Emma is now free of breast cancer. Diagnosed in July last year, just a few months after a clear mammogram, she underwent an extensive course of chemotherapy followed by a lumpectomy and finally four weeks of radiotherapy. That part of the treatment all ended in mid-April. We have both learnt greatly from the experience and met some amazing people – specialists, patients and their families – along the way. But the treatment remains ongoing and now the all-important monitoring begins. Something we both found tough, and I know it is almost always the case, is the waiting for the results after a scan. I don’t think that feeling of ‘scanxiety’ ever goes away. A much-needed holiday has just ended and now, as Emma writes, we can hopefully return to some semblance of normality. Fingers crossed.
May 17th 2018
And so the chance to press the reset button. It was 250 days from my first session of chemotherapy (aka pink poison) to the last day of radiotherapy, and as I lay back on my sun lounger in the Caribbean soaking up the sun and sipping a pina colada (only just a teensy bit smug) I was musing which word or phrase might best describe those last few months.
I decided that life defining might be best. You know, one of those traumatic “aha” experiences which shakes up your previously naive view of the world and steers some of your decisions for the rest of your life. I think it’s probably a phrase that’s realistic enough to make me far more respectful of the need for vigilance in looking after myself and yet positive enough to understand what really matters in life and not slip back into some of those bad old ways which both Jonathan and I have managed to shake off. It sounds rather like a well trodden cliche, but of course all cliches are based on some level of fact.
After months of weekly hospital appointments, it’s quite strange to be relatively free of all that. I did feel rather emotional and wrung out after my last radiotherapy session. The daily round trip to the unit to be laid out on a hard board like a spatchcock chicken on a butcher’s block was quite tiring, not least because Jonathan hopped off to cover the New Zealand series for almost the entire course of the treatment, so I lost my chauffeur.
I also became a new mother during those four weeks; the arrival of the gorgeous golden cocker spaniel Bumble into our home meant a bit of upheaval and a few disturbed nights. Jonathan was most unsympathetic as he was adamant we weren’t having another dog. You can see who wears the trousers in our house. He was equally adamant he was having nothing to do with the new boy. I can report they’ve been virtually inseparable since Jonathan walked back through the door and put his suitcase down.
And slowly our life is returning to some kind of normal. A different sort of normal where we say no to things more often, where we make more effort to see people and do things we have put off for too long. And we try to rush around far less.
We were invited to take part in a BBC Radio 5live podcast talking about how this disease affects not only the patient but also the people around you. Jonathan was able to talk about some things he’d not felt able to say before, not least how he had actually imagined my funeral in his head in those tumultuous early days.
For me, in some ways some of the hardest days lie ahead. When you are actually IN the maelstrom of treatment, it’s just head down and deal with it with an army of medical experts helping you every step of the way. Now, although I have the all clear, I have to live with the fear of cancer returning; not panicking that every headache is a brain tumor. I am also aware that everyone thinks I’m better – Jonathan has already given up making the tea in the morning – but I’m certainly not as strong as I was and I think that’s going to take some time to rebuild. Finally, I need to try to manage the ‘scanxiety’ around the ongoing monitoring tests that will continue to be part of my life. I think some professional help will be needed and I’ll be seeing my fabulous GP very soon to seek her support and advice.
So, I head back to work on our return from holiday but for far less hours a week. Of course I appreciate I’m lucky that I’m in a position to do that although it will mean curbing the retail therapy somewhat. But it’s as much part of the new me as the reconstructed nipple that’s coming along later this year!
Yep, life defining seems a good way of summing all that up. I feel I’ve been given a second chance and it’s made me realise how very much I’ve got to live for.
“Emma – I haven’t see you cry before” . These were the words from my specialist, Monika, as I sobbed while she told me I was clear of cancer.
