37 days ago I was attending what I thought would be a routine check up for indigestion, then bang…..

A gentle female voice asks, “Do you know where you are?” I answer, feeling drowsy, “I’m in hospital.”

I’m recovering after fainting and my heart stopping for 30 seconds. I’m in the Royal Hallamshire Hospital after what I hoped was a routine procedure. I’ve had CPR and I’m slowly realising the situation.

I’ve just had a gastroscopy and the news had been broken to me by a Doctor that the procedure had found cancer in my oesophagus. The combination of shock and recovering from the sedative has led me to feint as the news is broken to Julie and I.

Poor Julie had been quickly ushered out of the room while a crash team rushed to my aid.

An ambulance has been requested to take me to A&E to check out my heart properly. I’m waiting from 5pm to 7.30pm in the outpatient department, two nurses are observing me, they’re answering our initial questions about what this news means.

I have a thorough check up at A&E at the Northern General Hospital, I’ve had bloods taken and At least 4 ECG tests. Those results are good news I haven’t had a heart attack, the Consultant says it’s the shock. I have a chest x-ray that checks my ribs haven’t been broken by the CPR.

I’m home at 10.30pm and feeling exhausted. I won’t be doing parkrun in the morning or heading to Middlesbrough for the football. Good news on the football as Boro play dismally for a 0-0 draw.

That night we’re both in shock. I feel calm and a bit numb. Julie’s tearful but trying to keep it together for me. I feel moved, loved and cared for by Julie’s emotional response, it almost feels like she’s holding the psychological pain for me.

The next day we both google oesophageal cancer. It’s not good news. The search suggests just 20% survive for 5 years after diagnosis. We’ve both seen that shocking internet search but we take some time to share our findings with each other to protect each other.

We talk, we say how we must be precious but not exceptional with time. We must live in the moment and trust the professionals that will be enveloping my care and treatment.

The next three weeks I’m having tests and appointments. First a CT Scan, it indicates cautious good news that it looks like it hasn’t spread. I need a further CT-PET Scan that is a more thorough examination checking about spread. I’ve been informed that the result of the second scan will indicate whether I’m on a palliative or curative treatment plan.

I’ve met with a Specialist Consultant and Cancer Clinical Nurse Specialist. They’ve explained what my treatment options might be.

17 days after the initial gastroscopy I have a telephone conversation with the clinical nurse specialist. It’s the news I wanted to hear. The CT-PET Scan has shown no further spread. I’ll be on a curative care plan. I feel a release, I shed my first tear. Julie and I hug. It feels a huge relief.

I’ve let some of my friends know about the initial findings and now I’m sending messages of hope that I’m on a curative pathway. I smile with Julie that the next 6 months are going to be Chemotherapy and major surgery. If someone had said to four weeks ago that you’ve got a year ahead of chemotherapy, major surgery and recovery I would have said, thanks but no thanks. Now I’m almost punching the air at the prospect of 6 hours of surgery, time in intensive care, brutal chemotherapy and hopefully patient recovery.

7 days ago, I know I’m about to start my gruelling treatment regime soon but I know I have a window where I’m only suffering stomach discomfort. I stop dithering and decide to enter the Sheffield Half Marathon. It’s a race I’ve done about 15 times beforehand. I love the course and the cheering crowds. It’s a race with lots of friends are both running and supporting.

I now have a clear plan for treatment. I’ve met over 20 clinicians for various tests, advice and guidance. My last appointment with the Oncologist has given me a likely start time for chemotherapy. My chances of long term cure have increased after the results from the tests have indicated no further spread.

I’ve met physiotherapists and dieticians who have told me that my running is big positive and encouraged me to maintain fitness. Doing the Sheffield Half Marathon is now part of my treatment plan.

It’s a chilly Sheffield morning as I stroll down to the start line. There’s a meet with other Totley AC runners for a photo. I love the nervous and expectant chat as we compare training, mostly agreeing we haven’t done enough, target times or just general gossip. This time people are also asking about my treatment and sharing love and best wishes.

I offer that I’m ok, it’s just my podcast listening and reading is now not just running, cricket and politics. It’s now includes Cancer biographies, Chris Hoy and Mark Steel’s writings are informative and at times funny. My podcasts now include You, Me and the Big C. I’m still addicted to hearing about running, cricket, football and political ramblings.

The race sets off. I cross the start line and soon settle into the ruminations of running. One second you’re thinking am I going too fast, the next, will I be able to do parkruns during chemotherapy, then, will I keep up this pace, next, oh hello Caz, as she speeds past me.

I soon settle into a nice steady pace. When I run I sometimes do deals with the running gods. If I do the 10km to Forge Dam from home in 55 minutes, well that means Middlesbrough will beat Millwall at the weekend. Or, if I manage a 24 minute parkrun, I’ll score 50 in the cricket on Saturday. Today, I decide if I run under 2 hours for the half marathon, that means the Cancer will be cured. Obviously, the brilliant clinicians and science will have a small part of this successful treatment plan.

I hit the hilly section heading up to the Norfolk Arms, it’s a 250 metre climb in 3 miles and runners in Sheffield have been known to lose their sanity worrying about this hill. I feel pretty strong here, just nice and steady. I’m 5 miles into the race and well ahead of my 2 hour schedule.

I’m running along and a friend catches me up and runs with me for a couple of minutes. We chat and run. He asks that innocent question, “How are you?” I answer without hesitation, “I’m brilliant.” I have completely forgotten about the cancer, I’m filled with running endorphins and I am feeling brilliant. Maybe that’s a moment that sums up the live in the present philosophy that a diagnosis like this gives. It’s a sentiment that’s apt for all of us much of the time. How much of the time do we all get anxious about the past or future.

The support is brilliant. I’m loving the recognition and smiles, “Looking strong Richard” or “Great running Richard.” It’s mostly downhill after 5 miles and my legs are cherishing the gravity. We head through Dore where Totley AC has taken over all the marshalling. There’s a beautiful cacophony of encouragement from Totley volunteers, I’m Mo Farah running for gold in London, albeit a middle aged, slow, white guy, sort of Mo Farah.

There’s three miles to go as I hit Ecclesall Road, the crowds are at their peak, there’s more shouts of encouragement from friends. The legs are feeling a bit tired but I’m feeling up to the challenge.

The finish line approaches and my watch has me down for a 1 hour 54 minute finish. It’s not my fastest half marathon time but it’s a finish I savour.

I’m feeling good at the moment, positive about the treatment ahead. I know I’ll have dark and painful times in the coming months.

I feel loved by friends who’ve offered beautiful support and love. The wonderful United Nations of the NHS has so far mostly provided confidence, professionalism and kindness.

I can’t wait until this time next year to be running my next Sheffield Half Marathon.