The Honoured

Some of the people for whom The Hikers have taken on challenges to raise funds and awareness for Cancer Research UK, In Their Honour. Where will you go, and who will you hike for?

John Walker 1971-2022

A photo of John, looking dapper, standing on the path beside a canal smiling widely.

John was full of energy, kind, creative, and passionate. He touched so many lives, and continues to do so, leaving a colourful legacy and many loving friends and family behind him.

The world lost him far too soon, only seven months after his diagnosis of metastatic bowel cancer. This project was created in his honour, and will formally launch on the anniversary of his memorial service.

John's husband is writing the rest of his story, and it will be added here when it is ready; but this is an understandably emotional task, and it will take time. There is no rush.

Marc Tremain 1978-2023

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Marc's diagnosis of cancerous secondary brain tumours was a shock to him and all of his friends and family, as was his death. Both were sudden and came with little warning.

Marc was a runner and a triathlete, and enjoyed hiking and stand-up paddle boarding too. He was always planning another race or adventure. He encouraged and inspired many colleagues and friends into mad sporting events and supported many through tough times both personally and professionally.

Time spent with Marc ranged from full of mischief and banter to heart-to-hearts that always made everything feel better. He was mischievous, stubborn, and cheeky, but also caring and a true gentleman. Shifts with Marc were always ones to look forward to.

Many of us were privileged to attend Marc's funeral in our uniform as a guard of honour, with some of those he knew best being more involved - bearing his coffin and giving a reading. While the event's necessity was heartbreaking, standing there still and silent in the rain as his coffin passed us was a poignant moment - although it also had us all thinking the same thing: he'd have been howling, to see us all looking like drowned rats for him. Some of his military colleagues, similarly damp and uniformed, I'm sure had the same thought; seeing them standing with us was wonderful.

Attending Equinox24, which was one of his favourite events, was bittersweet, because he should have been there with us; many of the other runners commented on our shirts, as many of them knew him from previous years at Equinox24, or indeed from other mad events like it.

Marc leaves behind his parents, siblings, and children, as well as friends and colleagues in the ambulance service, the army and beyond. He wished to have his ashes put in fireworks so he could go out with a bang; this wish was fulfilled on New Year's Eve 2023. Marc's brother has given permission for his story to be shared here.

Sally-Anne Caunter 1963-2024

Sally-Anne had breast cancer in 2014, which was successfully treated, although the impact of that treatment on her life was understandably massive. After being given the all-clear, she went back to work as a headteacher in a local primary school, where she was so loved and respected. Many of the parents and staff were still in touch with her to the end.

In 2019, a persistent cough took her to the GP, and a tumour was identified on one of her ribs. The journey began again. Sally-Anne fought to maintain a good quality of life alongside her treatment, and made memories from musicals to Disneyland, as well as being an active member of her local church.

Unfortunately, Sally-Anne went into hospital during our coast to coast walk, and shortly after we got home, was moved to hospice care. She had many visitors, and knew exactly how much she was loved. She surprised the hospice nurses when she passed away; they'd expected a few more days, but in true Sally-Anne style, she had her own plans.

Sally-Anne's funeral was well-attended and a true celebration, with her eulogy written by herself before her passing, and read by her daughter Katherine and son-in-law Andy.

The song For Good, from Wicked: The Musical, was played at the funeral, and encapsulates so much of loss and grief.

Sally-Anne will be missed more than words can say, and by more people than she'd have realised. Please hold her, and her family and friends, in your thoughts and prayers.

Rest easy, my friend. On to the next great adventure.

Jane Woolley 1960-2023

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I was only lucky enough to know Jane for a few short years. But she was the sort of person that you could never know for long enough. Everywhere she went, she made friends – and she went to a lot of places.

Jane taught science to high school students, and while I knew her from working in the UK, where she taught biology and volunteered as a Duke of Edinburgh’s Award supervisor, she also taught in myriad other places including Shenzen, Brunei and Malawi. Jane was in Shenzhen during the outbreak of the pandemic, and in Brunei when her breast cancer was originally diagnosed more than 15 years ago. Her friends are spread across the globe, from Europe to Australia, the UK to Asia.

