Sports and poker lover Jay Kennedy was a bright, down-to-earth 18-year-old from Ayrshire. A finance and economics student at the University of Strathclyde, he was known for his curiosity and deep perspective on life. In 2020, he was diagnosed with an aggressive astrocytoma, which changed everything for him and his family. After 18-months of fighting courageously, Jay died in 2021 when he was just 20.
Here is Jay’s story, as told by his mum, Dawn…
Jay had a wisdom beyond his years and a unique way of looking at the world that amazed me at times. Little did I realize how much he would need that outlook when facing his own mortality.
He was a huge sports fan, loving football, NFL, basketball, and Formula 1; following these passions brought him so much joy. He was the most wonderful son we could have asked for, an amazing brother with many friends, funny, witty, easy-going. He truly loved his life, and we were so blessed to have him.
In January 2020, Jay had a full seizure in his student halls completely out of the blue. Fortunately, his friends were present, although it was terrifying for them to witness. After a CT scan seemingly showed nothing sinister, we felt relieved and hoped it was a one-off. However, severe headaches and sickness began in May, and I sensed something was terribly wrong. Further MRI and CT scans revealed our worst fear:
There was a huge mass, the size of an orange, attached to his brain.
An ambulance rushed Jay to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Glasgow, where surgeons removed 98% of the tumour. He came through it well, with his speech and mobility intact, but we all couldn’t believe this was really happening. I felt immense gratitude for Mr. Michael Canty, his neurosurgeon who we would come to rely on two more times. He had an amazing relationship with Jay, built on mutual respect. However, a week later, we received the devastating news that the mass was an incurable grade 3 astrocytoma, meaning it was cancerous, and nothing would ever be the same.
Initially, Jay bravely managed chemotherapy and radiotherapy, and we hoped month to month for stable scans. But by Christmas and New Year, severe headaches, imbalance, and double vision led to an emergency MRI, revealing a new mass in his cerebellum. Two surgeries followed, one to relieve pressure and save him, and a week later, a gruelling 10-hour operation to debulk the second tumour. Although they couldn’t remove it all without risking harm, Jay remained courageous. More radiotherapy took its toll, and his balance and walking were never the same.
The progressing cancer and relentless treatments drained his physical abilities, but his mental and cognitive strength remained remarkable. Despite everything, Jay could still be himself with one of his favourite hobbies: poker. Known for his sharp mind and competitive spirit, he even won an international online tournament under his gaming name ‘Blackoid’. Poker gave him a sense of achievement, control, and joy during a time when so much else was slipping beyond his reach.
Then came a third tumour growth, making it clear that the treatment he was on wasn’t working. Jay had the choice to try a different chemotherapy with only a 10% chance of success. As a gambler and optimist, he said, “Ten percent? That’s better than nothing”. One of the hardest parts of this journey was feeling like the tumour was an unstoppable force; brief rays of hope were often followed by more bad news. Watching helplessly as your child goes through this is unimaginable.
As summer approached, we cherished every moment together, watching football and spending time with family and friends. But by August, everything took another turn for the worse; Jay’s nausea and headaches were unmanageable, and his vision had worsened. We waited for scan results. He didn’t want to attend his final oncology appointment; I think he sensed what the results would be. His dad and I went alone.
We knew what was coming, but actually hearing them say it was numbing. Going home and into his room to deliver the news myself is a moment I cannot explain. He asked if he would need to undergo another round of chemotherapy, and I told him, “No, son, that’s it. They’re stopping it”. I’m sure his oncologist had prepared him, but when he heard it from me, only then did he seem to believe it and the reality sank in.
Unknown to us, after that moment, from 29 August, Jay began writing a journal, knowing his time was now more limited than he’d hoped. In his last week, he was on a lot of morphine, making it difficult for him to speak, but he kept repeating a set of digits with an urgency that made me realize it was important. I wrote them down and repeated them back, which calmed him.
In the days that followed, as he became less responsive, I wondered if those numbers were his phone code. His phone was private; I’d never touched it, but he’d clearly wanted me to have it. Two days before he died, as I lay beside him, I tried it. To my shock, it unlocked. There on the home screen was a document folder which was strange, as that wouldn’t normally be there. I clicked it, and there was his ‘journal’ exactly where he knew we’d find it.
I was absolutely blown away by what he had written. The message he left for me, his brother, his dad, and his friends was beyond moving; his love and hope poured into every word. It was clear his intent was to ease our pain as much as possible after he was gone. It brings us such comfort, but it’s so hard when it suddenly stops. He acknowledged this, writing that he knew it would and apologised “as Mum would want it to go on and on”. In the journal he wrote:
On the day we’d feared would come, I lay next to him in his bedroom, the clock showing 3 a.m., listening to his heavy breathing and racing heart. It was a Sunday night, so I put the NFL on his laptop because he loved it. The Seattle Seahawks were playing, which was his friend Callan’s favourite team, he’d love that.
Suddenly, his breathing began to falter. Even though you know it’s coming, you can never prepare for that moment. I held his hand and told him everything would be okay, that he could go. I repeated how much we all loved him and how deeply we would miss him, and how I’d be holding his hand forever. I told him that a thousand times.
His dad, Bryan, his brother, Blair, and I held him close as we said our goodbyes and thanked him for being ours. We are so, so proud of him. Bizarrely, the smoke alarm started blaring just then, as if he was saying goodbye too, or more likely, “see you later”.
In the wake of our loss, we sought a way to honour Jay’s memory by supporting others facing similar battles. We founded The Jay Walk, a 44-mile trek following the River Ayr from source to sea. That event, along with others since, has raised over £100,000 for cancer charities, including Brain Tumour Research, funding essential research toward the cure we so desperately need. Seeing how much has been raised is beyond belief, and achieving this in Jay’s memory fills me with immense pride.
Dawn Kennedy
November 2024
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 Jay’s story, you may like to make a donation via www.braintumourresearch.org/donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy
Together we will find a cure