Well, what did she expect? I didn’t cry when the original diagnosis was handed out last July. Jonathan did. I didn’t cry with relief when we were told it hadn’t spread. Jonathan wept all over Monika’s coral dress. I drank champagne and smiled as Neil shaved off my hair two weeks after the pink poison started. I didn’t cry once during the 24 weeks of Mr Keemo Therapee. I might have had a brief snivel when my body blew up like Mr Blobby thanks to the steroids, and my face became so fat my eyes virtually disappeared. Even so, I was worried that crying might mean I would lose my remaining eyelashes, so I just stopped looking in the mirror! I didn’t cry when pre-Christmas food poisoning put me back in hospital. I didn’t cry as I was waiting for my surgery – or afterwards when the codeine made me as sick as a dog. But tell me the last seven months’ hard yards have been worth every second, and I don’t mind admitting to a proper cry.
Ten days earlier, a three-hour operation to remove a chunk of my right breast and some lymph nodes, had all gone swimmingly. A couple of nights in hospital also gave me respite from Jonathan and his cooking. It comes to something when hospital food is a better option. When I dared look at myself, I was shocked. No stitches (all sort of glued together) and surprisingly “OK”. I don’t look like a survivor of a shark attack – being a shallow sort of a girl, I will still be able to wear sleeveless dresses. And, much to my amusement, the residual swelling has actually given me a great cleavage for the time being. To ensure the necessary clear margins, I’d been told I would lose my nipple (shudder) but I’ll be rebuilt at the end of the year, and am assured they can do great things with 3D tattoos these days.
I have been doing my exercises religiously, trying to avoid the dreaded fluid retention and lymphedema. But, niggling away at the back of mind was “what if”? What if they didn’t get everything they wanted? What if they had to do another operation? What if it had spread into the lymph nodes and was whizzing round my body? All these “what ifs” had become reality for a number of people I know, so I just couldn’t relax. At the appointed hour on Friday evening (the longest Friday in history) we sat in Monika’s consulting room as she beamed and told us I was chemically, radiologically and pathologically clear of cancer. Yes, I still have 4 weeks of radiotherapy to go. I will continue to have various drugs for some years to come, but as Team Emma we’ve seen the pernicious little bugger off. Brilliant treatment, ever developing drugs, skilled surgeons, a huge dollop of good luck and unswerving positive vibes from tens of thousands of people we don’t even know.
Yes, there have been a lot of tears on this gloriously sunny February weekend – but this time, for all the right reasons.
Jonathan says I’m going to be a cheap date on Valentine’s Day this year. Or so he thinks. February 14th is operation day in the Agnew household. Six months of chemo, a bout of food poisoning, two Ashes Test matches, the festive season, becoming grandparents (to puppies) and now it’s time to gird my loins and go under the knife.
Instead of the much-anticipated jubilation at the end of 24 weeks of chemotherapy, I felt rather flat. Sort of hollow and empty, and down in the dumps. My wonderful specialist told me the hardest part was over. Scans re-confirmed the tumour has stayed away, and the timing of the operation and subsequent 4 weeks of radiotherapy means we can still go on our long-awaited holiday at the end of April. But I remained resolutely miserable and more than a little bit bad tempered. Jonathan was at his wits end with me, when a girlfriend suggested a few days in the sunshine in Portugal might be just the answer. Before you could say ‘RyanAir’, he’d booked me a ticket and packed me off. Call me shallow and easily pleased, but that break was just what I needed; blue skies, retail therapy, a few g and t’s and I was a new woman. Huge sighs of relief all round.
After Portugal, I made my first visit to Brighton. Jonathan was doing a theatre show with Sir Geoffrey, and I thought some more sea air would do me good. We met up with old friends Chris and Viv; Chris was formerly a BA pilot and used to fly Jonathan around the world. They insisted we visit the Royal Pavilion and what a good recommendation that was; the summer residence for the excesses of King George IV although on a cold and draughty February morning, I can see why Queen Victoria sold it off.
