Tag: cancer

My Prostate And Me – Part 4


So, It’s been a while, almost exactly a year. Had a fairly intense conversation with a close friend last night. The intensity was about Steve  Jobs and Apple, not my prostate, but that’s another story. Anyway during our conflab I was berated for not adding anything to my blog. In essence he was telling me off for leaving my story on another cliff edge.

As it happens I am approaching another significant milestone on this journey and by the time I finish this we’ll be at another cliff edge.

So here we go.

Consultations

Just before Christmas I had a meet with my consultant. Well one of them, seems I have three and they are not as entertaining as the Three Stooges, must be the subject matter. Anyway they take it in turns to see me.

I duly present myself at Urology Reception and after a short wait in the “General” waiting area we are ushered through to sit in a holding pattern outside the consultation rooms. I have been here a few times now and the wall opposite the seats isn’t getting any more interesting. Pride of place is given to a cross-sectional view of the male anatomy.

Urology Care Foundation - Urology A-Z - Ureterocele www.urologyhealth.org
Urology Care Foundation – Urology A-Z – Ureterocele – http://www.urologyhealth.org

I’m not sure if this image is the one I get to stare at, but it’s a close match. I keep expecting some hints on the prime cuts and interesting ways to cook them.

I digress.

So, seated in the consultation room, I am informed that the Template Biopsy hasn’t disclosed any new frightening discoveries. In fact this latest biopsy pretty much supports the findings of the original TRUS (Trans Rectal Ultra Sound)(See Part 1 above). Basically my cancer is quite small, isn’t raging doesn’t on the face of it appear to be life threatening. In my words we are effectively back at square one. That is, the situation is the same as it was around 18 months before.

Relief

 

Obviously, I was quite relieved and commented to the consultant that I had fully expected to have to make a decision following the biopsy results. He was quite interested to know what my decision was going to be. I explained that I would probably have opted for the operation, prostate removal. My reasons being that I would be able to fall back on radiotherapy if the cancer reappeared. Once you have had radiotherapy surgery really isn’t an option.

Lecture

The consultants response to this was to give me a fairly forceful lecture on the possible side effects to the surgical option. Urine leakage and erectile dysfunction being the two headline leaders. He hammered home what a life changing thing incontinence can be and that I shouldn’t go into surgery lightly. For a surgeon he was doing a good job of selling radiotherapy to me. He then went on to explain to me what a difficult operation it is to remove the prostate.

Apparently my weight was a big consideration here and it was at this point he asked me to stand up so he could lift my shirt and demonstrate. He explained that for keyhole surgery, even though this isn’t abdominal surgery, the entry point is through the abdomen. Having entered the belly they then have to turn due south and head deep into the pelvic region. He pointed out that as I was a big lad, with a significant “food baby”, the journey through my entrails would be a long one. That he wouldn’t just have to negotiate his way past all the tubing but would probably have to burrow through extra fat. A new twist was that for the operation I would be tilted head down, meaning that all my fat encrusted viscera would slop up towards my lungs to press against my diaphragm. Wasn’t this a good thing I enquired, won’t this clear the way  and make the operation easier. Nope, this migration makes life difficult for the anaesthetist. Yards of tubing heading north makes it difficult to keep the lungs full of oxygen. After this I wasn’t sure if he was bigging up his role or trying to dissuade me from having the surgery.

After all he is a surgeon, isn’t that his raison d’être. To be fair he did pretty much say that himself, that he just wanted me to be clear that surgery is not the easy option, nor is it without risks. I suppose I could have suggested that he had misjudged his audience since I was pretty well read up on the subject. I don’t let anyone go rummaging around my insides without finding out what they are supposed to be doing and what the pros and cons are.

Carry On Regardless

So, having come to an understanding I opted to carry on with the Active Surveillance with a view to probably having a scan and/or another biopsy. I must have given the impression that I wasn’t wholly convinced by his lecture and he was rather keen that I see one of his colleagues for an alternative view. This I agreed to do and we shook hands and parted company.

Approximately a month later I had an appointment with consultant number three. We discussed the biopsy results, the options open to me and the pitfalls of the various treatments. Once again it was agreed that I should carry on with the Active Surveillance. Part of the Active Surveillance regime is the taking of bloods on a regular basis, every 3 to 4 months, to monitor PSA levels.

