My father died of Cancer. It started in his lungs then spread to his bones and lymph nodes. He died barely a month after his diagnosis. He was a wonderful man, the best of men. Please spare a moment to read my story.

My father and I had a strange relationship for many years. Although there was always love, there was also conflict. Not that this relationship was unusual. Fathers and sons have struggled to understand one another for thousands of years. In our case it was a difference of character, my father was stoic, I was a whiner! I had an uncontrollable
creative streak, which he found hard to understand, while he was pragmatic, logical and sensible, which I found equally unfathomable. To his credit he always supported my creativity financially, but we never talked about my work, be it music or writing. On the flip side, I never really showed an interest in the things he did.

It wasn’t until the last few years that we really began to talk. Indeed, I learned more about my father and his family in the last eighteen months of his life, than in the previous forty years of mine. I heard him tell stories that made me laugh and cry, tales which made me realise how little I really knew him. However, before he departed, we made sure that our learning was complete and that nothing was left unsaid.

One weekend in the early autumn last year, Dad was taken into hospital with excruciating pains in his back, hips and legs. The doctors struggled to control his pain. He had a scan late that first night and it was confirmed that there was a mass on one of his lungs. When the doctor
showed me, it was clear from his expression that this was almost certainly beyond treatment. The doctor said he would speak to my father, but I suggested that it would be better in the first instance if the news came from me. But how do you tell someone that they only have a couple of months to live? How do you tell that to your father? Someone you love. Do you just come out and say it? Do you try to cushion the impact with phrases like ‘the doctors are doing all they can’ or ‘we’re here’? Or, perhaps, do you say nothing at all, and just let your tears and your face do the work for you?

I have made much of my living from words and language. However, there are times in our lives when language will fail and all we have left is the touch of a hand, an embrace or a kiss. I told him straight. However, due to the morphine that was being administered to Dad, I wasn’t sure if he truly understood what I had said. I had made it back to the car park,
ready to come home, but felt I needed to make sure that Dad knew what was happening. So, I went back and told him again. It wasn’t any easier the second time around.

For the next few weeks, Dad began to realise that his condition was terminal. Calmly and with a dignity that belied his fears, he made sure that affairs were in order and said all that needed to be said. He didn’t fight the cancer, that battle was already over, but he didn’t allow it to steal his spirit. Indeed, he almost embraced his death. He told me that looked forward to being reunited with my mother, who had died less than two years earlier.

For a month, the overstretched, overworked, underpaid and undervalued staff at the infirmary could do no more to manage his pain, which was particularly acute at night. We were fortunate enough to have Dad transferred to LOROS, a hospice in Leicester, which was, quite simply,
remarkable. For just over a week they made his pain more manageable and generally made him more comfortable.

The day he died I arrived to see him sat in his chair. He told me that he needed the nurse (all of whom were wonderful) so I requested assistance. Two hours later, after the nurses removed the privacy curtains from around his bed, he was sleeping. I sat with him for a while, holding his hand, but something felt different. I could not, and still cannot, explain it, but I felt as though I could sense the life seeping away
from him. I spoke to the doctor, who looked at his stats and examined him. She confirmed that this was the case.

Dad was surrounded by his family when he passed away. It was the way things should have been. I never wanted to lose him, of course I didn’t, but I am so grateful to have been there to see him off, off on his next adventure. My brother, sister and cousin left shortly afterward his death, while I stayed with him, talking to him. I told him once again that I would undertake a trek to raise money to help others like him, but in particular to support children.

I work with children everyday. I particularly love the preschool children who bring such joy to me. I have no compunctions about telling you that I LOVE children. Something happens everyday in my heart when I make a child laugh, when I hear them sing or when they give me a high-five at the end of the session. It is a privilege that I never take for granted. During Dad’s last weeks and in the months following his death, I wondered how a child might cope with the enormity of cancer. How would they cope with the pain? How might they cope with the loss of a parent or sibling to cancer? I resolved to do what I could to support such children.

This is where The Big C come in. I had undertaken some voluntary work with them in the past and I had made some great friends. I also saw the wonderful work they did to support young people dealing with cancer. They support children with talking therapies, helping them to express their feelings in whatever way suits them.

As such I have decided to try to raise money and raise awareness for The Big C and the wonderful work they do for all ages, especially children in Norfolk. I have decided to try to walk 500k through five deserts on five continents (100k on each).          

            The Sahara Desert in Morocco

            The Wadi Rum in Jordan

            The Atacama in Chile

            The Western Desert in Australia

            The Mojave in USA

The first two treks have been booked and I am in the process of searching for corporate sponsorship to help finance the last three. However, such sponsorship would be made easier if the companies could see that I am successfully raising funds for The Big C.

I do not know how to convince you that you should support this challenge when there are so many worthy causes fighting for scraps of generosity these days. All I would ask is that you close you eyes for a second and imagine how your child might cope with cancer, a disease that so many of us will have experience of. Then, I would ask who you
would want to help you support them. I think, no, I am sure it would be The Big C.

Please, please help me.

 Jon Lawrence