In 2012, when I was 18… My dad was diagnosed with skin cancer. It was the worst day of my life, 3 days before Christmas receiving a phone call and hearing that news. However, we became optimistic. Skin cancer meant all sorts of things to me, but I was hopeful that the removal of the mole would be sufficient to rid my dad of the awful disease. The mole was sent off for testing, and came back as a type of melanoma. I did what everyone does and I googled it all, as I was unsure of terminology. I saw prognosis’s of 5 years, 10 years, and others who went on to live healthy long fulfilling lives. Not long after, my dad had his lymph nodes disected, in the hope that cancer had not reached them… unfortunately it had. Cancer had spread to his groin. Twice. 2 Operations later, and we seemed to be cancer free. We attended regular checkups, each time all was well. However in June, 2016, my dad fell unwell and was sent for tests. Nothing really came of it until August 2016, when once again, I received the dreaded phone call. Stage 4, untreatable malignant brain tumour. I was devastated. A few weeks later, another phone call… the doctor had given my dad 12 months to live. I felt like my world had fallen to pieces. How, at the age of 22 could I be being told that in just 12 short months, my dad would be taken from me? and from my daughter Eloise (2 at the time). Once again, I turned to google. I read horror stories, and I read stories of hope, and happy endings. We tried to remain positive, and even for a short while believed the doctor got it wrong. In the space of 2 months, it was very apparent that my dad was unwell, he lost his mobility, and lack any coordination (walking in a straight line etc). This was due to significant swelling, and he was taken into hospital. He was given steroids to reduce swelling and remained in hospital for 9 weeks. From there, he was transferred to Sue Ryder St Johns hospice, where he spent 15 weeks, and his health was like a rollercoaster, up and down, inconsistent, and changeable at any second. Some days, we would visit, he would be up, dressed, happy, and able to manage his illness himself, others he was extremely poorly. He suffered from fits, and these took all his energy away, for weeks. Christmas Day 2016, we were told he only had days to live. I spent my whole day by his side, praying he would wake up. And he did. He rallied, and he fought the cancer with every bit of fight he had. In February, he was released home. He wanted to live out the rest of his life in the comfort of his home, around his family. He had a fairly steady time at home. He did the things he wanted to do. He spent time with his family. Until June came, and he became confused. Up until this point, his cognitive ability shocked us all - the tutor hadn’t affected it in the slightest, but he had now become confused, and this was how we knew he wasn’t right. 4 days later he passed away in hospital. I can’t cope. I sat by his side the whole time in hospital, and I watched him take his last breath, and I am beyond broken. He was my best friend. I miss him so much it hurts. Every day is difficult. I struggle to get up, to cook, to clean, to answer Eloises million questions about were grandad is and when she can see him. Ive just started university and it is somewhat a distraction, but I just have this aching pain inside me, reminding me day in day out that I will never see him again. Whats worst, is that I have no-one around me who understands. I feel so alone, so scared. My dad was the only member of my family I was close to, and now I have to face life alone. People tell me it gets easier, but it doesn’t! Each day that passes is one more day that I haven’t seen him, one more day I haven’t heard his voice.