PSA is not viewed as an accurate indicator of  the presence of cancer but once diagnosis is confirmed the PSA can give an indication of change.

Changing Perspectives

And so it was I found myself once again at the QA, being given an opportunity to brush up my male anatomy and finally sitting in one of the consultation rooms. No consultant this time as I was seeing the Nurse Specialist. She talked me through my history and pointed out that my PSA levels had gone up. Previous readings had plateaued but the general trend was up. Her advice, based on 18 years of experience, and taking into account my age, she was of the opinion that it was time to take action. This was a contrast to the position taken by the consultants who were prepared to let me continue with the Active Surveillance. We kicked the subject around and it was agreed that I should go for a MRI scan and that I should then see the consultant to discuss the results.

MRI

If it’s good for nothing else, prostate cancer is introducing me to some new life experiences. TRUS, Template Biopsy and now an MRI. Everyone that I have spoken to, that has had an MRI, have said that they didn’t enjoy the experience. I wouldn’t say that I enjoyed it either but I didn’t actively dislike it either. I did, however, find it interesting. It’s noisy and a bit claustrophobic especially when you are my size. As your lower extremities disappear into the centre of the doughnut the hole begins to look a bit small. And when the table moves further in and your belly and chest further fill the available, visible, free space I suspect that the experience is similar to sausage meat being transported towards the sausage skin waiting on the tube at the outlet on the mincer. Another interesting thing I noticed was that as the MRI is clacking and clanking away the muscles in my left leg started to move in time with the noises. Not twitches as such, just a slight pull. Similarly, my wedding ring was also pulsing in time. These sensations varied with the tone of the MRI. Eventually it was all over and I left the QA to await the call to go and discuss the results.

Decision Time

Time moves on very quickly when you aren’t keeping an eye on it. Before I knew it I was back at the QA staring at that same wall with the same diagrams and posters. Still no recipes. And then into the consultation room.

Much to my surprise he told me that the results were really quite good. That is the MRI showed quite low levels of cancerous cells and that these cells do not appear to have moved onto other areas. All in all the MRI was pretty much repeating what the Template and TRUS biopsies had shown before. The only fly in the ointment was the steady upward trend of the PSA which didn’t seem to be echoing what the scan and biopsies were saying. Once upon a time doctors told you what was going to happen and then got on with it. In these PC times it’s all about patient choice. The trouble is the patient is necessary best qualified to make the decisions. Even if they have all the facts in front of the. And that’s the dilemma that i was confronted with.

I had the diagnostic results all laid out before me. I had all the options for treatment defined. I just had to make a decision.Anyone who knows me will know that I can’t make a decision when I’m in a restaurant with menu in hand. And then it doesn’t really have life changing implications if I make the wrong decision. Here there was no truly wrong decision to be made but the implications were momentous.

Decision Time

In the end I decided to go away and think on it. Subconsciously I probably knew what my decision was, but mentally I wasn’t ready to say it. I pondered for several weeks and then contacted the QA and told them to put me on the waiting list for surgery. The consultant had told me it would probably be a couple of months before I got a surgical appointment so I was looking at December / January.

Appointments & Disappointments

A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday, I got a call informing me that my appointment had been made. It was for the following Friday. Three days notice.  Unfortunately I had other plans. The proposed day of the op we were due to go away over night and a week later we were heading up to Merseyside for a few days to spend time with family. Hotels had been booked and paid for and I wasn’t prepared to pass on those. The young lady tried to persuade me otherwise, telling me that “it’s really important that I had this operation”.

I wondered who she thought she was talking to. Wondered why she might think that I didn’t know the importance of the surgery. After all, I’m the one carrying the infected walnut around inside me. I’m the one going through the various biopsies, scans and blood tests. I’m the one who is being nagged by various family members to get on and have it done. She did, does, sound very young.

So, disappointed, she said she would call me again when they had another appointment for me. And that call came yesterday.

I have a busy week, next week. Monday I meet with the consultant. Wednesday I go for my pre-op meeting to see if  I am fit to have the op. and Friday at 07:00 I have to present myself at Theatre reception.

I’ll let you know how I get on.

My Prostate and Me – Part 3


Template Biopsy !

