The End of the Line (Part One)

This evening (Tuesday 2 June), around 10pm, a real milestone (for me anyway), will take place, as I take my final tablet of my final round of chemotherapy. This will see the culmination of:

• One brain surgery.
• 30 doses of radiotherapy.
• 72 doses of chemotherapy.
• 28 high-dose Vitamin C infusions.
• Too many blood tests, injections, canulas, needles and MRI scans to remember!

Effectively, it brings to an end my initial treatment for glioblastoma. For the first time since my seizure, there is nothing in the diary beyond routine scans and appointments.

I say at the moment, as unfortunately this cancer has an almost 100% reoccurence rate, so at some point there will be more surgery, radiotherapy or chemotherapy, but for now I can forget about anymore treatment for the time being!

So let’s walk back through the past few months and how I’ve got to where I am now.

---

PART ONE: The Calm Before the Storm

Sunday 17 August 2025

I am pretty certain I have never had two such contrasting days as I did on Sunday 17 August and Monday 18 August 2025.

Sunday 17 August 2025, was a gloriously sunny day, the temperature sitting at 21° celsius.

It was a perfect Sunday, starting with a gorgeous easy run through the beautiful surroundings of Bedgebury Pinetum, before stopping for some fresh fruit and then enjoying coffee and a cake on the patio of Hartley Dyke Farm Shop, we were bathed in glorious sunshine with views of idyllic Kent countryside and endless blue skies.

I remember feeling totally relaxed and content, completely unaware of the brain tumour, that in just over 24 hours, would cause me to collapse and have a seizure at my running club and change my life forever…

---

PART TWO: Life Changed in an Instant

Monday 18 August 2025 to Friday 12 September 2025

Monday 18 August 2025 started like any other Monday, in fact better than any other Monday as the sun was out and I was feeling good.

That ended about 7.30pm in the evening, when out of nowhere I collapsed and had a seizure at my running club. I’ve detailed the full account of that evening and the days that followed on the My Story page of my website, but suffice to say 18 August ended in exactly the opposite way to that of the day before.

On the 1 September we went to see the team at King’s College in London to be told the next steps on my journey. Essentially they confirmed that it looked like high grade brain cancer, and that they hoped to remove as much of it as possible and then do a biopsy. The day of the operation was to be 10 September.

Having any kind of operation is always nerve wracking, having one on your brain is even more so! But when I came round after the operation, the effects were minimal. Of course I had a headache from the surgery, but I ate straight after, was completely coherent (I think!) and could get out of my bed almost immediately. Two days later, on Friday 12 September, I was back home!

As I say, the details of this part of my journey are covered in more detail on the My Story page of my website.

---

PART THREE: Learning to Walk Before Running

Friday 12 September 2025 to Tuesday 7 October 2025

So two days after my brain surgery, on Friday 12 September, I was back in the comfort of my own home.

I was surprised how well I felt, although of course I did the sensible thing and waited ten days before going out for my first run on Monday 22 September. I’ve covered over 100km in one run in the past, but I was more proud of the 3.32km I did that day that anything else I’ve ever done.

I’ve always had such great support from my running friends, and this day was no different, with some heartwarming comments on my meagre Strava activity!

On 27 September I did my first parkrun post surgery and again, was overwhelmed by the love and kindess I received from so many people. As the Beatles so aptly said:

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love you make

This period was really about rest and recovery (and a little bit of running maybe), essentially allowing the brain to recover before starting six weeks of daily chemotherapy and radiotherapy.

---

PART FOUR: The Daily Routine of Treatment

Wednesday 8 October 2025 to Wednesday 19 November 2025

My chemotherapy was tablet based and called temozolomide, and as I popped my first temozolomide tablet from the blister pack on the morning of Wednesday 8 October, it seemed like quite a big moment.

Over the next six weeks I would be travelling to Maidstone hospital every weekday (Monday to Friday) to have a dose of radiotherapy, and every morning I would also be taking a dose of temozolomide. So in total 30 doses of radiotherapy and 42 doses of chemotherapy.

This period again proved what a wonderful person my dad is, as he duly ferried me from home to Maidstone Hospital every week day for my spell in the radiotherapy machine.

In the waiting room, before my first dose of radiotherapy on Wednesday 8 October, it felt a bit like my first day at school: nervous, uncertain, and surrounded by people who seemed to know exactly what they were doing while I hadn’t got a clue.

When I was called through I was greeted by a very happy guy called Elijah who immediately put me at ease, with his friendly and jovial manner.

The week prior I had been to the hospital to have a mask made that was essentially fitted to my skull/face. Elijah produced this mask, I then lay down on my back and the radiotherapy staff lined me up with the radiotherapy laser and placed the mask over my head and screwed it into the casing on the base of the machine, so I was essentially locked in place. Apparently lots of people find this claustrophobic, but it was fine for me.

