One cancer diagnosis in a family is devastating.
Two is rare.
Three — all at the same time? That’s what Peter Jones, his wife Anne Jones, and daughter Claire Collett faced after Christmas 2023.
“I honestly don’t know how we kept going,” says Peter, 62, who is now living with incurable cancer. “But we did. And we still are.”
Peter was the first to be told.
In mid-2023, he began feeling food catch in his throat when he ate — sometimes spending 15 or 20 minutes trying to swallow a single bite.
His GP initially suspected a stomach bacteria. But at a Christmas work lunch, a piece of panini lodged in his throat and left him in agony.
That December, Peter was diagnosed with stage 4 oesophageal cancer.
Just two months later, while Peter was midway through his fourth round of chemotherapy, Anne was told she had breast cancer following a routine mammogram.
Then came a phone call from Claire.
“You’ll never believe it, Dad,” she said.
She, too, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She is now recovering from a double mastectomy.
“It’s still hard to believe,” Peter says. “Three of us. Me, my wife and my daughter — all going through cancer at the same time. You couldn’t make it up.”
Why Claire opted for a double mastectomy
Despite the chaos of those months, Peter talks with clarity – and wry humour – about what happened.
Claire had a tumour in one breast but elected to have both removed to spare her the prospect of the cancer returning.
Her surgeon and oncologist supported the decision, but when it went to the multidisciplinary team, they said no.
The surgery eventually went ahead, but Peter was stunned by the initial refusal.
“I found myself saying something I never thought I would say in my life — I’m delighted my daughter’s getting a double mastectomy,” he says. “That’s not something any father should have to say.”
Why Peter’s police background has helped him fight cancer
Throughout everything, Peter has been working as a health and safety advisor.
A former police officer, he spent 38 years in the force, including 11 years as a firearms officer.
His experience, he says, has helped him stay calm in the face of a cancer that he expects will one day kill him.
“When I was diagnosed, it had already spread to my lymph nodes. I knew what that meant,” he says. “But what could I do? Sit and cry? I don’t think so. There was too much to do.”
His chemotherapy has caused nerve damage in his hands and feet, and he is now on immunotherapy.
He’s also likely developed rheumatoid arthritis as a side effect — though, as he puts it, “the steroids are working, so I’m not complaining.”
Peter’s focus has always been on Anne and Claire.
“They’re both doing well now,” he says. “And I’m so glad for that. If I had to choose — and this might sound strange — I’d rather it was me with the incurable diagnosis. Not them.”
How Peter got involved in Brave 2025
It’s not just treatment that keeps Peter busy.
He’s also one of the 24 men taking part in Brave, the annual Friends of Anchor fundraising fashion show in Aberdeen. It’s not something the ex-firearms instructor ever imagined doing.
“When I told my friends I was going to be a model on a catwalk, they couldn’t believe it,” he laughs. “But Brave has given me something to focus on — and a group of guys who just get it.”
The group, all cancer patients or survivors, have formed a tight-knit community. They rehearse together, share stories and support one another through treatment and tough days.
“There’s a WhatsApp group, and when I went into hospital recently, I had messages from all the guys wishing me luck,” Peter says. “That’s a kind of support men don’t usually get. But here, it’s just there.”
At a recent Brave photo shoot, Peter noticed another man wearing a baby bottle around his neck — his “Junior St Bernard”, a symbol of his cancer journey. They started talking, and the man casually said his diagnosis was terminal.
“It hit me then,” Peter says. “I’m incurable too. But I’ve never called it terminal. That word’s never been used with me. For me, terminal is 12 months or less. I’m not there yet — and hopefully won’t be for a long time.”
The scary bits, and the funny bits
Peter has more plans on the horizon. He’s organising a charity spinathon in April at Team Cycle Aberdeen on Commerce Street, where he’ll ride for up to 10 hours to raise money for Friends of Anchor.
Each spin session will start with a short video where Peter tells part of his cancer journey — from diagnosis to treatment, through the darkest moments and the unexpected ones too.
“I want to take people through the whole thing,” he says. “The day I got the diagnosis. The first chemo. The side effects. The scary bits. And the funny bits too.”
Because even in the bleakest of circumstances, Peter has found laughter.
Like when he and Anne were at a car dealership in September, discussing monthly payments.
The salesman returned with a price Peter felt was too high. He turned to Anne and said, “You do realise, this might be the last car I ever buy.”
“The salesman just looked stunned,” Peter says, grinning. “But that’s how it is. You either laugh or you crumble.”
He credits his resilience to his policing background, his family and his determination not to be defined by cancer.
“I’ve never run from a fight,” he says. “I’m not about to start now.”
How Peter plans to keep fighting his cancer
He knows there are still unknowns ahead — particularly for Claire, who is waiting on the pathology results that will determine if she needs further treatment. Anne, meanwhile, is on hormone therapy and will be monitored annually.
Peter, too, has his share of follow-ups, scans and blood tests. But he’s not letting it take over his life.
“I’ve told the kids and Anne,” he says. “If they ever say to me, ‘We can give you six more months, but you’ll feel awful the whole time,’ I’ll say no. I’d rather have quality over quantity.”
For now, he’s focused on Brave — and the two nights of joy, celebration and wild outfits that await.
“We’ve had the fittings,” he says. “There’ll be a lot of fun, a lot of laughs — and it’s all for an incredible cause.”
He pauses. “We never asked to be in this club — the cancer club. But now that we’re in it, we might as well do something with it.”
He adds: “I’m not done yet,” he says. “There’s still plenty of life in me.”
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