Monday was one of the longest days of my life. I was scheduled for a “Template Biopsy” which for the un-initiated is described thus …..

The template biopsy is carried out using an ultrasound probe which is passed into your back passage and samples of the prostate gland are obtained through the area of the skin between your scrotum and back passage called the perineum. The procedure is similar to a trans rectal biopsy which you will usually have had.

Let me tell you, from the recipients perspective, it is nothing like the TRUS (Trans rectal biopsy).

To start with my TRUS was carried out fully conscious by a specialist nurse, the lovely Vanessa. The main difference though is that I was in and out of the hospital within an hour or so. But that was 18 months ago or more.

Mondays procedure was to be carried out under general anesthetic, for which I am truly grateful. But lets scroll back the clock a little.

Early Monday morning, Very early

I was awake, some time in the wee small hours. Either I am worrying about the procedure, or this is the residuals of jet-lag acquired on our return from Oz just over a week ago. Perhaps a combination of both.  I checked the clock at 04:00 and thereafter approximately on the hour until I got up just after 07:00. I was not allowed to have anything to eat but was allowed clear liquids to drink and had a black tea around 08:00. The taxi was due to pick me up at 11:30 so I was pottering around in the house killing time. It’s amazing how often I found myself by the bread bin thinking “I’ll just have some toast” or over by the cupboard staring at a packet of peanuts. My last eats had been around 21:00 the previous evening. Going without food for that length of time is not natural for me.

Eventually the taxi turned up, although not at my house but three doors away. Luckily I saw him out there. It could have been worse, the dispatcher at the taxi office misheard my address as Sistine and, had I not corrected him, the taxi would probably have been well on his way to Rome and the Vatican. Still, having ascertained that he was there for me I boarded and we set off. Twice I had to correct his directions back to the main road before I was sure we were going to the hospital.  Mentally I was crossing my fingers, hoping that the surgeon had a better sense of direction than my erstwhile pilot.

Tedium Begins

And so, at 11:50, I checked in at the QA Day Surgery Admissions Reception. And thus began the long wait.  It’s a bit like being on a long haul flight, hours of tedium broken up by announcements from the flight crew. In this case there was no food or drink.

After thirty minutes or so I was taken along to a small room. Here I was visited by the anaesthetist  who interrogated, sorry, checked my details and gave me a brief summary of what to expect. He also arranged for some initial meds.

Shortly thereafter, around 13:00, a nurse arrived with my lunch. A cup of water and four tabs, 2 x paracetamol / 1 antacid and 1 stop you feeling sicky pill.

While I was downing this feast another nurse arrived, interrogated me again and checked my blood pressure and heart rate. My heart rate was right down at about 55 which I queried but is apparently normal for “someone of our age”. She later demonstrated her own readings which were similar, so that was alright then.

I was then left alone to my own devices. I read for a while, played hangman on my phone, read some more, got up and walked around my room, looked out the window , read some more. Well you get the picture. I believe I even had a nap for a few minutes. The window looked down on the back dock but there was nothing happening down there.

Around 16:00 a yet another nurse informed  me that I was Mr. Hodgsons last patient and that I would be seeing him soon. Well I saw his registrar who introduced himself but I have no idea what his name was. His accent, he was English I think, was as indecipherable as his signature on the forms that he got me to sign. He went through the now familiar interrogation, during which Mr. Hodgson popped in, shook my hand and disappeared again.

Oh The Indignity

Twenty minutes later I was invited to go and get changed, by yet another nurse, who led me down to a room full of changing cubicles. This is where all dignity ends.

I am not a small guy at just over six feet tall and way over twenty stones (280lb / 127kg). The nurse threw me a smock and left the room. Needless to say the smock, of the tie at the back variety, did not fit well and I struggled to secure it. Although there was no mirror available I could tell by the cool air that most of my back and all of my bum was pretty much fully exposed. The nurse popped her head in and asked how I was getting on. When I explained that the smock didn’t fit and I was having trouble tying it she assumed a sympathetic air and replied “I shouldn’t worry, the first thing they’ll do is undo it”. I then settled down to fight with the compression stockings which when battle was over were rolled up to just below my knees. Wonderful!!