In early 2023, Jane was diagnosed with cancer for the second time, and this time it was extensive and had already spread. She accepted the treatment offered with dignity, and bent her thoughts to making everything ready for those left behind; she was ever organised. In fact, some of my favourite memories are of scrambling out of my own tent, hair knotted and eyes bleary, leaving chaos behind, to see Jane stepping out of her tent looking as put together as ever, and carrying a fully-packed bag, ready for the day. Usually, she’d also have a clipboard or folder in hand, ready to discuss the route with her group, and I’d always wonder – usually through a yawn – how she managed to always be so put together.

Shortly before she passed away, Jane gifted me a guide book for Offa’s Dyke, which she had intended to walk herself. Many of her holidays were spent walking, whether here in the UK, or in Europe with friends. The moment she gifted me that book was the moment it really hit me that she wasn’t going to get better. Offa’s Dyke, the path between Wales and England, shot to the top of my list, and I will walk it for her as soon as I can.

Many friends and family from across the world came to celebrate Jane’s life with a walk up Ingleborough in Spring 2024, in lieu of a funeral, as she wished. It was a beautiful and fitting day for a well-loved and wonderful lady.

Neil Atkinson

"I survived stage 4 Hodgkin lymphoma: a blood-born cancer. I am 11+ years post-treatment: they call it remission; I call it a cure. I do not want to contemplate a return of the the Big C; I now know C stands for Cancer, but once, I thought the C stood for constipation. Oh to be naïve again.

The first symptom was back pain and occasional night-sweats (5 over a two month period). In May 2011 I first saw my GP with these symptoms. Antibiotics did not work: pain killers followed. I returned to the GP in August, the day after rolling around on the floor in agony from central-band pain (both back and stomach). One urine test later and failing to touch my toes (something I have always found difficult), I was referred to a physio-therapist, who I saw in October. They sent me away with stretching exercises. Up until October I did exercise regularly, both weights and cardio, and while no athlete, I considered myself reasonably fit. After all, I was a clean living non- smoker and very occasional drinker.

At Christmas, the symptoms worsened: no pain, but fatigue began to kick in. We stayed at my in-laws who had a dog: Dixie. I took her for a long walk that normally took an hour-and-a-half. I got breathless at the top of the first steep-sided small hill - so much so that I stopped to rest my hands on my knees as there were no benches. Meanwhile men, my age, or older, were jogging past; I was thinking ‘that should be me’. Towards the end of the walk I saw an elderly male walking away from me, ahead. I remember thinking that I should gain

distance and narrow the gap: instead he pulled away. The walk took nearly 2 hours.

I went to the GP on 9 January: a different doctor who took a blood test; the result from which indicated either infection of the blood or cancer! The first time I had heard that word in relation to my own health. I had a lot of mental processing to do.

It took a further two months to fully have a confirmed diagnosis: Hodgkin lymphoma. This was unusual: normally people in their 20s or those in their 60s got this; not those in theirs 40s, like myself. In other words, any of us can develop cancer at any stage in our life.

Before my first treatment, my night sweats became nightly. I would wake up in the morning with wet pyjamas and sheets, mattress and all, literally wringing wet. Chemotherapy followed: 12 sessions every two weeks; throughout the summer of 2012 - the year of the Olympics, as if you need reminding. I don’t, because I missed the Olympic torch coming through town while I was self-isolating; Chemotherapy is the ultimate immunosuppressive. They do not call the chemicals they pump-in to you cyto-TOXINS for nothing. The first chemotherapy session was the most tiring. I took to bed at 7.30pm not knowing whether I was going to wake up in the morning. I am happy now to confirm I woke up 12 hours later. Side-effects ranged from a metallic taste, to pink urine, to irritation of the lining of my veins where the chemicals enter the body, so they show reddish on the skin surface. The most unusual side effect was the sensitivity to UV (sunlight). I remember catching the sun after 20 minutes on a cloudy summer's day.

I was declared free from the offending cells after the six months, after my second out-of-county PET scan. I once knew what PET stands for; now, I just recall that it is a full-body scan with a radioactive chemical injected to highlight any cancerous cells.

