Emma and Martyn
Emma’s Dad, Martyn, was the light in every room. Loving, kind, a karaoke connoisseur, with a laugh you could hear for miles. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in August 2024 and died shortly after in October aged 73. Emma reflects on the heartbreaking diagnosis, journey of many twists and the place her Dad will always hold in her life and heart.
My Dad
My best friend, hero and Dad, Martyn, had been experiencing some lower back pain, which he assumed was in response to a fall he had a couple of months earlier. The GP had referred him for imaging to check the damage, but the wait time was significant.
After the pain got worse, I made sure he went to A&E to get checked out. By the time he was seen in A&E he was yellowing and had a lot of symptoms of jaundice.
Neither of us could have ever predicted the road ahead.
Within a week or so Dad had an ERCP procedure, and a stent was fitted, which successfully relieved his jaundice symptoms and in time brought his appetite back (albeit much smaller than it ever had been before).
Getting the diagnosis
The CT scan showed a mass on the head of his pancreas, and the biopsy results three-weeks later confirmed our worst nightmares. It was malignant, and my Dad did have pancreatic cancer. By this point and with all the waiting, we both expected the result although we had still hoped for the all-clear or pancreatitis. The pain had only been recent so it couldn’t be too far advanced, could it? I guess to an extent we were right there. Dad’s diagnosis in August was stage 2 borderline resectable pancreatic cancer with no metastases.
It hit us both hard, but we were still optimistic and digging deep to find strength for each other and the journey ahead. We vowed to fight and do whatever was needed to buy as much time together as we could.
So, I shot into action: more research, chasing the oncology appointments and finding out everything there was to know about diet, exercise and any supplements that could help us.
Working towards surgery
Dad had a PET scan a few weeks later, which confirmed everything we knew, but thankfully no additional findings, although growth of the tumour was evident. It took a long time to get to that first oncology appointment. We were moving through the process to start neoadjuvant chemotherapy and working towards the Whipple’s procedure. Our best chance of maximising time together and getting to do more of the things we loved.
We managed a bit of that, but not enough. Walks along the canal, Sunday pub roasts, bingeing the latest crime drama, and reminiscing over old photos and stories. We had excellent conversations (as always), and I started to video him as he told me stories about life. I’m so glad I did this, you certainly don’t feel like it at the time, but I now have them and his voice to look back on forever.
Our journey wasn’t straightforward, as I know many are not. A further scan showed potential metastatic growth in the liver, something that hadn’t been observed before. The oncology department thought this could be abscesses, so Dad started on treatment while we awaited the results of the biopsy. More waiting. This investigation delayed starting chemotherapy further. Time we really didn’t have.
I distinctly remember Dad texting in the middle of the night, after feeling quite down for a few days, the text read: ‘I have changed my mind and will fight it xxxxx.’ I smiled when I glanced at my phone that night. We were a team, and we were going to do everything we could.
Martyn and his family
Confirmation that the cancer had spread
We knew that if the lesions in the liver represented a distant spread, our only immediate option would be palliative chemotherapy, with a view of layering over clinical trials and additional treatment further down the line if successful.
Dad’s memory started to dwindle, and he began to show signs of delirium. The doctors assured me this should ease off at home with familiar surroundings. This lasted for a few weeks, and then came the confirmation I was hoping would never come. The cancer had distantly spread to the liver. I struggled to keep that optimistic spirit going at this point, one week before the end, but I never let Dad see. I spoke to the oncologist and we were moving ahead with the palliative chemo, with a view of reviewing additional options later on.
The end all came so quickly
Dad was in hospital at this point with raised infection markers but no clear sign of infection. The antibiotics weren’t bringing them down, and for as long as we were on the ward, we were not starting treatment.
The end all came so quickly. I can barely believe it. One minute we were tackling the day’s Wordle, laughing over tongue twisters, talking about his beloved Chelsea Football Club and rating his best action films. Chatting about plans for when he got out, the food we’d eat and the places we’d go. The next, everything deteriorated quicker than I could wrap my head around.
Dad died in the afternoon of the 22nd October 2024 with me by his side playing (and singing) a selection of his favourite music as he held my hand. It wasn’t meant to end like this. Only 7 weeks after diagnosis, he was gone. A world without his infectious laugh, limitless advice and boundless love feels impossible to comprehend.
Grief is the price we pay for love and life
While he’s not there for all the chapters to come, he’s always been my biggest cheerleader, confidant, best friend and go-to for all of life’s hurdles. Everything he taught me in the first 29 years will serve me well in the next. As he said to me a lot over those last few months, “We’ll always be together. We will always find a way to connect wherever we may be. Xxxx” That’s true.
I’m so grateful for the 29 years I got with him by my side, it’s nowhere near enough, but I’d take 29 years with him over 80 with anyone else. Grief is the price we pay for love and life, so while I know this pain will be with me forever, so will the joy of having the most spectacular father by my side.
My tips, from my experience…
- Make documentation of everything – keep a record of advice, ask all your questions, follow-up on appointments, and make sure things are moving at pace. Time is not on your side with this cancer and it needs determination to get the right care.
- Spend the time with your loved one. Do the things you love doing together, but also find the time to take videos and photos, have the big conversations about life, make sure they know how much you care, how much you love them, how much you’re in this together.
- Be there for whatever they need – to talk, to listen, to distract, to reflect. Sometimes they will need a bit of encouragement, especially if they’re in a lot of pain. Try tempting them with their favourite music, a TV show or game they love, or a walk out in nature (if they’re feeling up to it).
- If you can, speak to your oncology team about other treatments that can be used in combination, eligibility for medical trials and anything else that can help your loved one. If this isn’t an option, support groups or networks are a great way to share experiences and gain advice from others going through it.
Support from Pancreatic Cancer UK
I read the Pancreatic Cancer UK website from start to finish, delving into all the real-life stories and sharing the more hopeful ones with Dad to raise our spirits about the battle ahead. It was a wonderful resource, and I also called the helpline a few times to chat about treatment options. At my Dad’s celebration of life service, I used the Pancreatic Cancer UK materials to raise awareness of the symptoms and encourage anyone presenting with symptoms to get themselves checked out immediately. With greater investment, I hope that the outlook of this cancer becomes less bleak, and I just wish things could have been different for my wonderful Dad.