But in case it sounds as though I’m having too good a time, it’s worth saying that, in reality, this treatment is a long old slog. Our lives are currently dictated to by hospital appointments, ongoing hormone injections, anti-bone cancer drug treatment, pre-operation procedures and scans. But next week will be a landmark. I’m “lucky” enough to only need a lumpectomy. Oh, and some pesky lymph nodes removed from my armpit. Other patients in the waiting room must have wondered what was going on as we howled with laughter at my surgeon’s description of “evening me up” and “ensuring pertness” during the operation. I almost got carried away and thought I was having it done for cosmetic reasons rather than life saving ones. Well, you’ve got to laugh…
But back to being a cheap date. Cheap? Me? Never! It’s going to cost him dearly in new night attire for hospital (an old cricket touring t-shirt will NOT do). Clearly I’ll be needing some rather nice lingerie when I come out (see above – changing in size) and I also expect to come home to Leicestershire’s equivalent of the Chelsea Flower Show after my two nights in hospital. Suddenly, I think he believes a meal for two at a local restaurant is looking a better deal.
So on we go. Jonathan continues to do his best and is still cooking meals for me with his wretched pressure cooker. Some of the meals are even edible these days. He did confess, though, to having a good cry with one of the chemo nurses last week. My big steroid “moon” face is slowly deflating. My hair is growing but it’s totally silver! And it’s only 5 weeks until he heads off to cover the New Zealand Test series. By then, God willing, it will be spring time and we will have a glorious and healthy summer to look forward to.
2017 has been quite a year for us. It started on an absolute high with Jonathan receiving his MBE in the New Years Honours, leading to a brilliant day at The Palace then onto Lord’s. What a celebration that was. Then, of course, just weeks later I got my breast cancer diagnosis. You might be surprised to hear that rather than being glad to see the back of this year, I’m instead reflecting on all the positive things it has bought us. It would be ridiculous to suggest that cancer is a “gift” , and I am only too well aware that my positive prognosis has helped us keep very upbeat. But, it cemented us as a team in the face of the pernicious little bugger. It’s also put life very firmly into perspective and made both of us take a fresh look at our busy lives and focus on what we really want to spend our time on.
So, we will be saying “no” a bit more often; trying to do less rushing around and clock watching; making time for people we really want to spend time with and not putting off all those things we have always talked about doing. We are currently drawing up a list of “10 things we want to do in 2018” . Watch this space.
So it is not quite the glamorous NYE we had planned. We are both sitting here in our new Christmas dressing gowns, overdosing on twiglets, the entire four series of Line of Duty and fighting with the spaniels for space on the sofas in front of the log burner. You get the picture of dull domesticity. Not for us this time the splendid fireworks over Sydney Harbour. We’ve been lucky enough to have savoured those before from the iconic Opera House and from boats out on the water. But frankly this year, there’s no where I’d rather be than tucked up in our cosy home in the Vale of Belvoir. But just in case you think it’s all peace and light here, there was a moment of early evening marital disharmony as Jonathan accused me of sabotaging his cooking by hiding the butter. I may have used some rather rude words in return and questioned his eyesight, but we poured another glass of wine and good humour was quickly restored. In truth, I suspect he might be secretly hankering to be covering the Sydney Test Match. We had agreed that, if the Ashes hung in the balance on the final test, he’d head back out there to commentate. Sadly that hasn’t happened, so he’s stuck here in the rain with me and the muddy dogs. He was thrilled that I was well enough to be left whilst he covered the Brisbane and Adelaide matches. However, rather like a naughty toddler, he clearly can’t be trusted to be left unattended, as he managed to get himself arrested for jay walking. A late night phone call home resulted in a slamming down of the phone when I told him I didn’t want to be married to a common criminal. In return, he was furious when I ended up in hospital with a dose of food poisoning – I couldn’t even blame his cooking for that.
The clock is striking 10 and it’s likely we will be heading upstairs for an early night. Tomorrow we will walk the dogs then have lunch with friends. Then it’s back to hospital on Wednesday for chemo – including a new anti bone cancer drug added to the cocktail. It’s funny how something we both dreaded at the start has now become so routine. I’m hoping to be back at work early in the New Year, before an operation and radiotherapy. Jonathan will be hoping to be in New Zealand in March and the rhythm of his cricketing life will continue. It will be the same, but never QUITE the same again.
