My old man was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer not long after I got married in May 2014.  He fought a tough 4 year battle, with the disease eventually metastasising into his bones. He never let cancer define him though and to the end he kept a cheeky grin on his face (see pic!) a glass of good malt in one hand and an irreverent comment never far away (especially when England played the French at rugby or Arsenal played Tottenham in the footie). My dad had been living in the US for over a decade when he died; he received amazing medical care but he always wanted to help others, figuring that there were surely people worse off than him. He joined cancer support groups, some of them religious (despite never being so himself) and from what I could gather from the people I met at his funeral, his self-appointed role was to comfort others with his British stoicism and his particular brand of profanity-speckled wit. His fellow cancer sufferers said he kept them laughing during the dark times. Dad loved running, I remember clearly my first run with him on the peak in Hong Kong in the 80s. When he died it was always in my mind to start running properly again and to do so for Macmillan Cancer Support to champion them in doing for others what my dad took great comfort doing in the last years of his life.