Roy Kennard was aged 75, when what began as subtle changes in August 2024, minor memory lapses, sleep pattern disruptions, and an uncharacteristic quietness eventually revealed a glioblastoma in September 2024.
Roy was told that surgery was not an option and sadly died three months after his diagnosis on 22 December 2024.
Here is Roy’s story, as told by his daughter Julia…
Looking back, it was August 9 2024 when Dad first said something that should have sounded alarm bells but didn’t. He mentioned his memory was going but I thought nothing of it.
We’d had a tough year because my mum, Barbara, had recently been diagnosed with heart failure, and Dad was under immense pressure caring for her. Given his age and the emotional strain, his symptoms seemed like a normal response to stress.
But slowly, I began to notice he wasn’t quite himself. He looked different and his personality shifted subtly, but it was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I raised it with my husband Adam and my brother, Ben, and we encouraged him to go to his GP but he didn't go. I wasn’t thinking it could be a brain tumour.
In September, I invited him to play tennis, which is something he usually enjoyed. He came, but something was off. He spoke about how he was sleeping much longer than usual and getting lost in thought while watching TV. He seemed low, almost disconnected. At the time, I thought he was just emotionally drained and suggested structure to his day would help, which he said he already had.
Later that month, Adam and I went for a night away for our 10-year anniversary. Mum and Dad looked after our two young children.
Something didn’t sit right. Mum had to call a taxi to collect the kids because she was worried about Dad's behaviour. She called me at the restaurant that evening to tell me he was acting strange. She seemed anxious. That was a big red flag.
When we returned the following morning, I found Mum stressed and flustered, saying she couldn’t find Dad in the house. Eventually, he wandered in from the garden.
I tried to make things feel normal and brought croissants for breakfast as a thank you. But when I asked if he enjoyed them, he replied that he’d had lettuce. That was the moment I knew something was terribly wrong.
I rang 111 and explained the symptoms. They advised taking dad to hospital and I, not knowing any better took him to Lymington New Forest Hospital with no A&E. There, he was dismissed, his age and symptoms chalked up to possible dementia. We called the GP and managed to get a district nurse to visit at home, and thankfully, she recognised the urgency and told us to take Dad straight to Southampton Hospital.
On 14 September, I drove Dad to the hospital in complete silence. He didn’t understand why we were going or why we were so worried. I could tell he was feeling anxious and confused and that manifested in his quietness. That made it all the more heartbreaking. After an overnight stay, a CT scan showed a mass on his brain.
I was horrified and didn’t understand what that meant. Still, I held onto hope that whatever it was, we could fix it.
A doctor said that she was sorry to hear about Dad, which sent shivers down my spine. I couldn't understand why she was apologising. I looked at the discharge notes and the diagnosis was a glioblastoma. I didn’t even know what it meant, but I knew it was bad.
I chose not to say anything to Mum or Dad and thought best to wait for the formal diagnosis. A few days later, we had a consultation where we were told it was a high-grade glioblastoma and that Dad had three months to live.
None of us could speak. I was stunned into silence, completely unable to process any words.
The shock and trauma of the diagnosis hit Mum hard. She was already struggling with her health, and now this. Suddenly, I had to pivot into caring for both of them, while also caring for my own children. It was overwhelming. I had an incredible support network, friends, family, and even my workplace BCP Council was incredibly understanding which I am grateful for, but it was still one of the hardest periods of my life.
Dad had a biopsy at Southampton, which led to a blood clot in his lung. He needed daily injections in his stomach. It was so distressing to watch him go through that. Meanwhile, Mum was deteriorating too, both physically and emotionally. Watching two people you love crumble before your eyes is a pain I can’t put into words.
In mid-November, we were incredibly lucky to have a live-in carer from Oakhaven Hospice. Farloh was a lifeline. Knowing someone was there allowed me to go home to my own family each night and sleep without fear, that both of my parents were safe.
Dad’s health began to decline, so the hospice kindly brought a hospital bed into the living room so Dad could be comfortable. Each morning, Mum would come down and sit with him. But it was still incredibly tough, there were days I had to choose between caring for Mum or Dad. Some days I’d take Mum out for lunch just to make sure she’d eaten. It was heart breaking having to decide who to spend time with.
Sadly, Dad died at home on 22 December 2024. That Christmas was so incredibly hard. I spent most of it sleeping. Mum stayed over and we woke at 6am with Adam and our two children to see the presents under the tree. But Mum and I were on autopilot and had to go back to bed.
Even in his final weeks, Dad remained logical and calm. He refused treatment; he understood what little benefit it would offer. He wanted quality of life in the time he had left, not months of pain.
Mum died nine months later on 3 September 2025 after suffering a severe brain bleed from a fall at home. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and vascular dementia earlier that year. My parents were sweethearts since they were 19. They loved and supported each other through everything. Mum was broken hearted when Dad died. I am glad she is no longer in any pain missing him.
Dad once dreamed of becoming a pilot, but it was education where he truly found his calling. Always driven by a deep belief that every child deserved the best possible start in life.
His interests were endless - astronomy, music, hiking, travel, the environment - and he threw himself into each one with such energy and enthusiasm. Whether he was trekking to Everest Base Camp, playing guitar on stage in his retirement, uncovering ancient rock art in the Cheviots or campaigning for social justice, Dad approached everything with curiosity and passion. He was a cheerful positive person to be around.
Until Dad’s diagnosis, I didn’t know anything about brain tumours. I didn’t realise how common and deadly they are. I didn’t realise how easy it is to dismiss the symptoms as stress, depression, or ageing.
Now I do. And I want to do something about it.
I took on a challenge to raise money for Brain Tumour Research by swimming 2.5km in the sea from Studland to Old Harry’s Rocks on 20 September 2025. I’ve been training since January with 7 am swim lessons every Saturday. It hasn’t been easy, especially on days when grief feels overwhelming. But the cause keeps me going. And I looked just swell in my pink flippers and swim hat.
I’ve already raised over £3,000. Every stroke is for Dad. And for all the families walking this terrifying path. For the kids who deserve a future and for the change we desperately need.
Julia Bullas
October 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 Roy’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.