So there I am with my pale blue smock reaching from just below my chin, down to about two inches above the knee. Struggling to meet my sage green stockings, some two inches below my knees. All with my bum exposed to the rear.

The epitomy of sartorial elegance ? Nope, not a pretty picture.

Not to worry, I thought, I have my dressing gown which should bridge the gap. No such luck. To make sure that I was all bright and shiny for the hospital, my wife had washed and tumble dried it. I hadn’t worn it until now and yes, you’ve guessed, it had shrunk. At least it still closed at the front but the length was a sadly lacking being just a tad longer than the hospital smock. At least my back & bum were covered and therefore a little warmer.

I gathered my stuff and found the nurse, who then gathered up another guy (John) and led us through the hospital. Imagine my feelings as we passed through the first doorway into a public waiting area. I’m dressed like a freak and as we entered the waiting area all heads turned to see who had arrived. I thought later that it must have looked like me and John got dressed in the dark and swapped dressing gowns. His gown reached from neck to ankles and wrapped around him properly while mine was way too small. So, we made it through the waiting area without the gales of laughter I was expecting. Next we traversed the hospital to a stairwell where we descended to the floor below and were left in a new waiting room with one other guy and a TV. Here we waited for what seemed like ages but must have been about thirty to forty minutes. John and the  other guy got the call and then eventually so did I.

Kim, not sure if she was a nurse or a doctor, arrived to lead me to the Operating Theatre suite. Once again I had to traverse the hospital through the public corridors and climb to the upper floors via the stairwell. At this point a cold draught, not Guiness, reminded me about the negative aspects of my attire as I climbed the stairs. The stairs with the open railings to the centre, the railings that gave a not so glorious view of my nether regions to the several people descending these same flights of stairs. One glance up by any of them and they would be scarred for life.

Nearly There

On arrival I am sat in another waiting area, just for few minutes, but my apprehension levels are rising. This is not how I imagined the process would work. All this walking and waiting followed by more walking and waiting. And then an assistant anaesthetist comes and interrogates me one more time and I am on my way. One more surprise was that I had to walk into the theatre and get on the table myself. A green bag is held out for me to dump my shoes and dressing gown into. As I take off the gown a nurse rushes across the room to shut the doors to the outside, to prevent my blushes or those of any outsiders I’m not so sure. Then I am on the table.

And They’re Off

When I entered the theatre there was a group of folks gathered in the corner. Presumably they were in a pre-scrum huddle discussing my procedure. Or maybe they were just discussing Pompeys abysmal record. As I hop on the table I suddenly become the centre of a hive of activity as the anaesthetist and his assistant close in to prepare me. Cannula in the back of the hand, heart monitors etc. then the anaesthetist is telling me that I will feel a coldness in my hand as he injects the first of two concoctions. I felt nothing  and then he informs me that I may feel a little dizzy. I’m staring at the ceiling and the light panels suddenly seem to displace and the next thing I know is a voice over my shoulder is speaking and inviting me to cough.

Job Done

I open my eyes and I am in a different room, apparently job done. This is like taking a shot with an SLR. You look through the lens, focus, shutter release, view goes blank as the mirror lifts, then the view is clear again when the mirror drops. All in the blink of an eye. I’m not feeling dopey or dizzy, just wide awake. Once the nurse is happy that I am OK I am wheeled through to a recovery area.

As I enter the new waiting area I pass John and the other guy from the pre-op waiting area. They are sitting up in their respective beds eating toast which they both wave at me.

After a short time and a cup of water I was invited to get dressed and was led outside to a seating area. The nurse asked if I had eaten anything or had a drink to which I responded “No”. I was offered coffee or tea and I was expecting toast but was in fact offered eggy or corned beef butties. John was already out there so I sat alongside and we compared notes as he had the same procedure. When my coffee and butties arrived he was rather envious since he was only offered toast and like me he loves corned beef. My wife was brought in and she eyed my butties hungrily too. She had been waiting outside since just after five and, as it was now gone seven,  was very hungry.

The purpose of this little tea party is to ensure that you are OK, that you can keep down food and drink and most importantly that you can have a pee. If you can’t keep your food down or you don’t make water they won’t let you go home. Worst still an  inability to pee can mean catheterisation and / or an overnight stay. Luckily I was able after a short while to produce a dribble. Oh but it burned. I’m guessing that I was catheterised during the procedure although nobody said.