Finally, aside from wishing everyone health and happiness for the New Year, we would like to say thank you for the love and support from our cricketing family the world over. We have been encouraged, cheered and humbled by you all. Bring on 2018 x
Four months ago to the day, the lives of the Agnew’s changed forever. Yes, I know he’s usually the dramatic one, but it really did. My cancer diagnosis – on July 18th – meant our life of the past 21 years had to stop revolving around Latest, and instead became all about me. At that point it seemed unthinkable that Jonathan would be able to head to Australia for that cricketing highlight of the Ashes. A million questions crowded in; had the pernicious little bugger already spread anywhere? Was it treatable? How would I cope with the intensive 24 weeks of my new best friend Mr Keemo Therapee? What operations would be needed? It was a frightening and unknown world out there, and frankly cricket seemed absolutely immaterial. Even the Ashes. But somehow, tonight, Jonathan is flying out for the first Test Match. An amazingly early diagnosis of an aggressive cancer (forever indebted to the BBC breast nurse who always advised me to “ look as well as feel”. My fantastic GP Dr Griffiths who trusted my instincts; the incomparable diagnostic team at Leicester’s Glenfield hospital breast cancer unit and of course the brilliance of the consultants and drugs into whose hands I placed my life. So now he’s all yours for three weeks.
Unbelievably, halfway through my “ pink poison” of chemotherapy, the tumour has disappeared. My oncologists face was one big smile as he announced it “Gone – no trace”. Latest allowed tears to pour down his little chubby cheeks. I think I just sat there looking gormless and unable to take in what he had said. It was just halfway through my chemotherapy regime and, while the medics hoped it would shrink the tumour, no one had prepared us for this level of positive news. Amid all the euphoria, we completely understand there is no room for complacency. While the original tumour has gone, my treatment plan remains the same. Another 12 weekly doses of chemotherapy combined with hormone blocking drugs. Then there will be surgery in the New Year and finally radiotherapy, so still a long way to go.
But that day we took a deep breath, and dared to wonder if he could go to Australia. It took about 15 seconds. Jonathan loves his job – and he’s a brilliant broadcaster. While I’m on the subject of compliments (I can blame the drugs) he has been simply amazing, and I think he deserves a break from me! Its not easy watching someone you love fight for her life. He has had black moments and needed professional help to cope with a strong willed, independent fiery patient. That’s me, by the way. My great fortune in being one of the tiny minority of people who tolerate chemo without any side effects (other than complete baldness) means I have an insatiable appetite to get on with life. Jonathan has likened me to a recalcitrant child on reins who has needed hauling in on a number of occasions. He’s religiously made me green sludge to drink, cooked meals (some were even quite edible) and forced me to rest. But most of all, he’s fought for my health like a lion defending his pride against a young imposter. For everything, I thank him from the bottom of my heart.
So off he goes. I will be getting some peace and quiet. Tino the cocker spaniel will be keeping his side of the bed warm, and you will be hearing him on the radio. He will also be catching up in Adelaide with our youngest, Thomas, who has had to cope with all this drama via FaceTime and texts. He’s been out there since April playing hockey and working. Meanwhile daughter, Charlotte, and I will be keeping the home fires burning at Agnew Towers. When Jonathan returns home in early December, we already have everything to celebrate. But being 2 nil up in the Ashes would just be the icing on the Christmas cake.
*12 weeks since I was diagnosed with that inconvenient little bugger, breast cancer
*9 weeks since my new best friend Mr Keemo Therapee came into my life
*6 weeks since my hairdressing bills disappeared for the time being
*4 weeks since Jonathan learnt to cook
That’s a lot of life changing milestones. And its been a month since I last sat and wrote on this blog.
Cooking: I blame his mother and myself a little bit. We have both indulged him over the years. Frankly, I can’t bear the mess left behind in the kitchen, so it’s always been easier to do it myself. But, out of the blue, a fantastic bunch of lads from London heard Jonathan moaning about his lack of culinary skills on Test Match Special and offered to come up and help! I nearly bit their hands off, probably from hunger!
