Shortly after getting back to my room, once everything had been explained, more tests done, plenty of prodding, and some food eaten, I was told: If you can get out of bed without any help, walk the corridor, and walk a flight of stairs, we can look at sending you home.
Challenge accepted.
The hardest part was my stomach. They had to cut through my stomach muscles to get to my kidney, so getting out of bed was incredibly difficult. When you tried to sit up, the strength you thought you had just wasn’t there.
On Saturday night, I managed to get out of bed and walk to the toilet. It took everything out of me, and I went straight back to bed. But the way my brain works, once I’d done it once, I wanted to try again, and then again.
Sunday morning, after a good night’s sleep and some breakfast, I was back up walking to the toilet. My next thought was, where’s this corridor? Ten minutes later, corridor complete. Back into bed again, which was tough. An hour later, corridor complete once more. Next stop: the stairs. By lunchtime, I was done. Mission complete.
After more tests and checks, including making sure my blood pressure was okay, Kel arrived to take me home, along with my mum. All in all, I was in hospital for three days, an absolute whirlwind. The journey home was hard and extremely uncomfortable.
Once home, my dad was there to meet me. I could see how worried everyone was, but it was good to be home and reassure them I was okay. I don’t remember much about that Sunday, it was all a blur and still felt surreal that I’d been through such a huge experience. I’m pretty sure I slept for most of the day.
Monday came, and life carried on, as it always does. The kids went to school, and my mum and dad returned to Evesham. I had one clear goal in my mind: when my kids got home from school, I wanted to be downstairs, sitting at the table, ready for them to see their dad, not lying in bed looking ill and worrying them.
Even though I should have been resting, I was there at the table when they walked in. We sat together and talked. It was so nice to hear their stories. The innocence of kids is brilliant. As soon as I told them I was okay, it was straight on to how their day was, whether school was good or rubbish, what was for dinner, who was taking them to football training, and what time my football kick-off was on Sunday. Back to normal, as normal as my crazy little family is, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I had plenty of visitors during my recovery, which was really nice. I liked talking about what I’d been through, always hoping it might help someone else who was going through a hard time. Recovery was tough. I hate not doing anything, I don’t like sitting still, and I really miss walking.
My family also missed out on things; holidays were cancelled, for example, and the guilt I felt about that was horrible. I hated feeling like it was my fault we couldn’t do the things we’d planned.
My mind started thinking about what I could do next. I wanted something to aim for, something to train for, and a way to raise awareness and hopefully some money for Kidney Cancer UK. After looking at various options, I came across Ultra Challenges, which organise walking and running events across the country. Walking had already been part of my counselling and recovery, so it felt like the right fit.
I chose an event, though there was some reluctance from the specialists. They advised against it, and if I did go ahead, to take precautions. After blood tests and check-ups, and with great advice and support, I was given the go-ahead.
I signed up for the Ultra Challenge Winter Walk, a full marathon walk of 26 miles (42km), a figure-of-eight route starting and finishing at The Oval Cricket Ground in Vauxhall. I absolutely loved it. It was so well run, the atmosphere was brilliant, and less than a year after my diagnosis, just nine months after my tumour was removed, I completed the challenge.
I travelled up on my own, knowing Kerry would meet me at the finish line. She was there with the kids, my mum and dad, and Gillian, my mother-in-law, who has always been there for us. Kel had even had jumpers made for everyone, such a lovely touch. The day was emotional and unforgettable.
After the walk, we headed to Chinatown for an amazing meal, celebrating with the people I love most. For my dad to make the effort to come down, especially while dealing with his own health issues, meant the world to me. I could see he was struggling, but typically, he only wanted to make sure everyone else was okay. What I didn’t know then was that this would be the last time I’d see him.
The walk was at the end of January. We spent the day with family, and my parents headed home the following Sunday morning.
I spoke to my dad every week. We talked about Man United, a bit about work, I started my working life as his apprentice, and he always asked about the kids’ football and other sports. He loved watching them play. Having him there made me realise how much I can’t wait to do the same with my own grandchildren one day.
February 19th is a date I’ll never forget; it’s my birthday. Dad texted me that morning to wish me happy birthday and said he’d call later, knowing I’d be at the kids’ football. I was watching Belle’s game when I received a phone call that changed everything.
I was told there was an air ambulance at my parents’ house. Something had happened to Dad, and they were trying to keep him alive at the scene. I can’t explain how I felt, how I held it together while Belle finished her match, how the drive home was a blur, how everything felt unreal. When I got home, I received the call telling me he had passed away.
To this day, I don’t think I’ve properly grieved. I don’t know how to. Even now, it feels surreal. I still find myself wanting to call or text him. I hate that he’s missing out on so much, the good times, the kids growing up, our annual parties wherehe was the life and soul. It’s not fair, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few years, it’s that life isn’t fair.
When I was a kid, my dad used to take me to watch Southend United. We went to every home game together. Since his passing, that’s something we now do as a family, all five of us go home and away. We absolutely love it, and it’s brought us closer than ever, continuing something my dad and I shared.
I could talk about my dad for hours. We had so much fun together – mates as well as family. Late-night debates, sharing a vodka, playing old songs into the early hours, then getting up early to watch the kids play football. I have the best memories of him and miss him more than words can say.
With even more motivation, I continued walking challenges: a 50km Easter walk around Windsor, then another in the Cotswolds, where my family lived. That one meant a lot, both sides of our family were there, Kerry’s family travelled up, and my good friend DJ walked with me. Sharing that experience with a mate meant the world. It was tough; the Cotswold hills are unforgiving, but with every step, I felt my dad with me. Afterwards, we all went out for a family meal. It was amazing, though someone was missing.
After that, I completed a virtual walking challenge – 800 miles over three months.
Then I decided to take on the 100km Thames Path Challenge, a continuous, non-stop walk through the night. It was the toughest challenge I’ve ever done: over 130,000 steps, 8,000 calories burned, and some extremely sore legs and feet. But what an experience. At the 50km mark, as the sun was 
setting, we set off in groups. I walked the remaining 50km with two people who are now friends, Sean and Andre. We shared stories, tears, and supported each other all the way to the finish, something I’ll never forget.
We also held a special fundraising night for Kidney Cancer UK, with entertainment, music, raffles, and the support of incredible friends and family.
In total, we raised over £6,000 for Kidney Cancer UK.
This has been the hardest blog to write. Writing about my dad has been painful. My mum lost her husband and best friend, my sister and I lost our dad, the kids lost their grandad, and many people lost a truly good man. He will never be forgotten.
My journey is still ongoing. I live with health issues, regular check-ups, scanxiety (great word), tough days, and sometimes taking things minute by minute. You try not to let cancer define you, but it’s hard, and it’s a constant battle.
I really hope reading this helps someone. Please talk. It’s so important. And if something doesn’t feel right, go and get it checked.
I have so many friends and family to thank for their support, but if it wasn’t for Kerry, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this. That’s not an exaggeration – I owe her my life, and I hope she knows that, even on my bad days.