Freedom

Anyway, based on my meager performance I was allowed to go and  my daughter came and drove us home. Once home it was more tea and everyone seemed amazed, not the least of which me, at how alert I was. Also that I was in no pain. Well apart from when I had a pee which I was having to do with ever-increasing regularity.

Today, Wednesday Morning

Well the good news is that I have not had any pain. Two nights sleep, although still not sleeping all the way through so blaming the jet lag.

It is now nearly forty-one hours since the procedure.  Any residual pain blocking by the anaesthetic must have worn off by now. The burning sensation has all but disappeared and I have a slight soreness in the perineum, like when you have a bruise, which only makes itself known when I sit on something hard.

Now I have to wait for approximately four weeks to hear the results. That brings us to Christmas week I think, so it is likely that my appointment will be after the holidays. We shall see.

My Prostate and Me – Part 2


Some of you may have read my previous post on this subject. I realise that I left it as something of an open-ended, cliff edge item. I had intended to follow-up fairly quickly with the following but for some reason I found I couldn’t  seem to find the time ??? Yet I managed to post on other matters. Go figure.

Since I am on the cusp of the next stage I felt I should bring this up to date, so here goes.

18 Months ago (or so) ….

….. after informing me that I did in fact have Prostate Cancer, Dr Hodgson proceeded to give me the details. The results of the biopsy and so forth. I think I am taking it all on board but in reality the enormity of my situation is quite overwhelming. Its only when he gets up and leaves the room in search of some leaflets that I really feel something. I’m not sure what it is but I have the sensation that something has just come down over me, like a sheet sliding over me. Not heavy but just there.

Dr Hodgson returns and we talk over things for a while longer. The net of this is as follows:

My biopsy has shown that I have Prostate Cancer, this is not good news, however you look at it.

I have a Gleason figure of 6 (3+3) 1% on the left side & 7 (3+4) 8% on the right side. This is relatively good news. Gleason figures in the 1 to 5 range are better. It is later explained to me that 3+4 is better than 4+3 even though they both add up to 7

I am 60 and, apparently, this is a good thing too as, with a following wind,  I have maybe 30 -35 years ahead of me.

My options are :

  1. Surgery – Whip it out and chuck it away
  2. Radiotherapy – External High Energy X-rays
  3. Radiotherapy – Brachytherapy (Nuclear bullets)
  4. Active Surveillance – Regular 6 monthly blood tests to monitor the PSA levels and an annual biopsy unless something changes.

The last was not offered as an option and I had to ask if it was available because I had read about it on the web. Dr Hodgson said that it was an option but he hadn’t offered it as at my age it was more likely that I would eventually have to take one of the other options.

So, I pondered a while then opted for option 4.

My main reasons are a strong fear of people cutting in to my bod. Well that one aside I am also concerned about possible side effects of surgery. After all the Prostate Cancer, isn’t causing me any pain or other symptoms at this time. Whereas, surgery could introduce me to a few negative issues. i.e. infection and damage to surrounding body parts including the bladder. Both of the Radiotherapy options come with potential negative effects which include bladder control which I am not about to give up just yet.

Nope, on the whole, I preferred the idea of Active Surveillance. And that is what we have been doing for the last eighteen months or so. Every six months or so I have had a blood test to measure the PSA and after each test I have had an appointment with a consultant. Each test, other than the last, has shown a slight increase in the PSA. The last showed a 0.1 decrease which in my book is negligible. At the last consultant review we discussed that part of the Active Surveillance regime is a regular biopsy.

And here we are. I am about to go into hospital for a “Template Biopsy”. Instead of grabbing their samples via the back passage, using an ultrasound probe with local anaesthesia, they will knock me out with a general anaesthetic and take many samples using a “template” grid to give them a more accurate idea of what is going on with my prostate. These samples are taken through the skin between the back passage and my undercarriage.

Personally I am really pleased that this will be carried out under GA.
So there you have it. I am about to go into hospital to be shot blasted in the gusset region with 20, 30 or 40 needles.

I will update you on how I get on, if and when I am able to sit down again. And here is a pretty flower for those of you traumatised by the idea of a template biopsy.