You know how men say irritating things like: “Oh, let’s just BBQ” by which they mean, you scrub down the BBQ from the last time it was used in 2016 , buy all the food and prepare all the salads etc etc… and they just stand there and burn a couple of sausages…?
Well, Paul, Paddy and Eammon arrived from the Sunshine Garden Centre with a white van, three gas BBQ’s and enough food to feed the whole village. Presenting Jonathan with an apron, they set about showing him how to marinade pork fillet, stuff a beer can up a chickens backside and roast sirloin, potatoes and even Geoffrey Boycott untraditional Yorkshire puddings. All on the BBQ.
It was a brilliant afternoon and a supreme act of kindness and generosity, and one of many we have been so very fortunate to have received over the past few weeks. More importantly, it gave Jonathan a very positive role at home – something he has really struggled with since my diagnosis.
You may have noticed he missed the first day of the Lords Test Match. This was particularly significant because it marked the end of Henry Blofeld’s illustrious broadcasting career, and Jonathan, who adores Blowers, was due to lead the tributes.
Most people assumed it was because I was unwell. In truth, there’s been another patient at home too. Balancing his work, worrying about me, a feeling of total helplessness, lying awake in the early hours trying to fight those darkest of fears and wondering whether he should go to Australia or not to cover the Ashes were all taking their toll on Jonathan. He finally admitted he needed professional help and went to the doctor. Some short-term use of diazepam and longer term counselling will, we hope, help us both through the next few months. When I heard him back behind the microphone, I wondered what the Prime Minister would have said if she knew he was on Valium when he interviewed her.
And finally the Ashes. The players set off later this month. Jonathan was due to be away for nearly 3 months and clearly that’s not a viable option for us at the moment.
However, I had a mid-term scan last week. As those of you who have been through this will understand, it’s a sleepless night beforehand and a fear of “what if” waiting for results. It’s was just total elation for us this weekend when we were told the little so and so has responded well to the treatment, and it is shrinking rapidly.
I still have a further 12 week course of chemotherapy to go, then surgery and radiotherapy BUT I’m feeling really fit and strong and tolerating the drugs very well. I’ve been told I am in the amazingly fortunate 2% of chemo patients who don’t suffer any of the nasty side effects (apart from hair loss) I’ve just had a massively positive scan so we have therefore taken the decision that Jonathan WILL head out for the first two test matches. I know he really wants to go. I think it’s positive proof that I’m doing well so far and I’m not sure the BBC’s coverage would be quite the same without him. Gosh, I must be ill – that’s almost a compliment. So, keeping everything crossed, Jonathan will be welcoming everyone to The Gabba on 23rd November, and I’ll have a tidy house and control of the kitchen once again.
September; how did that happen ? Now I’m officially a lady of leisure for a few months, I’m sitting in the sunshine reflecting what an ” interesting” week it’s been.
Last week I passed the prison warden’s (aka Jonathan/Latest) fitness test and was deemed well enough to drive to Leeds for the celebrity cricket match marking 60 years of Test Match Special. Clearly, he is too ancient to actually play in it, so he and Geoffrey Boycott coached the teams led by Tuffers and Vaughan. It was a great afternoon in the sunshine, and I was once again so moved by all those people who came to talk to me and offer encouragement. It really helps keep my spirits high.
On Monday, a very close friend, who also has this inconvenient wretched disease, had a silver wedding party. Imagine my horror when, washing my hair for said event, it sort of melted into a huge matt and no amount of combing would sort it out. Lovely Jade gave me an elfin chop, but there was no disguising it and, with half an hour to go, it was “thank God for Monika” all ready and waiting in the spare room. I’m so glad I had her – I suspect I might have retired under the duvet all night weeping if I hadn’t, but on she went, on went the pink dress and matching lipstick, and Cinders went off to the party to join my two friends also at various stages of fighting this illness.
