This year, I will finally be the same age as my father when he died.

For a long time, that sentence would have filled me with dread, but when I think about the story of my father’s death now, I find only strength and motivation, and a desire to leave the world a little bit better than I found it.

So, if you have a moment, this is Patrick Butler’s story, seen through the eyes of a son who would never get to say goodbye.

We (me and my brothers, Matthew and Graham) knew our father had had his first heart attack in his early thirties. I remember the pills he had to take and the meditation and yoga he practised. But I also remember a man full of life, always playing with us, always laughing, always keeping us up late to watch films we were way too young to see. His heart, to me at least, seemed full.

Full of love, full of happiness, full of time.

But there was also purpose in my father’s heart. And that purpose was to find a way to give back to the British Heart Foundation, the organisation which had helped him so much during his illness.

Soon, he began to tell us about a charity bike ride he was going to take part in for the BHF. He began to train, both on the bike and running. And I have a vivid memory of waking early one morning at his house in Hebden Bridge, looking out of the window, and seeing him jogging down the quiet, empty streets.

Perhaps I don’t need to say anymore, but I will.

My father died of a heart attack a few weeks later, taking part in that charity bike ride, raising money for the organisation he knew was so important to so many people.

He didn’t want to leave us. He would have done anything to have stayed. But his fears for himself, if indeed he had any, didn’t stop him from trying to help others, and they didn’t stop him from living the best life he could.

In 2021, my brave little brother, Graham, ran the Brighton Marathon. Next year, I’ll be running the Manchester Marathon.

We run for the British Heart Foundation.

We run for Dad.