What it’s like to live with cancer – when it’s your wife’s diagnosis

If there’s a correct reaction to your wife telling you she has cancer, I’m still not sure what it is. Tears? Fainting? Complete denial? One evening in February this year, it was my turn to find out. “I’m so sorry,” Hannah says, as if she’s somehow “caught cancer” on purpose.

She’s still shell-shocked. I’m not sure I’ve taken a breath; I feel numb. I instinctively put my hands to my temples, applying pressure as if I’m trying to reboot my brain. She doesn’t seem ill at all. She had an appointment with the urologist after spotting a tiny bit of blood in her wee, and we thought nothing of it. But now she has bladder cancer. The kids are downstairs waiting to be fed; we don’t have much time to talk.

“So… like, you mean, definitely? They don’t need to…?” I say, trailing off. “When?” I add, for further confusion – because let’s be honest, “When?” doesn’t make a whole lot of sense in this context. When what? When did this happen? “When?” as in “How long have you got?”

In the weeks following this clunky exchange of information, I’ve realised that nailing the appropriate response to someone telling you they have cancer really doesn’t come naturally to many of us.

“S***! The beans!” I say suddenly, remembering the saucepan on the hob downstairs in the kitchen. The side dish for the kids’ next culinary adventure. I’ve got to stop them coagulating into an inedible mush (the beans, not the kids). They’re 10 and seven (the kids, not the beans) and I’ve no idea what we’ll tell them. We hug each other.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” I say, even though I wouldn’t confidently swear that in a court of law. Everything might not be fine at all; everything might be awful. My wife has cancer.

We somehow navigate the evening routine of dinner/bath/bedtime as if the world hasn’t just been knocked off its axis. I talk to the kids about whatever nonsense we talk about, but it’s through a fogginess; I feel like I’ve got sudden-onset tinnitus – the shock of bad news has muffled everything around me and now there’s just a high-pitched hissing sound where rational thought should be.

My wife and I occasionally catch one another’s eye as if caught in a conspiratorial web. She has cancer, I keep reminding myself. We’re in our forties, and my wife Hannah, whom I love more than anything in the world, has cancer. This categorically wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Have you told your parents?” I ask later, once the kids have gone to sleep.

“I’ll do it tomorrow, I don’t want to upset them before bedtime,” she says, thoughtfully.

I nod in sage agreement, desperately attempting to appear stoical. Styling it out, even though I’m fully aware that I’m fraying at the seams. I then burst into tears and don’t stop crying for a good while after.

Over the next few days, the floodgates remain very much ajar. In an ideal world, I’d be supporting Hannah through the early days of her cancer ordeal like I’m channelling the titan Atlas holding up the heavens. But instead, I find myself weeping in secret between Teams meetings for work, and crying mid-run on a treadmill, thankful to be sweating enough that no one would guess.

And though I’m conscientiously attempting to mask my sorrow from the kids (whom we’ve chosen to keep in the dark), some of the noises emanating from my office must surely be a massive giveaway – honking, squealing, occasional howling.

One morning I splutter “What’s happening?” over and over again, from nowhere, as if attempting to break the fourth wall in search of divine intervention. The whole thing feels insane and my emotions are running riot.

What’s worse is that, throughout this barely concealed meltdown, I’m increasingly aware that I’m not the one who’s ill. This is her affliction, not mine. She’s the one having to go into battle against her body.

Yet whenever I attempt to figuratively fix my mascara and reapply my war paint, along comes another emotional trigger to knock me down. A song will come on (big shout out to “No More I Love You’s” by Annie Lennox, that absolutely floored me), or suddenly the word CANCER will appear in multiple headlines. Every time I look at the kids, I have premonitions of them being lumbered with the parental short straw for the rest of their lives. I see photos of Hannah and it feels like she’s already a memory.

The whole thing reminds me of how it was when we found out Hannah was pregnant (over 10 years ago). Suddenly, babies appeared to be everywhere. You’d not really noticed them before, but now all there was in the world was babies, babies, babies. You couldn’t move for them. And this is like that, but with morbid thoughts and intense sadness instead of glorious newborns.