By Tuesday, I was sporting a comb over. Guys, it’s seriously NOT a good look and it doesn’t fool anyone. So it was off to the wonderful Neil, with whom I made a plan immediately after my diagnosis. I’d provide the champagne and he’d do the clipping. And you know, it really wasn’t as traumatic as I thought. Or was that just the pink fizz?
From pink fizz to pink poison number 2 on Wednesday and my new best friend Mr Keemo Therapee. Apart from expelling my hair (and hopefully that blinking tumour) I seem to be tolerating him pretty well with limited side effects so far. Lucky me. Obviously Latest told my specialist that it was down to his nursing, the daily green sludge and culinary delights/disasters. I just smiled indulgently.
So, back to the beginning of September (definitely NOT end of summer/ beginning of autumn in my book) Just under two months ago I walked into my super GP practice (we one of the lucky ones with village doctors who work early mornings, evenings and Saturdays) My mammogram in February this year was clear but I had noticed a slight “dimple” on my right breast. I couldn’t feel a lump and neither could my doctor, but (and this is the vital bit) she said because I knew it was a CHANGE, she’d send me off to the hospital “just to check it out and be sure”. Thank goodness she wasn’t dismissive or sent me away to keep an eye on it. So lucky in many ways.
Ten years ago, a local Leicestershire rider Claire Lomas, was paralysed in an accident. She achieved international fame when she completed the 2012 London marathon in 17 days wearing a bionic suit. One of her sayings is: “Smile and laugh. You often start to feel how you behave”. Thanks Claire. It is great advice.
August 17th 2017
What I have quickly come to realise about this inconvenient cancer is that it’s not simply my diagnosis. It really hits around you. Family, friends and complete strangers have been overwhelmingly kind and encouraging and have got us through this first shocking month.
From the moment those words “breast cancer” were uttered in hospital, and Latest Husband fought desperately hard not to be sick and collapse on the floor, it’s been his cancer as much as mine. He’s been to all my appointments, sat waiting in corridors while I’ve been scanned, examined and operated on. He’s squeezed the blood out of my hand as we waited to hear whether it had spread or not and most recently whiled away the hours while the pink poison of chemo was pumped into my veins.
In these situations you have to find humour in the small things; I’m currently thinking it’s highly amusing that Jonathan hates needles. And trust me, at the moment there are a lot of needles going on in my life! So every time someone appears with a sharp implement, he shuffles like an embarrassed schoolboy and makes a swift exit muttering about “fresh air.”
It may also surprise you to know that he’s been a totally indulged and spoilt husband for the past 21 years; rarely being pressed into any form of domestic service – particularly of the kitchen variety. However, since my first chemo last week, it’s been a steep learning curve for us both, and he’s tackled the cooking with some trepidation and a huge dollop of gusto!
But showing his typically competitive streak, not for him the simple basics, he’s leapt in with risotto, chicken with roasted Mediterranean vegetables and fennel, and beef stir fry. I’ve refrained from commenting on the fact that he’s used every single kitchen utensil in the house. Or that the washing up has to be surreptitiously redone as it’s not quite up to my standards of cleanliness. And that he went to the electrical department looking for a “bulb of fennel.” I’m actually very grateful to be able to just collapse on the sofa on a diet of afternoon television (Come Dine With Me/Escape to the Country etc etc) and then just eat what is presented. He’s also researched all sorts of foods that are good for me, and our fridge looks like an allotment: full of every green thing known to man. Latest has force-fed me buckets full of green stuff from a blender every morning. There’s also a ‘guess the mystery ingredient’ competition element. This morning it was a tomato. Yesterday it was a chilli beetroot: you get my drift!
He’s also acted as a prison warden, allowing me limited amounts of fresh air and leg stretching in the morning, then frog arching me back to bed for an afternoon sleep when he deems I’ve had enough. He’s run errands, acted as chauffeur, discovered supermarkets (yes, he really was sheltered!) intercepted phone calls and dealt with necessary admin.
