For my father, my hero

The global fitness and fundraising challenge, The May 50K is back for another year. The virtual challenge invites participants to Roll, Walk or Run 50 kilometres throughout the month of May, whilst raising vital funds for people affected by MS.

Susan is one of Canada’s May 50K Ambassadors. In this powerful account, she reflects on her father’s life with MS and why she takes part in the global challenge. It’s a moving tribute to the man she calls her hero, and the hope that drives her to keep moving for him and for everyone affected by MS.

For my father, my hero

‘Back in March 1984—yes, I can actually remember that far back—Dad called a family meeting. He sat on the couch, I sat cross-legged on the floor, and a laundry basket sat on the table like it was part of the board of directors. Then came the bombshell: Dad was diagnosed with MS. I promptly launched the laundry basket off the table like a dramatic soap opera character and sobbed into my arms like I had lost my best friend.

Back then, MS was about as well-known as TikTok was back in the ’80’s.   Dad, armed with his 1-inch-thick glasses and a suspicious buzzing in his feet, did some serious detective work. Double vision? Check. Weird leg sensations? Check. Not bugs? Definitely check. He did what any stubborn genius would do: researched like a madman, diagnosed himself, and then went to the doctor just to confirm what he already knew.

The doctor sent him for tests, including an MRI and a spinal tap. “Someone stabbed me in the back,” Dad joked later, “but at least they were wearing scrubs.”

The results came back: Dad was right. MS had officially entered our lives.

As the years rolled on, MS symptoms started popping up like uninvited guests. One of the first symptoms was a random arm spasm, we affectionately named “The Roger.” We joked through all the symptoms, which probably helped keep him out of a wheelchair for decades. When his hands stopped cooperating, he switched to writing left-handed—without help from the family’s only lefty. Stubborn? Absolutely. Patient? Most definitely.

Despite everything, Dad stayed active. He walked, wheeled, and wobbled his way through life with grit and grace. One day, I found him in the kitchen, trying to climb a chair to change a burnt-out lightbulb. “Dad, let me do it,” I said. He was halfway up, wobbling like a penguin on stilts. “I’m not letting this disease beat me!” he shouted, triumphant and slightly off-balance. I stood there, arms crossed, ready to catch him if he fell—or at least cushion the landing with a dish towel.

Eventually, walking became more like stumbling, and he started falling more often. He looked into manual wheelchairs—not to give up, but to keep going.

In one of his annual Christmas letters, he wrote, “I can’t walk far anymore, but I can still roll with the best of them.” A few months later, the doorbell rang. One of Dad’s friends stood there, holding an envelope. “A few of us pitched in,” he said. Inside was $500 toward a new wheelchair. Dad was speechless. Later that year, he got his first manual chair and took off like a bat out of hell. No license, no helmet—just pure Transcona street terror.

Fast forward to August 30, 2019—my 44th birthday. I had a party planned at the local tavern, complete with friends, drinks, and questionable decisions. Dad wasn’t feeling great, so Mom stayed home with him. Later, she texted: “Ambulance called. Probably another bladder infection.” He’d had plenty before, as it is a common MS symptom, so I just kept partying.

But this time was different. Things got worse, much worse.  The infection turned into some mysterious monster. Seizures started. His body rejecting all medications, and at one point, he had 8 IV bags hanging.  Dad was solely fighting a full-blown internal war.  Mom and I made the tough call to stop all meds and let whatever monster was inside run its course, regardless of the outcome. Family flew in. We braced ourselves.

Then, like a stubborn dandelion, Dad started coming back. Slowly, signs of life returned. The infection cleared. The monster packed its bags. But Dad was left with no limb function. After three months in the hospital, he moved into a care home, needing 24/7 support.

Most birthdays are memorable for the wild stories and embarrassing photos. This birthday? It was unforgettable because it would be the last day my dad ever lived at home.

He has now been in Riverview for the last six years. He had to trade in his manual wheelchair for an electric modified chair—and now, instead of cruising the streets of Transcona, he fearlessly roams the halls of the care home, leaving staff and residents alike in his wake. It’s his way of holding on to a piece of independence, a spark of rebellion, and a sense of humor that MS hasn’t managed to steal.

My father has been one of my best friends for my entire life (yes, I’m daddy’s little girl). He’s the one who always knew when I needed to talk—even when I didn’t know it myself. He’d listen patiently, offer advice that was honest and wise, even if it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Watching this disease slowly transform a university track star into a verbally active paperweight has been one of the most painful and heart wrenching experiences of my life. MS didn’t just take his mobility—it tried to take his voice, his spirit, and his presence. But it has NOT taken his impact!

He is the reason I participate in the May 50K. He is the reason I fundraise. He is my motivation, my inspiration, and my hero.

I know that his disease is too far gone for treatments to help him now—but with your help, your participation, your encouragement and your wallets, I truly believe that together, we can end MS for future generations. We can give others the chance my father never had.

As we walk, run, and rally together, I hold onto this quote by Superman Christopher Reeve, who knew a little something about courage in the face of adversity:

“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”

My father is My hero, my Superman! 

Together, we can become the light in someone’s darkest moment—we can be the everyday heroes who lift others up, inspire hope, and make a lasting difference.  Together, we can end MS!’

Our thanks to Susan and the MS Society of Canada.

The May 50K

Wherever you live, whatever your fitness level, you can decide when and where to complete The May 50K. Whether you’re pushing your limits or taking it one step at a time, every kilometre counts towards reaching our vision of a world without MS. You can can register your interest for May 2026 here: https://www.themay50k.com/