When I was having the radiotherapy I was vaguely aware of the laser flitting across my face, but really I couldn’t do anything aside from lay on my back and wait. The whole process probably took about ten minutes, then we would go home, ready to come back the next day.

I had been told that most people find the chemotherapy/radiotherapy combined section of the treatment harder than the chemotherapy on its own, but I seemed to be flying through.

I even ran in the first Kent Fitness League cross country race in Swanley on 9 November and was feeing good!

I was immersed in the radiotherapy machine for the final time on Wednesday 19 November, and we celebrated with a quick drink in the Carpenters Arms on the way home to celebrate!

---

PART FIVE: Crash and Burn

Thursday 20 November 2025 to Friday 26 December 2025

Unfortunately I hadn’t escaped the effects of the treatment as I thought I had! Literally in the last two or three days of treatment I started to feel very lethargic.

The full impact is shown by the fact that I didn’t even attempt one run between 18 November and 28 November! I also completely lost my appetite, but had an insatiable thirst, particularly for Pink Lemonade Lucozade!

At the end of November I travelled up north, it was cold and wet and even getting the train and wheeling around my suitcase was a struggle. But I was there to support someone very dear to me running a 10km race, and I didn’t want to let them down, but that was when I was probably at my lowest ebb.

After going out for one run from 18 November to 2 December, my Strava shows that I obviously was feeling slightly better as I started to get our more regularly from early December onwards. But this was definitely the mosy physically draining part of the entire treatment, and to be honest, the only time I have really felt fatigued.

---

PART SIX: Finding Normal Again

Saturday 27 December 2025 to Tuesday 2 June 2026

Christmas came and went in a pleasant enough fashion, but with the looming spectre of my first round of chemo on the horizon.

The process is referred to as 5/23, as you take the tablet based chemo (at a much higher dose than when combined with radiotherapy) for five days in a row, then you have 23 days off for your body to recover. This would be repeated six times.

It was with slight trepidation I took that first tablet back on 27 December 2025, as I had no idea what to expect in terms of side effects and how it would disrupt my life, but in short I would say I have had pretty much no side effects and I have continued to be able to live my life as normal. For that I am very grateful, as I know it isn’t the case for most people.

I’ve slowly worked my way through those cold dark winter months, seen the green shoots of spring appear, and even entered those dog days of summer at the end of May, and tonight, Tuesday 2 June 2026, I will take my final dose of chemotherapy (for now).

Tomorrow I won’t wake up cured.

I won’t suddenly stop having glioblastoma.

I’ll still have scans every three months and I’ll still live with the uncertainty that comes with this diagnosis.

But tomorrow, for the first time since August 2025, I won’t be recovering from surgery, travelling to radiotherapy, taking chemotherapy, waiting for blood test results, or counting down to the next treatment cycle.

Tomorrow I simply get to wake up and get on with living.

And whilst it hasn’t always been easy, the road has been nowhere near as bumpy as I anticipated when I emerged from surgery back in September.

---

LOOKING BACK

I love running and a running analogy, and perhaps the best way to look at how I have been affected by surgery, chemo/radiotherapy and chemotherapy is by looking at my Strava since I had my seizure on 18 August 2025, and analysing the distance I covered each week subsequently (Shown in the graphic above and the table below where I’ve highlighted the weeks I ran in excess of 40km).

As you can see I’ve really started to increase my mileage since the start of March as I’ve began to feel more and more normal. I’ve also tried to get back to CrossFit once or twice a week as well.

Of all the things I’ve learned during treatment, perhaps the most important is that people matter. The messages, the lifts to hospital, the coffees, the phone calls, the friends who checked in, and the family who never stopped supporting me. Treatment may have been something I went through, but it was never something I had to go through alone.

So tonight, at around 10pm, I will take my final chemotherapy tablet.

In truth, it will probably feel rather underwhelming. There won’t be any fanfare, fireworks or dramatic music. I’ll simply swallow a tablet in exactly the same way I’ve swallowed the previous 71.

But what that tablet represents is something much bigger.

It represents getting through brain surgery, six weeks of daily radiotherapy, months of chemotherapy, countless hospital visits, blood tests, scans and all the uncertainty that comes with a glioblastoma diagnosis.

When I woke up after surgery in September 2025, I had no idea what the months ahead would look like. I didn’t know how treatment would affect me, whether I’d still be able to run, or how much of my normal life I would be able to hold on to.

The answer, thankfully, has been far better than I dared hope.

The journey isn’t over. Unfortunately, glioblastoma doesn’t work like that. There will be more scans, more uncertainty and, at some point, almost certainly more treatment.

But that’s for another day.

For now, I’ve reached the end of this chapter.

And tonight, when I take that final tablet, I’ll allow myself a moment to reflect on how far I’ve come, how fortunate I’ve been, and how grateful I am for everyone who has helped me get here.

The End of the Line?

Perhaps.

But only Part One.