Paul’s Story

Paul was diagnosed with melanoma on his scalp in 1993 when he was only 17 years old and he received chemotherapy treatment (which was the treatment given at the time as immunotherapy and targeted therapy were not available) and a radical neck dissection which resulted in the removal of thirty-three lymph nodes.

He was told that there was a 5% chance he would reach his 19th birthday. Paul has said:

‘Statistics are not destiny. Prognoses are not promises. Hope is real. I am proof that even when the odds are stacked against you, survival – and a meaningful, full life – is possible.’

Here Paul has very kindly shared his story:

There is always hope, My Melanoma Story:  

My melanoma journey began in 1993. I was 17 years old, on a Youth Training Scheme, working towards an NVQ Level 2 in care. Because I wasn’t yet 18, I wasn’t allowed to give personal care, so my role involved portering patients to and from theatre where my fellow theatre porter, casually mentioned that I had “something on my head”. He joked that I should scratch it off like one of the new Camelot scratch cards. I might win a prize.  

At first, I laughed along. But the next morning, getting ready for work, I saw it properly for the first time: an irregular mole? Dark, blood-blister-looking mark on my scalp. I couldn’t remember knocking my head, and something about it didn’t sit right.  

After a week of teasing, I went to see my GP. I was told it was just a blood blister and would disappear. Three weeks later, it hadn’t changed. I saw another GP who also wasn’t concerned but when I mentioned how long it had been there, he referred me to dermatology “just in case.”  

That referral changed my life.  

A few weeks later, I attended an appointment at an adult hospital. I was terrified. The last time I’d been in hospital was as a child. I was stuck in that strange in-between phase – not a child, not quite an adult – where no one seems quite sure who is responsible for you.  

The lesion was excised, and days later I was called back. My mum insisted on coming with me. She had a gut feeling something was wrong.  

The consultant told us it was a malignant melanoma.  

I had no idea what that meant. Teenage cancer wasn’t something people talked about back then. There were no teenage cancer trusts, no social media communities, no stories like this one to find.  

I was told treatment would be either chemotherapy or radiotherapy but they would wait until after my 18th birthday because they didn’t know how treatment might affect me. My mum was told to give me the best 18th birthday possible because there was only a 5% chance that I would see my 19th. She broke down.  

Years earlier, she had already lost a child, my older brother, to meningitis at just 14 months old. I still cannot imagine what went through her mind being told she might lose another.  

After turning 18, chemotherapy began. Every Tuesday morning, I went to hospital for treatment. I was exhausted, but I didn’t lose my hair or feel sick. I thought I was lucky.  

But months later, it became clear that the chemotherapy I was on had actually accelerated the cancer.  

It spread to the side of my face, initially mimicking a blocked salivary gland – hot, red, and swollen. That was removed. Then it spread to the lymph nodes in my neck.  

The only option left was a radical neck dissection. 

Thirty-three lymph nodes were removed.  

The day of surgery, I was taken to theatre and asked to count backwards from ten. I think I made it to eight before I was fully under the anaesthetic. But there is one moment I remember vividly.  

I remember looking toward a calm light in the distance, a warm, welcoming light. Then I heard a woman’s voice with an Irish accent say. ”We’re losing him.” My first thought was, who are they losing? I wanted to look. Then I heard the words, “It’s okay, he’s coming back to us.”  

Later, during the consultant’s ward rounds, I asked about it. The look on his face said everything. I had been told me I’d had respiratory distress. When I said no one, that I’d heard an Irish accent, he paused and told me that was his anaesthetist.

Before surgery, I’d been warned of the risks: breathing problems, and possible facial palsy, that I might look like I’d had a stroke.  

I wish I’d listened more closely to the physiotherapist afterwards. I was advised to exaggerate vowels to help the nerves recover. But, thinking I was now an adult and knew better, I didn’t take it seriously enough.  

To this day, I notice the palsy. Others say they don’t see it, but I do. I still try to hide it from cameras.  

My hospital stay was hard. I was in a mixed bay. No privacy. No quiet. A confused lady calling for nurses every few minutes. A man opposite me becoming critically unwell, emergency teams rushing in. At night, I lay awake listening, wondering if that would be me next.  

I just wanted to go home.  

Then there was my male nurse who changed everything.  

He took time to sit with me. We talked about life nonsense, everything. He joked with me, teased me, treated me like a normal young man rather than “the cancer patient.” He brought light into a very dark place.  

If it hadn’t been for him, my hospital experience would have been unbearable.  

When I was discharged, I waited until the start of his shift just to say thank you. I told him he had inspired me and that one day, I would become a nurse too, as a way of giving something back.  

…one day, I would become a nurse too, as a way of giving something back.

I did.  

Despite being the equivalent of stage 3 melanoma, I am still here. I qualified as a registered nurse in 2003. I hope I have made a difference. I hope I have given people comfort, dignity, and hope, just as my nurse once gave me.  

Along the way, my mum and I travelled the country speaking to consultants and specialists about pioneering treatments. There was even a fundraiser set up to send me to America for treatment. In the end, what was being offered turned out to be cod liver oil, shark oil, and vitamin D.  

Reluctantly, I took them.  

Honestly, I think my mum would have held me down and forced them into me otherwise.  

What advice would you give to other melanoma patients? 

If you are reading this while living with melanoma, please hear this:  

Statistics are not destiny. Prognoses are not promises. Hope is real. I am proof that even when the odds are stacked against you, survival – and a meaningful, full life – is possible.  

You are not alone.  

And your story is not over.