*Sensitive Content Warning: I've not held back below in explaining why I feel so strongly about this cause, this includes some emotive and detailed descriptions of the final days of my Dad's life*

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In 2016, my Dad, Roger Joseph Allen, was diagnosed with Cancer of the Kidney. By 2018 it had spread to his lungs, bones, and brain. I'll spare you the details, but it was by far the hardest thing my family and I have ever been through, and even writing this, it brings tears to my eyes remembering it.

Towards the end, Royal Berkshire Hospital had to break the news to us that this was no longer something they're treating as recoverable. It's called "Palliative Care" when it's only going to end one way, and not in very much time, I learnt.

A kind Doctor recommended we get in touch with local hospices, where Dad might be a bit more comfortable until that time comes, and importantly for my Mum, and all of us, he could have round the clock care. He was distressed at times, and the cancer in his brain could make him erratic occasionally.

Through the stress and anguish of it all I can't remember how, but we got him into The Sue Ryder Duchess of Kent hospice in Reading. We were distraught at what was coming, but seeing him somewhere safe, incredibly welcoming, and that felt surprisingly homely, was some comfort. The following weeks were painful, but the staff were beyond incredible, constantly taking me, my Mother, Sister, Brother, into the chapel for talks about how we're coping, and what happens as we progress through this torment.

Dad was getting more confused, distressed at not being in his home. What little conversation we got out of him was focussed around why aren't I at home, it was horrible. One night I sat down in the office at the Duchess of Kent and explained, I really felt we had to get him home, it might be the last request we can ever grant the man who had raised us so well. They rightly explained, these places are hard to get, the hospice runs on charitable donations, and places are limited - they would have to give his room to someone else, they were telling me he might not be able to come back. It was a risk I felt we had to take.

Dad came home, we'd done what he asked. But within two days, it was all too apparent he couldn't stay, as his condition deteriorated again, beyond something me, or any of my family could cope with. The bittersweet moment when Dad himself even said he wanted to go back to the hospice was relief in one sense, but traumatising in knowing my Dad knew he would never see his home again.

We called, knowing the room would have gone, and dreading what would happen next. To this day I don't know how, but I think incredible staff could sense our growing panic and despair, and somehow, got Dad a room back in the hospice. It's the greatest act of kindness anyone could have done for my family at that time.

Dad died, back at the hopsice, as peacefully as cancer can let someone die, on the 4th February 2019 on World Cancer Day. We were all there with him, holding his hands. His breathing changed. Those who've been next to someone in their last moments never forget the sound. The nurse had been in the room, and discreetly left saying "I'll leave you alone now". She knew, and gave us the dignity of solitude. He breathed out, and 71 years of love, guidance, support, and fun, came to and end.

Sue Ryder, and that hospice, made, what I hope will remain, the most distressing time of our lives, somehow a little less distressing. This organisation softened the sharp corners of the freight train running through your life that is your parent dying. Every small kindness, the chapel, the conversations, leaving the room, and the big ones, getting him back in, and caring for him day in and day out - when your pain is at 100%, bringing it down to 95%, feels almost as comforting as going from 50% to 0%.

I'm looking forward to running this marathon in his name - to raise money for more people to benefit like he did from the outstanding and compassionate care of Sue Ryder.