Last month, I lost my Dad, Steven, to prostate cancer. He was just 58.
He'd been diagnosed at 52, and while we had six years to prepare, nothing prepares you for the moment you have to say goodbye to your dad.
Dad never took life too seriously. He was a big kid at heart - the kind of man who could make you laugh even when everything was falling apart. In his final weeks in palliative care, he was still cracking jokes - finding light in the darkest moments. He was incredibly intelligent, always researching something new and sharing it with anyone who'd listen.
When Dad was diagnosed in June 2020, it wasn't because of a doctor's suggestion. A friend who worked in pathology told him to get a PSA test. His reading was alarmingly high. Within days, we were told it was stage 4 prostate cancer, having already spread to his bones.
From then on, our time became more precious. The phone calls, the dinners, the recipes he'd send me (I'm a chef) for meals he wanted me to make - they all seemed like little moments then, but now they're the ones I hold closest.
Late last year, the cancer spread to his liver, lungs, lymph nodes, and then, devastatingly, his brain. Even after brain surgery, I found him the next morning heating pizza for another patient. That was Dad - always thinking of others first.
When my partner suggested we move from Queensland to Melbourne to be closer to Dad, I didn't hesitate. I couldn't risk looking back one day and regretting not being there. My brothers and I made sure he was never alone - through the highs and lows, we still found moments of joy.
The last month of his life was a steep decline. In his final week, all of us stayed in palliative care by his side. As hard as it was, I saw it as a privilege - Dad was there for my first breath, and I was there for his last.
What breaks my heart most is what he'll miss. He'll never see his five grandchildren grow, never meet his sixth grandchild due in September. He'll never walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He wished for more time - time we could never give him.
Now, I still go to call him or pick up something in the shops I know he'd love, only to remember he's not here. Caring for him was my purpose for so long - without that, I feel lost.
Before he passed, I told Dad I'd be doing the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia's The Long Run again. His wish was clear - raise awareness and push for younger testing. He had no family history. Without that friend's advice, we might have had even less time.
Before Dad was diagnosed, I didn't realise just how common prostate cancer was. It's now the most commonly diagnosed cancer in Australia, with 72 men diagnosed every day.
This September, my three brothers and I will run together in Dad's hometown of Wollongong on his birthday. Every kilometre will be for him, so more men get tested early and more daughters get to keep their dads for longer.
