It was meant to be a quick escape.
Ten days out from my scan results, I could feel the old weight creeping in, the familiar dread that quietly takes over, whispering worst-case scenarios when you’re just trying to get on with your day.
I couldn’t sit still.
The walls of home were too loud, too full of silence. So I jumped in the car and chased the last of the season’s snow.
Somewhere in France, I pulled into a petrol station for a break. Just a quick scroll, I told myself.
But the first thing I saw stopped everything.
It was a post from the family of Joe Thompson, a man I hadn’t spoken to in a few years, but whose spirit had stayed with me long after our last conversation.
Joe was a former footballer, but we didn’t connect through sport. Not really.
We connected through life, and what happens when it throws you off course. When illness crashes through the door and rips up the script you thought you were following.
I met Joe online in 2021. Both of us had stared cancer in the face.
Both of us had learned that being strong isn’t about winning, it’s about staying open, staying soft, even when your world’s been turned inside out.
He had a way about him, a deep love for life that came through in every word. I remember thinking: he gets it. The beauty, the pain, the temporary nature of it all. He got it.
Sitting in the petrol station, I felt something I only really feel on oncology days, that strange stillness between life and death. The world moved on around me. People filled up their cars, grabbed snacks, checked their mirrors. But I was floating.
His family’s words hit hard:
“The words I thought I would never have to write…”
“Our brave and courageous Joey passed away in the early hours of Thursday morning…”
He had made it home, where he wanted to be surrounded by love.
He did it his way. Even in death, Joe was teaching something. About dignity. About courage. About presence.
Sport is often about the chase, faster, stronger, better. But illness brings a different kind of pursuit.
It slows everything down. Makes you notice things. The way your child’s laughter echoes in the hallway. The warmth of sun through a window. The simple act of waking up.
And yet, sport and sickness do have something in common. They both have the power to bond people deeply, instantly, without words.
Maybe because both require you to be vulnerable. To trust. To hope.
Joe and I didn’t speak every week. We weren’t mates in the traditional sense. But we were brothers in something unspoken. When you’ve stood at the edge, you recognise others who’ve been there too.
You speak a different language one built on gratitude, fear, surrender, and, strangely, joy.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fragility. How quickly things shift. How someone can be here, and then not. How a message from a friend turns into a memory. How a petrol station on a snowy day becomes the place your heart cracks open.
We talk so much about living life to the fullest, but often that’s tied to grand gestures trips, success, bucket lists.
Joe reminded me it’s not about that. It’s about being here. Really here. In the mess. In the mundane. In the miracle of the everyday.
There’s a special kind of wisdom that people like Joe carry. People who’ve had to let go of the illusion of control. Who’ve learned that peace isn’t something you chase it’s something you find inside you, even when your body is in chaos.
Ten days. That’s what I’ve got before I find out what my body is doing. Whether it’s calm or not. Whether the storm is returning. And yet, in the shadow of Joe’s passing, I feel strangely grounded.
His legacy isn’t just about football or public posts. It’s about the energy he carried. The love he poured into his family. The grace with which he walked his path, no matter how brutal.
In a world obsessed with longevity, Joe’s life is a reminder that impact has nothing to do with years. He lived fully. He loved fiercely. He gave generously.
So, I’ll carry that with me this week. Through the restless nights. Through the waiting. Through the scans and the small talk and the quiet moments when no one knows what to say. I’ll carry his courage. His light. His choice to live on his terms.
Rest well, brother. You’ve run your race.
And to the rest of us still out here, let’s not wait. Let’s call the person. Let’s take the walk. Let’s say what we feel. Let’s live like we know it could all change in a heartbeat.
Because it can.
