Can I swear here? Cancer. It's ******* shite. Guess not. On April 12 I'm running the Paris marathon and here's why via a quick stat and a personal story:

A (brutal) stat -

In 2026, 44,000 people will hear "you have cancer" in Ireland alone. 120 people every day, 5 people every hour. ******* shite. You know this. You, like everybody, has felt the crushing numbness of cancer just like I have.

A (short) story - (2 minutes)

I told this story at a Seanchoíche event 2 years ago. The theme, that night, was 'Home'. My story focused on the bathroom of my family home. You'll see why.

- 1. Aged 6 or 7, I joined my brother and his friends out on the quiet lane that skirted our house. From there, like morons free of the weight of a brain, we hid in a hole and chucked loose mud at passing cars. To no surprise, a car stopped. With that, I fled the scene, flew through the front door, and dove into the bath my mum had been running for yours truly 😇.

Through my suddsy toupée, I hear a man at the door questioning my whereabouts. It wasn't 20 seconds before my mum professed my innocence and he walked away. An angel, eh?

- 2. Aged 9, I once again found myself in this bathroom (not spiritually speaking). This time was different. Rather than being chased into the bathroom by the driver of a mud-splattered car, I was beckoned in by mum. She was revealing to us her bald head for the very first time. My emotions were not splattered per se, but stubbornly subdued.

- 3. Aged 10, unfortunately (understatement of the year), mum passed away. She didn't *lose* a battle but we did lose a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, glitter on a grey day, and so often the reason for the best of days. She was also a ludicrously talented musician who would play 'America' from 'West Side Story' while I danced (overstatement of the year) around the living room where joy spilled into song.

I don't remember much about my mum. There are 5 or 6 core memories. That's about it. But, importantly, I do remember where I sought refuge 1 year later.

- 4. Age 11, my (wonderful) dad had to pop out momentarily and there I was, alone in the house, in a house that sits in the dark on a quiet lane, for the very first time. "He's 11. Surely he's going to guzzle a rake load of fizzy drinks and watch Jackass, yes?". No. Alas, I was scared. And what does an 11-year-old boy do when he's scared? Well, he walks down the hall and opens the bathroom door. He sees the bath, the same fiberglass tub which offered refuge from the mud-splattered car driver, and he walks forward. And knowing that mum isn't coming home anytime soon, he sits - and then lies - in this bath, until dad does.

That bath is now long gone but the memories aren't. When there are only 5 to count on, I hope they never do. I once read hope is a dangerous emotion because it blocks action. I think hope does us good. But I know that the only way we'll stop the wrecking ball of cancer is through funding life-changing research.

It's unlikely that we'll prevent 120 people, per day, being diagnosed with cancer. There is, however, a future where each and every one of these people go on to live happy, healthy lives*. The mission of the Irish Cancer Society is to bring that day forward and that's only made possible by the support of people like you.

*Until some dimwit 6-year-old chucks mud at their windscreen.

I know many of you share stories like this, and I appreciate you so, so much for reading this thesis. If you have a few euro to spare, it could mean an extra hour's research, a lift to chemo treatment, or maybe a house visit. Either way, it'll make the world of difference to somebody who desperately needs it.

Thank you,

Barry.