper to my teenage daughter to bring me my mobile phone. Surgeons came and went. “We think it was just a brain haemorrhage,” 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. By the start of the next week I had forced my father to wheel me outside into the sunshine. I even tried coercing him to take me down for a quick tidy up at the barbers.

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 few days that I felt cheery.

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. 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.

The plan was to operate again. Days later and those stockings were back on and I was back in the theatre. The plan was to reduce the tumour by taking away a large chunk of its bulk and later attack what remained with radiotherapy. 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.

The pain was something beyond my experience. Unforgettable. 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. Registrar Vivek Josen 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 one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life. My parents couldn’t believe it.

A few weeks later I was prepared for radiotherapy. Every week day for six weeks I went to the Churchill Hospital for a four-minute blast of radiation while wearing a plastic mask. Friends made a huge difference to my state of mind. The help and support I received was invaluable. Friends organised a daily rota to drive me to the hospital in Oxford. For their trouble all I bought them was a cuppa at the League of Friends cafe After six weeks there were no major problems to report. Life was slightly more normal with a routine to fall back on.

The end of radiotherapy should have meant an easier time, but two setbacks meant two further operations. The first was caused by a leak along a four-inch scar on my head.

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 was taken out at 1999 and another stay in the Radcliffe 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 morning to insert the drugs.

I went back to my job as editor of the Bucks Herald, my deputy and friend David Feldstein taking most of the strain. But the tumour misbehaved again early last year. The surgeons operated successfully but, unfortunately, I was back in within 10 days to sort out yet another infection. The surgeon said the operation had reduced the tumour. It was still there and still is.

Three months later my good luck returned. I was back at my old stamping ground at the Banbury Guardian, not as editor but in a support editor/production role.

I had to endure chemotherapy for a good time and often felt weakened by the drugs but not enough to give up work. I was able to enjoy myself and, at the same time, pitch into the paper’s Fund A Nurse appeal to raise £85,000 for an extra cancer nurse in Banbury – a subject close to my heart because of all the help given to me by MacMillan nurse Sharon Knight who is based at Katharine House Hospice in Adderbury.

Along the way I have sadly lost a couple of fellow cancer compatriots. No one gives up without a fight and I shan’t. But thanks to everyone who’s helped.

LUCKY: Chemotherapy under the guidance of consultant oncologist Nicola Warner and a nurse called, yes it’s true, Chemo Kate, seem to have kept the tumour at bay. Ms Warner, along with my GP Dennis Burton, has given me great faith in the NHS and the people who work for the system. They have been brilliant, always caring and ever-thoughtful.

LUCKY: To have the support of a very special man in the Rev John Stroyan, the vicar of Bloxham, who has talked me through a few mini-crises and said healing prayers which have given me faith in the future. His laying on of hands has been amazing

LUCKY: To have the day-to-day support of my family. They’ve been the brave ones. Their steadfast courage has been backed by a number of friends who have been there since Day One. They know who they are. Just a phone call from someone has made a huge difference at a low moment. You need that help at times.

LUCKY: Even my golf mates have put up with my fall from grace from a 13 handicap to something like 33 handicap. Can’t win them all. Fellow Banbury Rotarians have also backed me all the way on the rollercoaster ride.