Lee Parker was just 46-year-old, when what began as subtle personality changes and persistent headaches was soon revealed to be something far more devastating, a brain tumour. Lee underwent a seven-hour surgery followed by radiation and chemotherapy, but sadly, Lee died aged 47, on 21 May, three days shy of a year since his initial diagnosis.
Here is Lee’s story as told by his wife Mary...
Lee and I first met when I was 14 years old, then reconnected again when I was 28. We eventually got married and built a family together, having two children, Ivy, 11, and Jacob, ten.
The first sign that something was not quite right was in March 2022, when Lee began experiencing headaches, exhaustion, and was occasionally sick. Those closest to him, his family, friends, and colleagues, noticed distinct personality changes. He was forgetful, emotional, and easily confused.
Lee wasn’t himself. He thought it was stress, he was about to be best man at a friend’s wedding, but I knew it was more than that.
I became increasingly concerned when Lee began crying for seemingly minor reasons and struggled to articulate his thoughts. When I took him to the GP, Lee’s emotional state and confusion were visible. Yet, my concerns were dismissed. The GP diagnosed Lee with stress and cluster headaches and prescribed him anti-sickness medication.
I felt like I wasn’t being heard. Lee couldn’t explain what was wrong with him because he wasn't himself, and I was brushed aside by the GP.
I was unsatisfied, so I consulted a GP friend who confirmed that although Lee seemed physically OK, his cognitive state was concerning. When Lee’s face drooped days later, I feared it was a reaction to anti-sickness medication. But after another visit to his GP, Lee was again diagnosed with cluster headaches but was referred to Bristol Royal Infirmary for a CT scan to check why his face had drooped on one side.
We went to the Bristol Royal Infirmary, where Lee had a CT scan, we were called into a room where the doctor carried out more physical tests.
The doctor told us a mass was found on Lee’s brain; we were shocked and wasn’t sure what a mass was.
Doctors wanted Lee to have an MRI scan to confirm the diagnosis, Lee stayed in the hospital overnight and had the MRI scan the next morning. Lee being Lee, he spent the night googling brain tumours and was adamant that he was going to die and only had 12 months to live. I thought that was ridiculous and was horrified at the thought.
The next day, as we were waiting to be discharged, the doctor and Macmillan nurse told us that Lee’s blood tests came back clear with no concerns, and the MRI showed there was no further cancer in the rest of Lee’s body. We thought that was good news until they told us that Lee had a glioblastoma. They told us that no biopsy was needed, and the MRI was conclusive.
Because Lee’s emotions were still out of character for him, he was very matter of fact about everything, he was adamant that he was going to die.
I asked the nurse if Lee was correct in his prognosis, and she didn’t dispute that. That was when I realised that Lee was right, he was going to die. I burst into tears; it was too much to take in.
We had to break the news to Lee’s family, it was hideous because we had rung them after the CT scan to say there was a mass, but no cancer was found in his body. And now we had to call them to give them the horrific news. Nicola, Lee’s sister, and mum and dad were devastated.
We started exploring immunotherapy treatment abroad in Germany but decided to stay within the NHS system not due to the cost but because the therapy would have meant spending a week each month in Germany. We decided it wasn’t the right choice for our young family.
The doctors prescribed Lee steroids to reduce swelling in the brain and to help manage symptoms. There was still uncertainty as to whether the tumour was operable, so we waited to hear back from the hospital as to what the next steps would be. Then, unexpectedly, we received a call to book Lee’s pre-op appointment.
The operation was scheduled for 9 June 2022, just three days before our son Jacob’s birthday.
We hadn’t told the kids that Lee was terminal. We just said he was having an operation and that the clever doctors were going to help. We celebrated Jacob’s birthday early, surrounded by family and friends. It was the most difficult day, pretending things were normal but somehow, we got through it.
We held onto the hope that because the tumour was operable, doctors would remove it, and with treatment, there would be a chance of recovery. Sadly, we were wrong.
Lee’s seven-hour operation at Southmead Hospital went ahead. Despite fears, he woke up chatty and humorous, though a bit confused.
On initial sight the bandages were shocking. Lee was moved to intensive care, and his low resting heart rate kept setting off alarms, a side effect of how fit he was from running six miles a day. But by the next day, things began to deteriorate. The original symptoms came back worse and I feared he had a bleed on his brain.
Despite my fears, Lee was OK and was discharged five days later. In an ironic twist of fate, it was the same day that, seven years earlier, we had brough our baby Jacob home from the maternity unit.
