Wayne's Story: "A violent headache hit me out of the blue"
It was the last thing I would have expected for anyone as fit and healthy as myself.
I’m a PE teacher and run a sports coaching business – so being active and fit was always something that was important to me. I ran, I walked, I hiked, I climbed mountains, I travelled with my wife Fleur and two kids.
My brain haemorrhage happened on a Friday night in April 2025. I'd been at work and was just sitting down for an evening meal, when a violent headache hit me out of the blue and I knew something was seriously wrong. I was only able to say to my wife, ‘Ambulance’, before I passed out.
I remember a few things – Fleur’s friend Alison came round and our daughter India, went to look out for the ambulance. Then when they arrived, the first responders did some tests. They pinched my thumbnail and I couldn't feel a thing. The last thing I remember was being loaded into the ambulance – until I woke up from a coma 10 days later.
My wife knew within the first half an hour that it was likely a stroke, but she didn't know the type. After a CT scan, they realised the enormity of the haemorrhage; there was nothing they could do at the local hospital, so they airlifted me to St George's Major Trauma Unit in London. That night, they inserted an external ventricular drain (EVD), to get rid of the fluid putting too much pressure on my brain.
My wife spent the first couple of days in what she describes as a dream. She can't remember much about it. She was told to gather the next of kin because it was unlikely that I would survive the weekend. So, she made a very difficult call to my son Rufus, who was studying in New York, saying he would need to fly back home. My daughter was a week away from her first GCSE exam.
I made it through the weekend. But, my wife was told by consultants not to expect much recovery – that I would potentially never walk again or talk again.
Six weeks after my stroke, I did what no one thought was possible; I walked out of hospital. They gave me what they call ESD – early supported discharge. For another six weeks, every day, I was supported by a physiotherapist, an occupational therapist, speech and language therapist and a psychologist.
The physiotherapist tried to encourage movement, strengthening my legs. The occupational therapist was making sure I was comfortable moving around the house, making a cup of tea, that kind of thing. The psychologist talked to me about my ICU delirium; I suffered horrible nightmares while there. It was just the start of what I know now will be a lifelong journey.
Today most people would say I look well, like there’s nothing wrong with me. But there's so much that's invisible. I’m back working full time at school, having built up my time gradually with the students. I get very tired towards the end of the week and especially the evenings, struggling to speak much. My legs are fine, but I left hospital without being able to move my right arm and hand.
These days, life has changed in many ways. I struggle with noisy places – airports can be really intense. At the big Tesco down the road from us, the trolleys that come at you from every direction, then there’s the bright lights, the signs, the products on the shelves trying to grab your attention. It's too overwhelming, so I refuse to go in now.
The doctors were convinced I wouldn’t have recovered so quickly without my years of endurance training; I’ve run many marathons in my time. But I’m back running – it just looks very different. I use a sling to protect my arm, which can hang down too much and get heavy, and it’s hard work to balance and propel myself forward. I've only fallen twice – which was quite spectacular by all accounts – I can run 5k non-stop. But I have much bigger plans.
My haemorrhagic stroke was on 25th April 2025 and I’m proud to say that I’m taking part in the London Marathon exactly two years later – 25 April 2027. It felt like a sign to me, that it’s happening on my two-year anniversary. The runner who I used to be would not accept any walking in a marathon, but that’s me now – I just can’t wait to try it again. There's so much lack of awareness about brain injuries. Part of telling my story is helping others to understand more about them. But also to know that the more we can learn, and research – like the pre-hospital clinical trial, the better it may be for families like ours who have to experience everything that comes along with a brain haemorrhage.