But now it really is time for him to go back to work before we start falling out. I’ve been lucky; this first cycle seems to have gone very smoothly. I was fit and healthy when I started it and I just didn’t know how I would be affected. Yes, I’ve been tired and slept a lot. And when I haven’t slept, I’ve rested. I haven’t been sick at all, and taken all my anti sickness drugs religiously, so they seem to have worked their magic. AND I haven’t lost my hair yet, so no need to employ Monika (my trusty wig who’s waiting for me in our spare room). So, all things being equal, he will be back on the radio for the first West Indies test match from Birmingham. It’s a day/night test, so I’m hoping he’ll be able to bring me breakfast in bed before he goes (fat chance) but it seems rather timely that this is the first Test match to be played with a pink ball in this country. And given pink is the colour of the breast cancer charity, I’m hoping it’s a good omen for the weeks ahead.
August 9th 2017
Last Saturday I went shopping. I was supposed to be topping up my admittedly already rather extensive stock of bikinis. I had a couple of weekends in Portugal planned to escape a) the English ‘summer’ and b) the cricket!! I had also just booked to fly to Australia this winter to join Latest (husband) who will be covering the Ashes for the BBC. Instead, I found myself shopping for wigs.
Not the fancy dress variety you understand. No, just 18 days earlier I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The description of a roller coaster doesn’t really do it justice. From my fantastic GP to the phenomenal professionalism of Leicester Glenfield Hospital’s breast unit, our feet have hardly touched the ground. And there is no ” softly softly” approach with this lot – after two hours of investigations they told us kindly but without mincing their words.
“You have a breast cancer. Do you understand”?
Well yes I do but I’m a bit too busy for this; the cricket season is in full swing and Jonathan is all over the country…I also have a full on job for the BBC. There’s the small matter of those holidays I was looking forward to; the equestrian competition season is at its height and number 1 son is playing hockey on the other side of the world. Sorry, it’s rather inconvenient!
The next two weeks became an intricate pattern of hospital appointments, work and deceipt as we struggled to make sense of what was going to happen. Had it spread? No (bizarrely it felt like we had won the lottery and we went out to celebrate!!). What treatment would I need? Turns out to be 24 weeks of chemotherapy, then surgery then radiotherapy. How on earth would we break the news to my two children who lost their father some years ago to Motor Neurone Disease?
So I wrote a list. I’m a great list maker – it’s the only way anything gets done at Agnew Towers. Pretty much top of that list was ‘ sort wig’. And that inevitably meant a shopping trip!! Hurrah, there was something to look forward to. Hairdressing friends told me the sort of thing I needed to look for; lace fronts, comfort caps; hand or machine weave, natural or synthetic hair. I became quite an expert overnight! And armed with a girlfriend and a credit card I found myself on Saturday afternoon in the very capable hands of Martin.
Now I’m a girl who can spend. A lot actually. And quite a lot on her hair with cuts and highlights and blow dries. So when Martin reasoned with me that the amount I spent on a wig would soon be recouped by NOT going the to the hairdressers, I knew we were going to get along famously. Don’t get me wrong….I can’t even bear to think about losing my blonde ( ish) tresses. I might sound shallow but I have heard women say over and over again that it’s been the worst point in their cancer treatment. I will be exactly the same. My gorgeous friend Neil has already promised to come armed with champagne and his clippers and finish the job off once my hair starts going. He says he will do Jonathan too ( he only has a few strands anyway!)
So I literally waltzed out of the shop wearing Monika (pictured). She’s named after one of my brilliant team of specialists who, along with my pink poison (aka my chemo) are going to save my life. There’s going to be a fair saving on my hairdressing bills too…..
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CLASSIC TMS AUDIO
A classic View: Hugh Cornwell – lead singer of the Stranglers
Manchester United and England’s Gary Neville reflects brilliantly on the impact cricket has made on his life:
Strictly Come Dancing judge, Len Goodman: a great story-teller
The legendary broadcaster/DJ Annie Nightingale. What a character!