This is but one perspective of my dalliance with cancer. Another is my wife’s perspective. A nurse by trade and well into her third decade of work at the time, she had had an inkling at what was going on after Christmas - if not earlier, I suspect. The time came, in the consultation room, and the doctor confirmed I had one of two types of cancer. All I needed now was the procedure to confirm which. Both were invasive: either an auger into my lower spine to obtain a sample of marrow now known to contain cancerous cells; or access via my sternum to the lump located next to my heart. This news brought my wife to tears. The consultant looked at my wife curiously, asking, "Why are you crying? This is the best cancer he could possibly have." This apparently apathetic question took us both aback. She looked at him quizzically; he continued, "There is a 85% chance of survival."

I guess my wife was not reassured by this information; but it gave me something to process or think about. I returned to work, reflecting that 85% is another way of saying 1:6 - that is, a 1 in 6 chance of survival. Yes - survival. When the outcome is so final and unforgiving, it concentrates the mind. A similar context is the Russian roulette I have seen in a war film: one bullet in the chamber of six in a revolver, which is randomly spun before being self-fired to the head. Suicidal. Would I do that willingly? NO. But apparently, they were the best odds I could face of the 200 cancer types. I clung to these odds and submitted myself to the treatment offered. Rejection of it would be equally suicidal.

Did I think of my wife or my children and what they might be feeling? Short answer is "no". I was focussed on my own situation and treatment regime. It was all-consuming - something about which I now feel guilt. My children at the time were either over 18, or nearly 18 and still at school. They had their own emotions to cope with: their father was consumed with a life threatening ailment. Did I realise what they were going through? NO. I recall we had a chat with them about how they felt, but how well it went and how reassuring it was, I could not judge - then or now. If I can rationalise this, I can only remind myself that I was facing real jeopardy, the like of which I had never then, nor since, faced.

If there is any point I wish the press home in these ramblings, it is this: if you face any symptoms that evoke the suspicions in you that cancer is a possibility, then go see your GP and make sure they suggest a blood test with cancer in mind."

Sue Fortune

"Turning 60 didn’t seem too bad; I celebrated in style with friends in Las Vegas. About a month after I returned, I received the bowel cancer screening test – it wasn’t a shock, my best friend had already done hers. Still, I didn’t relish the thought of pooing into a dish, and to be honest, like many others, put it off for about 4-5 weeks. Thank goodness for my bestie who kept prompting me to do the test. It wasn’t that I was worried about the results, after all I was fit and well, and hardly ever go to the GP. It was just the thought of doing it. Actually, it was fine, not half as bad as I expected. I sent the test off and was convinced that would be that.

Four days later, I had a letter ‘inviting’ me for a colonoscopy because the test was positive. No problem, I thought. I have haemorrhoids so that’s sure to be the cause. I went to a pre-meeting when all was explained and then about 5 weeks later to the colonoscopy itself. That was when reality hit home. I was in Grantham hospital lying on my side watching the camera work its way through my colon when I saw IT and thought to myself “that shouldn’t be there”, and knew even before the consultant told me what it was. You sort of go numb – I guess it’s shock and disbelief. The rest of that morning was a bit of a blur. I was sent for a CT scan to check it hadn’t spread. Spread? How can that be when half hour ago I didn’t even know I had cancer?

I called my friend to come and collect me because my daughter wouldn’t have coped well with seeing me upset. The feeling of dread is almost palpable and ‘what ifs’ come flooding (uninvited) into your mind. I cried, my friend cried and when I told my daughter we cried together. There were lots of tears over those first few days.

Then you wait for what seems like forever to get an appointment to see the consultant. In reality it was only 2½ weeks. I did what I expect most do and became Dr Google, reading all sorts of horror stories and untruths – I convinced myself I was surely going to die and even wrote my eulogy (it was very funny). Then I found Bowel Cancer UK online and that is where I read real life stories, some heart-breaking, but stories of hope and strength too.

Fast forward to the visit to the consultant when he confirmed I had stage 2 and no spread – I was elated, which sounds wrong because I still have cancer and need a major operation, but that I can cope with. After all, millions of people have operations every day. I’m determined to be one of those statistics.

The op is due in about a month when I fully intend to kick cancer’s ass. I’ve also agreed to be part of a study to look at other ways to detect this horrid disease – why wouldn’t I? My advice to others who may be considering not bothering to do the test is to please, please do it. I dread to think what the outcome might be had I ignored it."