John Low, 60, from Glasgow, was first diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2007 after experiencing headaches, dizziness, blurred vision and balance issues. A man of few words, John calmly told his family the day before he was due to undergo brain surgery. Over time, his diagnosis evolved, and in 2016 he was diagnosed with a glioblastoma, an aggressive type of brain cancer. He has since undergone further surgery, radiotherapy and chemotherapy, and continues to be closely monitored. Inspired by his quiet strength and determination, his daughter Gemma, a Moray police officer, is running the TCS London Marathon 2026 to support vital research taking place in Scotland.
Here is John’s story, as told by his daughter, Gemma…
My dad, John, is a man of few words. The kind of typical West of Scotland man you probably know without needing much explanation. He is kind and caring, and I love him to bits, but he has never been one for fuss or emotion. Even now, he tells you what you need to know and nothing more.
Before his diagnosis, Dad had always worked hard in a variety of roles, mainly in sales. He and my stepmum, Shari, were doing really well and had what they described as a five-year plan. Life felt settled and full of promise. Then everything changed.
It was the end of 2007 when Dad, Shari and my brothers, Callan and Brad, who were seven and five at that time, came up North to visit me. They had to cut the holiday short, brushing it off by saying Dad was not feeling well. Looking back, the signs were all there. He had headaches, dizziness, blurred vision and balance issues, all those symptoms you hear about afterwards. Eventually, Dad had a scan, and that was when everything became real.
I will never forget how I found out. I was out when my mum phoned and said: “You need to come home. Your dad wants to speak to you.” That alone felt strange as my mum and dad didn’t really speak. So, for her to know something that I didn’t, immediately made my heart sink.
It was the day before his surgery when Dad told me. He was so matter of fact that it felt like he was telling me he was getting a tooth removed.
In his calm, straightforward way, he explained that he was going into hospital the next day, they had found a brain tumour, and he was having surgery to remove it. There was no drama and no emotion. It was simply; this is what’s happening.
Inside, I was terrified.
I was still in school at the time, in sixth year, and the next day I went in as normal. It felt like an out-of-body experience. I remember telling my teachers, “My dad is having brain surgery. Can I keep my phone on? My stepmum will call me when he’s out.” I even fell out with one teacher who tried to tell me no. It sounds silly now, but in that moment, it meant everything. I just needed to know he was okay.
Dad’s surgery took place at the Southern General in Glasgow, now known as the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital. I remember seeing a photo afterwards of him sitting up in a hospital bed with his head bandaged. The operation was as successful as it could be, and he went on to have radiotherapy. However, over time, the medical language around his diagnosis changed.
Dad was later diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive and incurable type of brain cancer, in 2016.
At the time, he never really spoke about the specifics. He just got on with life, quietly carrying what he knew while shielding the rest of us from the weight of it. He never denied what he was facing, but he also never gave it space to define who he was.
Then, in 2020, there was regrowth. The tumour had started growing back into the space left from the original surgery. Dad underwent a second operation, followed by a year of chemotherapy in tablet form. Since then, it has continued to grow slowly, still within that same space. His consultants now monitor it closely, choosing to watch and wait, stepping in only if his symptoms change.
Living with this has changed Dad. He is not the same person he was before. His long-term memory remains strong, but his short-term memory can be challenging. There are times when he will ask a question, receive an answer, and then ask the same thing again minutes later with no recollection of the conversation. He used to love reading, but when he began forgetting what he had read, it stopped being enjoyable.
He also had to give up driving for some time after his surgeries, which was a huge loss of independence. For someone who had always been active and self-sufficient, that was incredibly difficult. Work eventually became impossible too, because of the fatigue and cognitive changes. For a man who never needed to nap, that adjustment was significant.
Dad's personality has also changed. He was once very easy-going, but now he can be impatient and gets easily frustrated.
Even so, Dad remains incredibly brave. He doesn’t like the language of “fighting” cancer. He feels it can be unfair to those who lose their lives, as if they did not fight hard enough, when in reality outcomes can vary greatly even when people have the same diagnosis and treatment. Dad puts his longevity down to luck. He genuinely believes he is still here because something has worked for him, not because he has done anything extraordinary.
Naturally, my stepmum worries about him, but they make a point of staying positive and trying to live in the moment and enjoy life.
Over the years, I have learned just how much brain tumours take from people. Not just physically, but emotionally, socially and practically. They change the person you love. They change family dynamics. They change everything, often without warning.
So, when I watched the TCS London Marathon on television in 2025, something inside me clicked. Everyone looked like they were having such an incredible day. The atmosphere, the crowds, the sense of achievement all stayed with me. I thought, if I am going to do something big, it might as well be this.
I should say that I don’t run. I have never run. I hate running and I hate being out of breath. Signing up to run 26.2 miles is honestly one of the most ridiculous ideas I have ever had.
But there was never any doubt about the charity.
Supporting Brain Tumour Research is deeply personal to me. The more I have learned, the more I have realised just how underfunded this area of research is.
Once you start paying attention, you see story after story, and it is heartbreaking, especially when it involves children and families facing the unimaginable.
Knowing that the money raised can support research, including work happening in the Scottish Brain Tumour Research Centre of Excellence, and research focused on improving treatments for the kind of diagnosis my dad lives with, makes this feel deeply meaningful. It is not abstract. It is real. It is home. And, if I am honest, it gives me hope.
Shari has always said to Dad that they will find a way to fix this. He just needs to still be here when they do. That belief keeps me going because Dad is my inspiration. It takes someone with incredible strength to be given a diagnosis like his and refuse to let it define how he lives. I know I would be falling apart if it were me.
So, if all I need to do is get through 26 miles to potentially help him, and others facing a brain tumour, it is the least I can do.
Gemma Taggart
February 2026
One in three people in the UK knows someone affected by a brain tumour. This disease is indiscriminate; it can affect anyone at any age. What’s more, brain tumours continue to kill more children and adults under the age of 40 than any other cancer yet, to date, just 1% of the national spend on cancer research has been allocated to this devastating disease since records began in 2002.
Brain Tumour Research is determined to change this.
If you have been inspired by John’s story, donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy www.braintumourresearch.org/donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy
Together we will find a cure.
