Last week, I was saddened to hear of the passing of Professor Richard Scolyer.
Actually, saddened isn’t quite the right word. I was devastated. What surprised me was the intensity of it.
I didn’t know Richard personally. We never met. Yet I found myself deeply affected by the news of his death, and a little confused by why it hit me so hard.
Over the past few years, I’ve followed his work closely. Predominantly because of his work in the melanoma space.
Professor Richard Scolyer was a brilliant mind. Curious. Committed. Relentless in his pursuit of improving outcomes for people diagnosed with melanoma and other cancers. The difference his work has made to prognosis, treatment options, and how long people live and thrive after a melanoma diagnosis is extraordinary.
If I had been diagnosed ten years earlier, there was very little hope that I would be living the life I live today. That’s not being dramatic. It’s simply true.
In 2024, Richard Scolyer and Professor Georgina Long were named Australians of the Year, recognised for their groundbreaking work in melanoma research. It was a well-deserved honour.
But I suspect the true measure of Richard’s contribution can never be captured by awards, titles or recognition.
It lives elsewhere.
It lives in the ordinary moments he gave back to people he never knew.
Another birthday.
Another Christmas.
Another family holiday.
Another chance to watch children grow up.
Another dinner around the table.
Another ordinary Tuesday.
Because of Richard’s work, I get to be here.
I get to travel with my husband. Host my podcast. Stand on stages and speak to audiences. Work with incredible people. Have coffee with friends. Make plans for next year. Worry about things that, in the grand scheme of life, don’t matter all that much.
I get the privilege of ordinary days.
I bought Richard’s book when it was released. I started reading it. Then I reached the chapters where he described his own diagnosis. I couldn’t continue. It was too confronting.
Perhaps because, as much as I admired the doctor, researcher and leader he was, I also recognised something of myself in those pages. The fear. The uncertainty. The sudden understanding that life can divide itself into before and after.
I’ve often found it unfair that people like Richard, and Dr Chris O’Brien before him, who dedicate their lives to improving the lives of others, are taken from the world far too soon.
Richard didn’t want to die. He had so much more he wanted to do. More research. More contribution. More life to live with his wife and family.
And perhaps that’s what has stayed with me most.
Not just the sadness of his passing, but the reminder that legacy isn’t measured solely by how long we live. It’s measured by what continues because we were here.
We spend so much of our lives wondering whether what we’re doing matters.
Whether anyone notices.
Whether we’re making a difference.
The reality is, we may never know.
The conversation that changed someone’s thinking.
The encouragement that arrived at exactly the right time.
The belief we held in another person before they could hold it themselves.
The work we quietly and consistently showed up to do.
The kindness we offered without expecting anything in return.
You may never fully understand the difference you’re making while you’re here.
Richard Scolyer probably didn’t know the names of the thousands of people whose lives were extended because of his work.
I am one of them.
He never knew me.
But he changed my life.
And because of him, I get another ordinary Tuesday.
What a gift.
What a legacy.
Thank you Richard.