Pretty Flower
Pretty Flower

My Prostate and Me – Part 1


Here I am in my 60th year. I have made it through most of my adult life without suffering anything worse than the common cold and the occasional bout of flu. A couple of years back I was diagnosed with hypertension and have been taking tablets ever since to keep things under control. All has been well until earlier this year when I was asked to provide a blood sample as part of the regular monitoring. This time my GP said he noted that I hadn’t been checked for prostate cancer so he added it to the list of things for the lab to check out. Part of their preventive maintenance plan I guess. He told me to call in a couple of weeks to find out the results. and me being me, I forgot all about it and did nothing.

Until ……

Some time later I decided to go and see the doctor about a couple of moles on my shoulder. During the exam I mentioned the blood test and asked about the prostate element. After he pulled up my notes and following some chin rubbing he said “Your PSA is up a bit, perhaps we should book you in for an examination”.

Don’t you think that someone might have said something when my blood test came in ?

After all “No news is good news ….. Right ?”

Did they check the other stuff pertaining to my blood pressure ?

So I was left to go and make an appointment. While I am at the reception desk he calls me back in to the examination room. “Since you are here we might as well do it now” he says. A few minutes later he’s got a rubber glove on and I’m laid down on the couch, facing the wall with my knees tucked up under my chin.

After what can only be described as a “strange and unusual experience” he informs me that his exam was inconclusive, that he really isn’t an expert and feels it would be better if I was examined by someone with more experience. Personally I would rather that he had chosen someone else to practice on.

A week or two later I am up at The QA (Queen Alexandra hospital, Portsmouth) and I’m laid down on a couch, facing a different wall, with my knees tucked up under my chin. This time it is the lovely bubbly Vanessa with the rubber glove. This time I’m told that because I am tall, my prostate is quite high up and perhaps this is why the GP couldn’t feel my prostate. There then ensues a discussion about the length of my GPs fingers, me saying I hadn’t noticed from my position at the time if he had pianists hands and comparisons with Elton Johns chubby pudds. Meanwhile back on the couch… Vanessa thinks that we, I, should have another blood test to compare with my earlier one and that, based on that comparison, a decision would be made as to the need for a biopsy.

An appointment date is set and I am left to arrange a visit to the vampires at my GPs practice. I manage to fit in a  fortnights French holiday in between times, get the blood drawn and await the results.

On Thursday, July 26th, I have a short but bubbly telephone call with Vanessa who informs me that my PSA is once again elevated, that it is probably nothing, but why don’t we, meaning I, have a biopsy just to be sure. You can guess how enthusiastic I am about that. I haven’t been sitting idle, wasting my time. I’ve been on the interweb and found out how these biopsies are performed.

An appointment is made for Tuesday, July 31st. All too soon I am sitting in the Urology Dept waiting room and my name is called. They hadn’t warned me, but en-route to the torture chamber, they ask me to provide a urine sample. If I had known I would have made sure that I had plenty to drink. Needless to say I could not perform. Not a drop. “Stage Fright” says Vanessa.

Once again I find myself with my trollies down round my ankles, laid down on a couch, facing yet another wall, with my knees tucked up under my chin and my bum hanging over the edge. Now that’s an image to scare the kiddies don’t you think.

So the procedure gets underway, cold lubricating gel and the ultrasound wand is put where the sun doesn’t shine, anaesthetic is applied and the numerous biopsy samples are taken with the device clacking away with the sound of an industrial stapler. Job done, my bum is wiped and a man-sized pantyliner applied and I am packed off home, advised not to do anything strenuous. As if.

Thursday, August 30th, and I am once again at the QA. The Urology Dept. waiting room isn’t any more attractive. My name is called and introductions made. This time I am seeing Dr Dominic Hodgson. Where is the lovely Vanessa ?  After the pleasantries I am sitting waiting for Dr Hodgson to give me the “All Clear”.

So it’s all a bit surreal when he tells me that the biopsy has shown that I do in fact have Prostate Cancer.

Why I Have No Sympathy For Evicted Ex-Soldier


This story has been run in “The News”, my local paper, four times to my knowledge. More space has been given to this story than any other “near homeless” family tale.

So I can only guess that either the family know someone at The News and are playing the sympathy vote for all its worth or this is a pretty pathetic attempt at attacking David Cameron and the government.

