Glenn Colmer, aged 51, from Southampton was a devoted husband, a proud father of two, and Director of Curriculum for Sports and Protective Services at Itchen Sixth Form College. A much-loved and highly respected teacher and coach, Glenn dedicated over two decades to nurturing young talent, inspiring thousands of students and helping many achieve remarkable success in sport. Among those he mentored were former Southampton FC defender Aaron Martin, Olympic marathon runner Mahamed Mahamed, boxing champion Ryan Garner, and NBA basketball star Jeremy Sochan.
During his 20-year tenure at Itchen, Glenn transformed the college’s sports academy into one of the most successful and sought-after programmes in the country, drawing students from across the UK. His passion for sport, education, and young people’s potential left a lasting impact on all who knew him.
A lifelong athlete himself, Glenn led an active, healthy lifestyle, making his diagnosis all the more shocking. In October 2024, he began suffering from persistent headaches. Just a few months later, Glenn was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour. In a matter of weeks, this devastating disease took away his mobility, his speech, and, ultimately, his life.
Ali, Glenn's wife, tells his story…
Glenn and I first met at nine years old; we lived in the same street and were boyfriend and girlfriend until secondary school. Then we both went to college and came back home, met back up and as they say, the rest is history.
When Glenn moved back to Southampton he saw a job at Itching College. He had previously gone there and had fond memories, so he applied. Glenn got the job and transformed the sports department. So many children were given incredible opportunities - one even got a scholarship to the NBA in the US the NBA and others progressed to professional sports and even became Olympians.
Glenn enjoyed his job and everything was going well. But looking back, I can now see there were signs that something was wrong. Around six months before Glennn died, he began having a repetitive dream that he could not move, speak or open his eyes. I would wake up in the night when he had these dreams as he would be making funny noises where he was trying to speak.
Some may say they were just dreams but that is exactly how Glenn ended up, not being able to move and not being able to speak or open his eyes. In hindsight I believe his subconscious was trying to warn him that something was not right with his health.
Earlier in 2024, Glenn needed glasses and, at 50, we assumed it was just part of getting older. By October, he began feeling dizzy and visited the GP, who prescribed medication that offered some relief. He also experienced occasional headaches, but with a demanding job and busy life, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Then I started noticing changes. Glenn became unusually tired, needing naps in the afternoon and sometimes sleeping multiple times a day. I remember saying to him, “This isn’t like you, something’s not right.”
We got a puppy in November, and every time I opened the door to let her out, Glenn would say he was freezing, something completely out of character for him. He was always the warm one, not me. There were other subtle signs too – mood changes, occasional grumpiness, and moments in December and January where he seemed vacant or distant.
Concerned, he returned to the doctor to check for anaemia, but all his blood work came back normal. The signs were small, easy to miss, but looking back, they were the earliest warnings of what was to come.
The morning of 18 February 2025 started like any other. Glenn had got up to put on his dressing gown, and I noticed the room had gone quiet. When I looked up, he was standing there with his left arm stuck straight out, completely rigid, and this distant, vacant look in his eyes.
I asked if he was alright. He said, “No, I’m not.” I asked what was wrong. “I don’t know,” he replied. I got him to sit down on the edge of the bed.. Suddenly, he collapsed and started violently shaking. He was gasping for breath. His eyes were fixed.
I called the ambulance. They could hear him over the phone. They told me I might need to do CPR. I felt completely helpless, just watching the person I love most in the world go through something so terrifying. I stayed calm for Glenn, kept talking to him. “I’m here. It’s ok. Just breathe. Help is coming.”
By the time the ambulance arrived, he had stopped shaking but was unconscious. When they finally got him round enough to sit up, he couldn’t speak. His arm, the one that had locked, was in agonising pain.
From that moment, Glenn wasn’t himself anymore. He’d had a seizure; it robbed him of expression. His eyes, his face, everything that made him him felt distant.
He kept saying he thought he’d had a stroke because he couldn’t move the right side of his body.
Glenn was taken to Southampton General hospital where they did a CT scan and within two hours, someone came in and said: “The neuro team have looked at the scan. There’s a mass on his brain. It looks like a tumour.” Just like that. I remember the shock on Glenn’s face. Nothing prepares you for a moment like that.
They told us they needed to do an MRI next. The tumour had bled and there was fluid around it. He was admitted and put on anti-seizure medication, and they warned us he was high-risk for another episode. From that moment on, Glenn couldn’t talk about the tumour. It was like his brain shut that part out. He would ask me about the seizure, but not the tumour. It was just too much for him to digest.