I looked out of his hospital room window and saw the maternity ward. It felt so symbolic. That date now held pain alongside the previous feelings of joy.
Lee’s recovery was remarkable, Just a day later he was helping with the school run, he just wouldn’t sit still. Within four weeks, he was swimming. And by eight weeks, he was running again, though shorter distances. His resilience amazed everyone.
Lee was due to start radiotherapy and chemotherapy treatment on the first day of the summer holidays, so we decided to take the children on holiday to Finlake in Devon. We had a lovely time and created memories that we still cherish today.
When we got back, Lee started radiotherapy at Bristol Royal Infirmary. He attended daily sessions, Monday to Friday, for six weeks.
The team at Bristol were warm, understanding, and responsive. Lee experienced few symptoms during the first few weeks. Following radiotherapy, he began six months of oral chemotherapy at home.
But by eight weeks post-treatment, I noticed the return of personality changes. Worried, I called Lee’s oncologist, who scheduled an MRI scan for early October. During this time, my mother died, compounding the emotional toll. I called the hospital, and the nurse said it would be best to wait until we could both attend the appointment for the results of the MRI. It didn't sound good; my heart quietly sank.
On 28 November 2022, we went back to Bristol and were told that the tumour had returned and spread throughout Lee’s brain and that there were no curative options. Doctors estimated Lee would be on palliative care by January 2023.
There are no words to describe that moment. We were both shocked, and losing my mum magnified everything. It was horrific.
Lee was offered stronger chemotherapy but, realising it would significantly affect his quality of life, he declined. He didn't want what time he had left badly impacted by treatment.
He wanted to fight, but not at the cost of how he lived. We agreed we’d do something nice every day and spent all our time together.
We delayed telling the children until after Christmas, wanting to protect them from the emotional weight during the holidays. Lee was so strong, he got through Christmas with a smile but with tears in his eyes, knowing this would be his last Christmas with us. It was heartbreaking. He never once complained about being in pain.
After New Year, we prepared to tell Ivy and Jacob. We prepared a script. We’d read leaflets and spoken to a child psychologist. But the moment we told them, they screamed, ‘Is Daddy going to die?’ And we said yes. It was the worst moment of my life.
We contacted St Peter’s Hospice in Bristol who assigned a dedicated nurse and Lee also found comfort in spiritual counselling.
Then in April, we took one last trip to Newport, though Lee mostly slept. By May, his condition deteriorated further, and I was now doing all his personal care.
Lee said to me one day, “I’m not going to see the kids grow up.” and I said I’d have to raise them on my own. It was a cold, hard reality.
Lee’s mobility declined, and eventually, he could no longer swallow. Despite his condition, Lee remained largely pain-free until his final weeks.
Lee was still managing to go up and down the stairs, but then a fall triggered the next stage in care. The hospice nurse arranged a hospital bed in the living room and I slept beside him each night. Because Lee had lost the ability to swallow, morphine was now being administered by nurses, sometimes taking hours to arrive.
Our final night as a family was spent watching Britain’s Got Talent on the sofa. Ivy and Jacob kissed him goodnight and told him they loved him. It was awful and beautiful at the same time. We were together, but it was the last time the kids would see their dad.
The next day, a friend collected the kids, and Lee was moved to St Peter’s Hospice. En route, the ambulance stopped at Ashton Gate Stadium, and the ambulance staff opened the doors so Lee could see the statue of Bristol City legend John Atyeo. He clapped a final salute to his team.
At the hospice, Lee was surrounded by love and expert care, helped by his sister Nicola, who was an amazing support. We wheeled his bed into the garden and his mum, dad, Nicola and best friend came to say their goodbyes.
Lee died at 11:45am on 21 May 2023, just three days short of the one-year of his initial diagnosis.
When I told the children, they were very calm. Because we had been honest and open in those final months, the children had time to process their grief gradually.
Palliative care is misunderstood. It’s not just about dying. It allowed Lee to live. He was a testament to that. He got up every day and did something positive.
Earlier this year, Lee’s colleagues and over 40 friends took part in a DIY Walk of Hope in his memory, raising £3,435 for Brain Tumour Research.
You don’t get a choice with brain tumours. But you do get to decide how you go through it, and despite everything, Lee lived with hope, humour, and courage. He ran, laughed, held his children, celebrated birthdays, and created lasting memories that we cherish.
Mary Parker
September 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 Lee’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.
