Losing dad before time

The message from my wife on the mobile phone was simple: 'Call your mother.' Sitting in a plush car being driven to the railway station after filming the Manchester auditions of Pop Idol, I knew immediately that my dad's 20-month battle with prostate cancer was over. It wasn't a surprise, but finally hearing the words was terrible.

It was the longest train ride home. Like most men, my dad never went to the doctors unless he had to. He was a healthy, active guy - and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing a cup of tea, a couple of paracetamol and a good night's sleep couldn't fix.

So when he started needing the loo all the time and getting shooting pains down his leg, he tried to ignore it. It was 1997 and he was 72, but he was a very fit man and didn't want to seem like a wimp by going to the doctor. I also think he didn't want to hear bad news.

Although dad didn't complain to me or my two brothers, mum would let slip on the phone that she was worried, that he didn't seem well. For dad to admit that he was in pain at all, it must have been bad. In the end it stopped him playing golf, which he loved, so he went to the doctor. That was in early 1999.

Over the next few months he went to the doctor's regularly, but it took a while for them to find out what the problem was.

Dad probably wouldn't have seen the point of mentioning that he had to get up in the night to go to the toilet, or that he was feeling weak and dizzy, because it had nothing to do with the pains in his legs.

No doubt there was also some embarrassment in talking about his 'waterworks' with strangers.

Finally, in December 1999, the doctors examined the prostate and carried out a test which indicated that he had high levels of prostate specific androgens, which are linked to cancer. A biopsy confirmed the diagnosis that he had prostate cancer.

Experts say that there are two types of prostate cancer: the tigers and the pussycats. The pussycats are slow-growing prostate cancers that might not cause a man any problems. The tigers are dangerous but treatable, if they're caught early. This is what Dad had.

He had been having symptoms for more than two years by the time of diagnosis, but seemed confident that the doctors had caught it early enough. He was perfectly calm on the phone when he told me the news.

He simply said that he had cancer, but the doctors knew exactly where it was and how to deal with it. It was going to be fine.

I was less sure. It was the dreaded 'C' word. My wife was pregnant with our first child, and it was just before Christmas. What should have been a happy time was filled with uncertainty.

People with prostate cancer have several options for treatment: surgery to remove the prostate; chemotherapy; radiotherapy; hormone therapy; or brachytherapy, which involves having radioactive pellets inserted into the prostate.

The doctors decided that the first course of treatment should be the radioactive pellets. They are placed in the prostate under local anaesthetic, where they emit radiation for several weeks. It was a simple procedure that meant a short hospital stay. It was combined with hormone therapy to stop him producing testosterone.

Apparently prostate cancer needs testosterone in order to grow, and so stopping the production of testosterone should make the cancer shrink.

It slowly became clear that the treatment wasn't working. Scans showed that the cancer had spread to the surrounding tissue and the bones.

It was time to try a strong dose of chemotherapy. Dad was referred to the private Cromwell Hospital in London, where he stayed for two weeks. He was lucky enough to have private health care.

During the treatment, dad was physically shrinking before our eyes. He looked so frail and fragile. The drugs had left him without an appetite, and he was in pain. He kept his sense of humour, though, and even though we knew things weren't looking good it wasn't something we said out loud.

It was horrible to see him suffer, but he was adamant that life went on. On my 40th birthday, in 2001, he insisted on coming to my party.

He was out of hospital at that stage, and being nursed by mum at home. He was very sick but he refused to sit in the corner like an invalid. He stood and chatted to everyone, holding court and charming all my friends.

Looking back on those pictures now is shocking. Just to see how much the big man I remembered had vanished is scary.

Later that month my first child, Scarlet, was born. It was to be a summer of contrasts. On the one hand there was the joy of holding my baby, holding new life. On the other there was my father, whose life was ending.

Alongside all of this I had to keep smiling on the most trivial show in the world, Pop Idol.

My fellow judge Nicki Chapman, who had lost her father to cancer recently, provided a shoulder to lean on, but there were times when I would sit in the dressing room before a live show and cry. Life had become a roller-coaster.

The strain of looking after my father was immense for my mother, and the indignity of being bathed, dressed and taken to the toilet was heartbreaking for my father. They were no longer a couple of 56 years - they were now carer and patient.

Three weeks before he died, mum made the decision to put dad in a hospice. She had been working for the Princess Alice hospice charity shop in Esher for years and it seemed a natural place for him to go. This was the first time that we all confronted the fact Dad was going to die.

The hospice was a blessing. It allowed mum some rest after a gruelling 20 months, and it meant she could visit him feeling her best. They were able to become husband and wife again.

The last time I saw Dad was when I went to visit him before going up to Manchester to film the first round of auditions for Pop Idol. I knew that it would be the last time I would see him alive.

That was two-and-a-half years ago, and there still isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about him. I miss him. I'm grateful that he got to meet my daughter and wish he could have seen our second child, Jack. I also wish he could have seen me on television.

He was always tremendously proud of everything his children did, and I know he would have got a real buzz out of seeing Pop Idol.

Dad lived a full life, but if he had gone to see a doctor sooner he wouldn't have died so quickly.

He was 76, but he was our father and we wanted all the extra years we could have with him. It upsets me that there are men out there who have their own family but are putting off going to the doctor out of pride, fear or embarrassment.

Most men have heard of prostate cancer, but they know that the prostate is up your bum and men don't want anyone fiddling around there.

It's something that embarrasses us - but this embarrassment is killing 10,000 men a year.

Prostate cancer is the second biggest cancer killer of men over 50, after lung cancer, and yet it is the most curable cancer if caught early.

It is part of women's lives to get smear tests and breast checks, and men need to have the same attitude. I urge all men to get their prostate checked and to be aware of the symptoms. Don't die of ignorance.

I am not in the danger zone for prostate cancer, which is over the age of 50, but I go for a routine health-check every year, including a prostate check-up. So far, everything is fine, and I want it to stay that way.

It's my responsibility to do everything I can to make sure that my wife and children are not left without me. I love them too much.