My name's Jon, 35 years of age, and I've lived in the United Kingdom my entire life ... which is something I am looking to change.

About the latter part of 2024, finally, after some introspection, I had decided to commit to the work holiday visa in New Zealand. I have family there already, and told myself then that it'd would be good to travel whilst I still could.

If it were left at that, I would have been content. Spent a year or so there, then probably have come back ... but after, in the beginning of this year, things in my life veered. One of the biggest pieces of it, in fact.

My dad, Peter, progressively fell ill, unable to eat or digest anything. It was only when I was away from home in York, spending some holiday time away with friends that I was told the news by my sister:

Throat and Stomach cancer. Aggressive. He only had weeks to live.

So just like that, all expectations about anything else - my job, career, travelling, all of it - seemed to be in suspended animation. All I could do from then on was come home, and spend the hours and days watching as cancer slowly tore down the best man I had ever known and learned from.

We got him home, turned our living room into a bed space for him, and there we spent the last days, alongside Marie Curie carers, making him as comfortable as possible.

Until, on a saturday evening in June, whilst bed-ridden, at home with the family ... he slipped away.

A lot has crossed my mind amidst the grief. I had never been one who was overt or ready to express my deepest thoughts or feelings. It's always kept me distant to other people. Even to my father, who believed I had grown too serious and heavy-hearted with introspection. He wondered where the boy who smiled all the time he had raised had gone.

I think it was why he kept insisting on one thing, only one thing for me, even through his discomfort and pain.

'Go to New Zealand, boy, promise me.'

So now, after the intermitent weeks of working through grief, emptiness and sadness at the void my father has left, I decided to keep on with the plan.

'I will, dad.' I said to him.

I think for him, the idea of me going to New Zealand not only meant being with family (my sister, Sandra) but a clean slate, a new opportunity to find the expression of myself, my creativity, which he cherished in me greatly, despite us being so differently minded. My acting, writing, and generally finding joy in creating and entertaining others was something he came to realize was my joy, 'my gift'. One that I never felt able or safe enough in my confidence to push for here.

So that's what this is for, ultimately. To make right on what belief he had in me, and what I could do.

I couldn't muster it whilst you were alive, dad - but I will do my damndest to now

Considering the current situation for most people nowadays in terms of cost of living and the many commitments we all have, especially us with family, I cannot expect or be entitled to anything from you.

The sad truth is is that I'm worried that, materially, I will fall short. I won't have the means to do what I seek to do. With the costs surrounding my dads passing personally being quite expensive and eating into what savings I had made, all I have currently is my paychecks and money kept aside for my airfare.

Whatever funds donated will be an investment in reaching that point in time where I can fully pitch into the creative endeavours I always wanted - away from my place of birth, but always remembering it fondly - and building something that my dad would be proud of.

I've never been particularly affluent, but if, due to this new start, I find myself in benefit of more money, I will donate to cancer research and end of life care charities as often and as freely as possible.

In fact, I would prefer you consider them first for a donation before me - the care Marie Curie provided my father was considerable and against great difficulty of circumstances, and if any funds can go to helping to end cancer, I would prefer it go to those causes first.

https://www.mariecurie.org.uk/

https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/

So, then ... I like to think I laid what I had to say out as straight-forwardly as possible (despite my tendency to write on, and on, and on ... and on).

There is something strangely ... relieving, and liberating, about admitting to needing help. In so much of the time after my dad died, I struggled to articulate what I wanted of the future, and of myself.

Maybe, with a little help from some friends, I can find out what it is. For my dad.

Rest in Peace

Peter John Day

May 21st 1940 - June 21st 2025

Your strength and resolve will hold me until my dying day,

Your son,

Jon Paul