The issues here are pretty straightforward, as reported by The News ……

  1. Mark Hampson – Joined the army and gave 23 years service with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
    For this we, as a nation are truly grateful.
  2. Mark Hampson and his family have lived in the same army quarters for 18 years.
    This subsidised accomodation has enabled Hampson and his family to live a reasonably comfortable life with the MOD being responsible for the property maintenance and quite possibly, in those 23 years, providing a new upgraded kitchen and bathroom. I make the last comment based on my army-wife granddaughters experience after spending a short period of time in married quarters.
  3. Mark Hampson has survived a battle with cancer.
    For this he does have my sympathy. To be diagnosed with cancer is not easy and it can have adverse effects on friends and family too.
  4. Mark Hampson became a self-employed lorry driver. So he is fit enough to work.
  5. Mark Hampson – Left the army a year ago but only now does he realise he will lose his home.
    This is totally rubbish. He knew when he signed up for the married quarters that he would have to leave at some time. So he has had at least 18 years to prepare for leaving this house. You don’t just suddenly up and leave the army unless you are getting dishonorable discharge or you go AWOL . You have to give notice which starts a number of wheels into motion. If you are being medically discharged a lot more wheels are set in motion. The army does try to prepare soldiers for exit. Again, based on talking to my granddaughters husband who is currently going through the exit procedures for leaving the army. There is money available for re-training as preparation for life on civvy street.Oh and let’s not forget the following which I lifted straight off the Army website.

    After two years of Regular service you’ll have earned an Army pension that will be paid when you get to the age of 65. And if you serve for 12 years you’ll be entitled to a tax-free resettlement grant on retirement too. Anybody aged over 40 who has served for at least 18 years gets the right to claim an immediate pension and tax-free lump sum on leaving the Army, and a second lump sum when they turn 65.

    With 23 years in the army Hampson more than qualifies for pension and lump sum. Add to this any additional funds, if Mark Hampson is being medically discharged. In one of the four articles he is quoted as saying

    He applied to join the army’s security services but he said he was not deemed fit enough following his recovery from cancer.

In summary Mr Hampson has known for at least 18 years that MOD accommodation was not for life, that he would have to give up the house provided by the army.

He has known for sometime that he was leaving the army and did in fact leave a year ago. Since then it appears that he has done nothing to prepare for this moment. What has he done with the lump sum ? Has he used it as a deposit either for a mortgage or for rental accommodation ?

On the evidence presented by The News he is expecting the British Tax Payer to bail him out and apparently it is David Camerons responsibility

All this on the back of a pledge by the Prime Minister of the formation of a ‘heroes’ committee’ to give service personnel the support they need when leaving the forces.

The News reported this week how he has found it difficult to find accommodation through Chichester District Council’s housing scheme – despite assurances from Prime Minister David Cameron that former servicemen and women will be supported after leaving the armed forces.

The implication is that it is Camerons responsibility to hand him a council house or to allow him to remain in his current house.

He said: ‘It’s a bit of a shock that it’s happened so quickly. The stress of it is a bit worrying – we don’t know where to turn.

‘I’ve served my time and thought there might be a bit of advice and help to go forward.’

It hasn’t happened “quickly”, it isn’t a shock when you know it is going to happen. Even if you ignore the 18 year long awareness he has been ex-army for a year so knew he was on limited tenure in this house.

Mrs Hampson said they have been offered temporary accommodation but would have to re-home the family dogs – labradors Sasha and Mollie. She added: ‘We couldn’t get rid of the dogs, it would break us and Mark.

So they didn’t consider putting the dogs into kennels while they found permanent accomodation ?

And now that the eviction has happened and the family are living apart we are expected to be sympathetic. Well it’s not going to happen. This family have really made themselves homeless by lack of planning and an assumption that the government or the local council has a responsibility to look after them. Nothing reported by The News has shown this family to be anything other than a bunch of scroungers.

This is why I have no sympathy for this ex-soldier.

War veterans deserve so much more than this…- Defence – Portsmouth News.

War hero’s family writes to MP over eviction- Defence – Portsmouth News.

After 23 years of service veteran faces losing home- Defence – Portsmouth News.

Evicted ex-soldier apart from family – Defence – Portsmouth News.