Glenn ended up on an orthopaedic ward because there were no neurology beds. The next day, a doctor left a sick note on his breakfast tray – that’s how we found out it was a high-grade glioma. There was no conversation, no support. I saw the words and knew immediately I had to keep it from Glenn. If he’d had his phone, he would have Googled it and been devastated. He didn’t know how serious it was, and in that moment, I couldn’t let him find out like that.
I picked up the sick note and started Googling. It was the worst thing I could do, as I tried not to cry.
The doctor prescribed steroids and anti-seizure meds and told us we could go home. But no one really told us what to expect. I focused on giving Glenn healthy food, trying to help him regain strength, hoping his right side would recover. But it didn’t. The pain got worse, and one night he couldn’t take it anymore. I called the GP for help, but nothing touched the pain.
After a while we ended up sleeping downstairs because he couldn’t make it upstairs. He couldn’t settle, couldn’t rest, couldn’t get comfortable. On 25 February, I called an ambulance again, he was in agony. He was taken back to Southampton hospital A&E, and we spent nine hours in a corridor waiting to be seen.
This man, who had been the strongest person I knew, was now so vulnerable. He didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want people to see him like that.
Another MRI showed a second bleed. Glenn was now completely paralysed on his right side. He was vomiting, barely able to speak, and it all happened so fast. I stayed by his side while the kids Joe16 and Grace 19 went home. He didn’t want them to see him in pain. By the next morning, he couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t speak. The only way he could communicate was by gently moving his left hand.
Glenn knew he was dying. He kept reaching for me, touching my engagement ring, touching his heart. He took our hands, mine and the kids, and placed them together, then held mine to his chest. He was saying goodbye the only way he could.
Family members came to visit. His mum drove from Spain and when he heard his brothers voice, he lifted his left hand in acknowledgement. He held everyone's hands, and we all knew it was goodbye.
A nurse came in during a shift change and asked me what I needed. I said, “I just want him to be comfortable and to die with dignity.” And still, no one had said those words to us, that he was dying. We still hadn’t met a neurosurgeon. No one had explained anything properly. Thankfully, to make him comfortable, the nurse fitted Glenn with a catheter and IV meds as by that time he'd lost all function to swallow and was breathing very heavily, so he was fitted with a suction tube.
The next day the doctors came and said they needed to scan Glenn to see if there was any progress. Knowing the condition, he was in I was reluctant.
Glenn was too sick to complete the scan and was immediately moved to ICU. That’s when we finally met a neurosurgeon who told us Glenn had had another massive bleed and was severely brain damaged. He couldn’t breathe on his own again and wouldn't regain consciousness. I made the difficult decision to remove his life support. It was the hardest choice of my life, but I knew it was what he would have wanted.
We surrounded him with his favourite music, memories, love. We held his hands, took palm prints, and I lay beside him as his heart stopped.
It was the worst day of my life, something I would never want anyone to experience.
Glenn died 10 days after his diagnosis, on 28 February 2025. He was just 51.
Glenn’s funeral was huge, more than 500 people came. Former students flew in from the USA. Colleagues and friends from across the world came to pay tribute. That’s who Glenn was. He made people feel seen, valued, and loved.
He wasn’t just my husband. He was my best friend, my children’s hero, and one of the most generous-hearted men you could ever meet.
A charity golf day to raise money for Brain Tumour Research has been organised in Glenn’s honour. It will take place on 1 August 2025 at his favourite golf course. There’ll be a memorial bench on the 18th hole, and our son Joe will tee off the event. So far, we’ve raised £1230 to help fund vital research.
We’re doing this because Glenn would’ve wanted to help others. And because 10 days is not enough. Glenn deserved more time. Everyone with a brain tumour does.
You never think it’s going to happen to your family. Glenn was the healthiest man I knew, strong, active, full of life and laughter. But brain tumours don’t care how healthy, kind or loved you are. They’re cruel and indiscriminate. And in the space of 10 unthinkable days, we went from thinking Glenn had had a seizure, to holding his hand as he slipped away from us. This shouldn't happen to anyone, and yet it happens far too often.
Brain tumours are brutal. They don’t just take lives, they take dignity, expression, movement, memory, speech. We need better funding, faster diagnoses, and more compassion in the system.
Ali Colmer
June 2025
One in three people in the UK knows someone affected by a brain tumour. This disease is indiscriminate; it can affect anyone at any age. What’s more, brain tumours continue to kill more children and adults under the age of 40 than any other cancer yet, to date, just 1% of the national spend on cancer research has been allocated to this devastating disease since records began in 2002.
Brain Tumour Research is determined to change this.
If you have been touched by Glenn’s story, you may like to make a donation via www.braintumourresearch.org/donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy
Together we will find a cure
