In 2020, my life changed in a single moment, the kind of moment many of you here know far too well. I was at work as a police officer, doing what felt like an ordinary shift, when I suddenly collapsed without warning. I had no idea I had an AVM. No symptoms. No clues. Nothing to prepare me for what came next.
Within minutes, everything I relied on like balance, vision, speech simply fell away. I couldn’t stand falling into walls. My double vision was so severe I couldn’t focus on anything, totally missing picking up a cup of water. My speech was slurred. It felt like my body had disconnected from itself, and I was watching it fail from the outside.
I was rushed to A&E in Portsmouth, where the initial scan revealed a ruptured aneurysm caused by an AVM I never knew existed. Before I could fully process the words, I was on a blue‑light run to the neurological unit in Southampton. Those hours were a blur of fear, confusion, and the surreal realisation that life had just taken a turn I couldn’t control.
The team in Southampton stabilised me and carried out multiple angiograms and procedures. After several weeks, I was discharged — only to return a short time later for major brain surgery to remove the AVM completely. That period is still hard to describe. It was frightening, exhausting, and full of moments where I wasn’t sure what the next day would bring. Worst of all this was during the covid crisis, so I had NO visitors at all!
But I was lucky. The skill of the surgeons, the care of the hospital staff, and the love of my family and friends helped me make a remarkable recovery over the following years. I know not everyone gets that outcome, and I never take it for granted. The physical recovery was slow, rebuilding balance, vision, confidence. The emotional recovery was also slow but it did improve. It affected my family deeply, and it changed how I see everything.
One of the biggest realisations was this: I had nearly died without my children ever knowing who I truly was before that day. That thought stayed with me. So I decided to write a book, part memoir, part policing story, part survival journey — to document everything including the haemorrhage to the surgery, the recovery, and the impact on the people around me. I wrote it with honesty, humour where I could find it, and huge respect for anyone living with an AVM or supporting someone who is.
I wanted to raise awareness. I wanted families to have something that explains the chaos of those early hours and days. And I wanted survivors to feel seen, understood, and less alone.
If sharing this is allowed, I’d like to share my story to anyone who might find comfort, recognition, or hope in it. STOP, POLICE! — my memoir — is available here: https://mybook.to/stoppolice
To everyone in this group: your strength, your honesty, and your willingness to support others is extraordinary. Whether you’re a survivor, a carer, or someone still navigating diagnosis and treatment, I’m grateful to be part of a community that understands what most people never will.
I hope my story provides a little hope that sometimes things can improve after a bleed. If anyone ever wants to talk, share experiences, or ask anything about my journey, I’m here.