Hexham MP Guy Opperman pens moving tribute to newborn twin sons Teddy and Rafe after they died

A brain tumour. This was not what I was expecting. I was 45, a former jockey, fit and in reasonably good health. I had gone for a three-mile run that morning. A brain tumour. That was what the doctor was telling me was wrong with me. I felt the colour drain out of me.

We were in St Thomas’ Hospital in London. The doctor was young, aged barely 30, and covering the busy night shift in A&E.

‘Mr Opperman, I am so sorry. I have had  a look at the scan of your head. You have a tumour on the inside of your skull that is pressing down on the brain. You will need an operation to remove it.’

I was numb with fear and shock. He then advised me there was about a two to three per cent chance of death in such an operation, and a significant risk of stroke or paralysis. The young doctor paused.
‘Would you like to see the scan?’

There was a picture of the inside of my head on the screen, taken from above. High above my left ear was a 2in lump. On the scan my tumour was white. Around the tumour was heavy bruising, stretching across my head; it was obviously pressing down on to my brain. Looking at the tumour I felt sick. There was something alive in my head.

After being admitted to hospital, I lay in bed deep in thought. It was 1.30am. I felt very alone. I began to ask myself questions: How long had I had this? What symptoms had I shown? Was I going to die? Most of all, I thought – what a waste. I loved my life at the time. I like it more now.

That morning, Tuesday, April 26, 2011, had started like any normal day in the House of Commons. It was the first day back after  the Easter break. I was really looking  forward to the summer session. I had been an MP for 11 months and felt I was starting to make a real difference.

I had spent the previous Easter recess  campaigning around the North-East fighting the local elections and leading the local ‘No to AV’ campaign. I had noticed that in the previous three months I was getting more tired in the evenings and suffering headaches.

I work 9am to 10.30pm Monday and Tuesday, 9am to 7.30pm on Wednesday and Thursday and then travel north, home to Hexham.

Gratitude: Opperman stands with the people who helped him on the day he found out he had a brain tumour, Nadhim Zahawi on the left, and Dr Dan Poulter, right

It is a 620-mile commute but I think it is important that I am there about three weekends out of four. On weekends I have surgeries, campaigning and events to go to. I had put my tiredness down to the pressures of work.

That Tuesday we had been debating the Finance Bill. I began to feel progressively worse. I had a blinding headache and my eyesight was blurring.

Suddenly, at 10.30pm, I was violently sick. A good friend, Nadhim Zahawi, the MP for Stratford on Avon, found me, sat me in the Central Lobby of the Commons, and along with Andy Bell, one of the doormen, they got some help.

A doctor colleague of mine, Dan Poulter MP, arrived. Normally he is an obstetrics and gynaecology specialist. I greeted him weakly by saying, ‘Dan, I am not pregnant but I don’t feel very well!’ Dan had seen enough in his time in A&E to know I needed to go to hospital.

He conducted a detailed review of my symptoms and summoned an ambulance. I was taken to St Thomas’, which overlooks the House of Commons.

I spent the next two weeks in hospital and saw many doctors and dozens of nurses. After a while I was transferred to the National Neurological Hospital in Queen Square, Central London.

My family, friends and loved ones came to see me almost daily. For the patient there is only the waiting. For friends and family they can do so little but worry so much.

My surgeon at Queen Square was Mr Neil Kitchen, an amazingly skilled consultant neurosurgeon. Under his care I had a variety of scans that showed I had a meningioma, a type of tumour that grows from the meninges, the layer of tissue that lies above the brain just inside the skull. It was slow-growing but if I did not have it removed, I would die.

Neil came to see me and advised that I have two operations: they wanted to do a cerebral angiogram and an embolisation first before they removed the tumour by a craniotomy.

An embolisation requires the femoral artery in your thigh to be opened and then a wire passed up through your body into your head, where they burn off the base of the tumour to prevent future bleeding.

If you think about such operations you would never do it, but after a deep breath I took their advice and asked them to crack on.

The embolisation was a success and two days later I was booked in to have a craniotomy, where they open the head. Neil had to advise me that they would be operating within millimetres of the brain and that I might suffer some operative nerve and brain damage.

These potential complications, aside from death, included an inability to talk and possible paralysis down the right side. The day of the operation was May 5, 2011. I had been an MP exactly one year.

Heroic: The Mail on Sunday's report in May on Dan Poulter's intervention

Heroic: The Mail on Sunday’s report in May on Dan Poulter’s intervention

I remember thinking how important it was to be of use, if I survived. As I went into surgery the anaesthetist began his work. Apparently, my last words before going under were: ‘It’s the AV vote today – don’t forget to vote against it.’

A craniotomy is performed by shaving the hair, then cutting the skin with a scalpel to reveal the skull. This is then opened with the medical equivalent of a tiny circular saw.

Once the skull is opened the surgeon then removes the tumour with an even smaller circular saw. Neil managed to remove my tumour without damaging the brain, or causing any bleeding. I was very lucky.

I came round late that afternoon  in the High Dependency Unit. Neil came to see me beaming. ‘We got all of it out, Guy.’ I grinned and said: ‘And I can talk, and move my arms and legs!’

Two days later the test results came back showing that my tumour was benign. Neil advised me that it would not recur and that I would be better than before.

I immediately began making plans. Within two more days I had got myself discharged back to my parents’ home.

It was odd to be at home again in my 40s but my parents cared for me as only parents can. Slowly I began to read the hundreds of wonderful cards and letters that were pouring in from colleagues, friends, constituents and the Prime Minister.

They sustained me through the long months of recovery that followed, requiring extensive tests and lots of physiotherapy to get my atrophied limbs back into action.

I have too many doctors, nurses, friends and loved ones to thank for their help on the road back to fitness. I am now back at work and enjoying every minute.

In August I went back to work first in Westminster and then home to Hexham. I walked Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland to raise money for two great charities, to prove my fitness and to reconnect with the people I work for.

Most nights we took over a village hall for question-and-answer sessions. I realised I was back in business. I’m now relishing getting stuck in back at Westminster, doing what I am employed to do.

Through my time in hospital I saw all that was good about the NHS. The staff cope with tremendous pressures with good humour. But not all is rosy: the doctors and nurses battle bureaucracy and managerial edicts that defy logic.

There are bizarre rules about waiting times and guidelines that often do more harm than good to the patient. Some of the attempts to control infection are disproportionate. Nurses and doctors are not allowed to sit on your bed or a chair, even when counselling you, because of the possibility of infection.

The computer systems are woeful, and too often nurses were hampered or even let down by managers. That the NHS needs reform and improvement is beyond question. I owe it an incredible debt. I will spend the rest of my life trying to pay it back.

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