Downton Abbey’s Mr Carson, and Hampstead CC Chairman, Jim Carter
Daniel Radcliffe, aka Harry Potter, on his 18th birthday
Days after the 2011 riots I interview the Prime Minister David Cameron at the Oval
Leader of the Labour party, Ed Miliband meets his childhood hero
One of my favourites – chatting to Elton John on his piano stool
Eric Clapton brightens up a rainy morning at Lord’s with his stories about Ian Botham
Rugby legend Gareth Edwards is my entertaining guest at Cardiff
England are moments away from winning the Ashes in 2005, and Hugh Grant pops in for tea
Great fun with Aussie comedian Adam Hills
Lesley Garrett is quickly into full flow at Lord’s
The interview everyone still talks about: pop star Lily Allen
Two years later, Lily returns for tea with a husband, a cake and a bump
Mark Webber takes us into the cockpit of his F1 racing car
A perfect guest for lunch at Cardiff – Max Boyce
Lunch with the ageless Nicholas Parsons
A lovely session with Richie Benaud as he bows out of British TV
Tea with England football coach Roy Hodgson
The match referee’s cousin pays a visit to Lord’s: Russell Crowe
John (Boycie) Challis takes an extended View from the Boundary at Edgbaston
My favourite piece of commentary. Kerry O’ Keeffe and I watch Steve Waugh’s 100 in Sydney 2003
Keane’s Tom Chaplin sings a beautiful solo at Old Trafford
To listen to my ‘Desert Island Discs’ click here
More dates planned
15th: Torquay, Princess Theatre Book tickets
17th: Richmond Theatre Book tickets
4th: Milton Keynes. Book tickets
6th: Southend, The Cliffs Pavilion. Book tickets
More dates planned
Cricket: A Modern Anthology
In this wide-ranging and beautifully-produced anthology, I have chosen a wide variety of writings on the sport that has consumed my life, from the 1932/33 Ashes (Bodyline) series right up to the present day. In a series of carefully considered, thematically organised reflections, I examine the importance of their contribution to our understanding and appreciation of cricket. With input from several eminent cricketing historians, including the librarian at Lord’s, the book contains a fascinating range of material, from renowned classics to books that have hardly seen the light of day in the United Kingdom (e.g. The Hanse Cronje Story by Garth King); from overseas fiction to modern day autobiographies (Marcus Trescothick, Simon Hughes, Mike Brearley etc.) that have attained classic status. With 75 seminal cricket images, original line drawings and a comprehensive index, this book is a must-have for any self-respecting cricket fan.
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Thanks, Johnners: An Affectionate Tribute to a Broadcasting Legend
Thanks Johnners is a warm tribute to my mentor Brian Johnston and his time at the helm of Test Match Special.
The on-air incident, in which my comment on Ian Botham’s attempt to avoid stepping on his stumps – “He just couldn’t quite get his leg over” provoking prolonged fits of giggles – most notably from Johnners – has been voted the greatest piece of sporting commentary ever. The friendship between myself and Brian became immortalised through that broadcasting classic, but there was a deeper bond between us, as this book reveals.
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This is in effect my personal diary of my experiences in Australia in 2010/2011 – when England finally won the Ashes in Australia for the first time in 24 years. With additional contributions from the best BBC cricket bloggers and the resident TMS statistician, Aggers’ Ashes is the only companion you will need to relive those wonderful days when history was made Down Under.
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Over to You, Aggers
The world of cricket has seen many ups and downs since my autobiography was first published back in 1997. This substantially updated edition of the book features my thoughts on the Cronje bribery scandal; the loss of the BBC televised coverage to Channel 4; England’s failures at the 1999 World Cup, in South Africa and against the Australians in 2001; and their successes against the West Indies and Pakistan. This book takes the reader on an odyssey around the cricketing world.
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8 Days a Week: Diary of a Professional Cricketer
An honest but entertaining account of a county cricketer’s life on the road.
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Please get in touch for all enquiries
There are various ways to get in touch with me. The easiest and most direct is through Twitter. However, if your comment is regarding Test Match Special, please email email@example.com
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