My lovely Dad Kevin Sutton was
diagnosed with a brain tumour on 30th March 2005.
He had begun to have headaches
in December 2004 which his GP had put down to a viral infection. In March
Dad went on his yearly visit to Benidorm however on his return he seemed out of character, Dad never swore in front of his
children nor was he a confrontational man yet he began to display this kind of behaviour. Dad was going through a stressful
time so we put it down to that.
My sister Karen noticed that
the muscles in the left side of his face had dropped and that his speech was slurred. Dad refused to acknowledge that anything
was wrong, though we eventually got him to see sense and took him to A&E. He
was admitted to Tameside Hospital where he had various tests and at first it was thought that he may have had a minor
stroke.
During a horrendous week in which
Dad was due to have a CT scan, he seemed to become withdrawn and his headaches became increasingly worse, with no answers
from the doctors we became very scared.
When we eventually got the
results we were in total shock and disbelief. Nothing can prepare you for being told you have a brain tumour.
We were initially told that
Dad had a massive brain tumour and that we would have to wait for a bed at Hope Hospital
in Salford before anything could be done. Dad was put on a course of steroids to reduce the swelling, the steroids provided
a delightful side effect for Dad, and his arthritis almost disappeared.
We arrived at Hope Hospital
on 4th April with the operation due the following day, we struggled to accept the rule that only two people could
visit at any one time especially as Dad's brother had come over from Ireland
to support the family.
We were all desperate to be with
him before his operation and fortunately we eventually persuaded the staff to allow us to be there.
On the morning of the operation
we set off for the hospital at 6.30 am to be there for 8.00. Bad luck dogged
the journey beginning with a four inch nail in my rear tyre followed by a battle through the rush hour traffic.
Finally, completely stressed
out we arrived and waited with Dad at his bedside. All his cards were on display
- it felt like every one of his friends and family were there with us, like an army waiting to march into battle. Around 10am the surgeon came to talk through the risks and explain the aim of the operation.
It is difficult to explain the whole range of emotions you experience at times like this.
Around noon
we were told that they could not find a bed in the High Dependency Unit as Dad would need to be monitored after the operation
which meant that the operation had to be cancelled.
We had mixed feelings of relief
and despair. I had fallen asleep slumped over a chair, exhausted, it was all too much. If it was too much for us, how on earth
was Dad coping? I was awoken at around 3pm when two nurses
arrived with a trolley to take Dad down to theatre. We were so excited that the surgery was taking place and
terrified at the same time.
The operation took around two
hours; I was surprised as I'd always imagined brain surgery would take much longer. Dad came round and looked remarkably well.
I said to him, without actually thinking about the words that fell out of my mouth "hiya Dad that must be a great weight off
your mind", as always he burst out laughing, ever the clown.
Three days after the operation
Dad was sent home, unfortunately we were not given any information on what to expect post-op and it was a shock to find
that Dad's personality had changed so dramatically – it was like he was a stranger, he was odd and obsessive.
After an explanation from the
nurse at our GP's surgery we learned that the affected area of Dad’s brain was the control centre for his emotions and
personality. As time passed Dad improved and returned to his normal self.
Then one night Dad woke up and
couldn't breathe, we thought he was having anxiety attacks. Later we saw one side of his face appear to go into spasm; you
could also see the fear in my Dads eyes. We tried to keep Dad calm and somehow
regain control of the situation until we could get him to the local hospital. Dad
was diagnosed with focal seizures caused by the surgery.
On 19th April
we met with a surgeon who delivered the most heartbreaking news, during the operation they found a large cyst which when
drained a tumour the size of a walnut was discovered. He went on to tell us that the tumour could not be removed and
that it was very aggressive. He went on to say that he didn't believe any other
treatment would be of benefit and that Dad had only a few months to a year left to live, two years at a maximum.
There are no words to describe
how we felt. I'll never forget how my Dad broke down when we got home; he hugged me and cried as he exclaimed how unfair it
was.
Two days later we met with another
doctor at Christie’s Hospital whose medical opinion differed from the previous doctor.
He said that he did not believe the situation was that bleak. I could have kissed him. He said that radiotherapy would
be our first option.
The hope and courage we found
from that brief meeting was so vitalizing and uplifting, we could do this, and we could fight and win. The road to radiotherapy
however is a long one and after three weeks of scans, consultations, the making of a mask used to direct the radiotherapy
and the frustration of cancelled appointments, we were ready and because of the behaviour of the tumour radiotherapy had to
begin immediately.
After five sessions Dad had lost
the use of his left arm. He remained in hospital during the week and was allowed to come home at weekends. The staff at Christie’s
were amazing, so caring and compassionate, understanding and tolerant and very different to our experience in other hospitals.
Dad slowly deteriorated, he began
to lose the use of his left leg and soon he needed a hoist and a wheelchair. The occupational health teams both at Tameside
and Christie’s were amazing, anything we needed we received. They gave us training and amended our homes so Dad could
be with his family at weekends.
By the end of his treatment we
were advised that the paralysis may have been caused by intercranial pressure and I believed that, I wanted to believe that
as soon as the swelling had gone down things would improve; my Dad was my super hero.
Although he was unwell we laughed
and chatted as normal, and one day he wanted to go outside. We sat in the shade, had a cigarette and we laughed
some more. I asked him how he felt and his simple answer was “my body is
drained".
The last thing he said to us
was "tell Harley and Charm (his grandchildren) that I love them" we kissed him and left for the evening, sure that he was
recovering.
The following day his condition
deteriorated and he had been in a deep sleep for most of the day, at 23:00 Karen phoned me to say that he wasn’t expected
to make it through the night, he managed to survive another week, his family with him every step of the way – just how
he had taught us. He finally passed away on 23rd July 2005.
Dad never complained, he really
didn't, and he was completely focused on getting better. From the moment he was diagnosed his words were “I am not worried
for me, I am worried about you lot!” Always the loving Dad, all the sacrifices
he made for his wife and kids, the laughter and stability he provided for us is immeasurable.
This awful disease may have taken
our future but it will never take our past, our years of memories. We have lost our Dad who was with us everyday, Kevin lost
his life and so have we.
I would like to say that my Uncle
Roy is an amazing man, I don't have his permission to share his and my Aunt’s story, but they are amazing people and
we can never ever thank them enough for the love, support and knowledge they gave to us and the care they gave my Dad, truly
wonderful people and a shining example of how a family should be, much love to you.
My Dad battled against cancer
and now we begin our battle with bereavement, I still believe there is
hope; there are so many improvements and breakthroughs that need to be made through research, treatment, diagnosis and support.
We want to change the prognosis
for other people affected by brain tumours; we will campaign to raise awareness, help to educate and provide a greater support
network.
And then my wonderful Dad, Kevin
Sutton, will not have died in vain; there has to be something positive at the end of this.
Written by Steph Sutton, Kevin’s daughter