Challenging scenarios play out in my head – visions of Hannah, months/years down the line, hollowed out, gasping and frail, having been blitzed by chemotherapy, or lying withered on her deathbed clutching my hand and lamenting that we never got old together.

Since her diagnosis in February she’s had an operation to remove two tumours from her bladder, and now we’re in the hinterland – waiting for information on what stage, what treatment, what’s next, and whether the various holiday destinations we’ve found over the years might now become the backdrop to unhappy future pilgrimages.

I think about the prospect of her not being at the other end of the sofa or on the other side of the bed. I think about the plans we’ve made for our home/future, or the times I’ve asked her to bear with me while I spend weeks working fruitlessly on script ideas, promising her that one of them will pay off eventually (still waiting on that) and how none of that means anything if she’s not here to enjoy the spoils. I think about how we’ve perfected the mundane ballet of parenting without ever missing a step, and how I can’t possibly do any of it without her. We’ve too many loose ends to tie up; this can’t end now.

“I promise I won’t be doing this the whole time,” I insist pre-emptively as I burst into tears for the umpteenth time. “I just need to get it out of my system.”

She laughs, and hugs me again. “You’ll be OK,” she says.

Christ, I hope so.

Freddie Flintoff’s horror Top Gear crash shown in documentary trailer

Images of Freddie Flintoff’s terrifying Top Gear accident have been released as part of the forthcoming Disney+ documentary about his horror crash.

The former cricketer, 46, was involved in a near-fatal incident that left him with significant facial injuries and broken ribs while filming the motoring show Top Gear in December 2022.

The crash led the BBC to suspend production for the “foreseeable future”, deeming it inappropriate to continue. He received £9m in compensation as a result of his injuries.

In the trailer for new documentary Flintoff, the sportsman reflected on the horrifying crash, which saw him retreat from public life for over half a year.

“I’ve lived under [the] radar for seven months,” Flintoff said in the preview. “One of the real frustrations was the speculation – that’s why I’m doing this now. What actually happened.”

Speaking about his “life-altering” injuries, the cricketer said: “I’m not saying I’m embracing them, but I’m not trying to hide my scars.”

He added: “It’s almost like a reset. I’m trying to find out what I am now. I’ve always seemed to be able to flick a switch, I’ve got to find that switch again.”

Flintoff will explore the ramifications of his accident in the new documentary, which will premiere in the UK and Ireland on 25 April.

His wife Rachael Wools, will also appear in the film. The pair married in March 2005 after they met at Edgbaston Cricket Ground three years earlier.

Also being interviewed for the documentary are the sportsman’s close friends: cricketer Michael Vaughan, presenter James Corden and comedian Jack Whitehall.

Flintoff returned to screens last year with a BBC series titled Freddie Flintoff’s Field of Dreams on Tour, in which he opened up about that crash. He revealed that he still suffers nightmares, flashbacks and anxiety.

Speaking in Field of Dreams, he said: “I don’t want to sit and feel sorry for myself. I don’t want sympathy. I’m struggling with my anxiety, I have nightmares, I have flashbacks – it’s been so hard to cope,” he said in a trailer for the show.

“But I’m thinking if I don’t do something, I’ll never go. I’ve got to get on with it.”

Flintoff admitted that the after-effects of the crash might follow him “for the rest of my life” and said he believes he is lucky to be alive after he flipped the Morgan Super three-wheeled car while filming Top Gear.

He said after the crash: “It’s going to be a long road back and I’ve only just started and I am struggling already and I need help. I really am.”

He added: “I’m not the best at asking for it. I need to stop crying every two minutes. I am looking forward to seeing the lads and being around them. I really am.”

Flintoff will premiere exclusively on Disney+ in the UK and Ireland on 25 April.

Man Utd salvage their season with breathtaking comeback for the ages

It was Bilbao or bust. Just when it seemed it would be bust, Manchester United condemning their season to utter failure, they instead salvaged it. They produced one of their latest and greatest comebacks. Harry Maguire headed them to Bilbao, for a Europa League semi-final against Athletic, perhaps for a return to the Basque Country for the final. They may yet get Champions League football, some £100m in broadcast, matchday and commercial income.

They may yet get redemption. It will be quite a rescue act as they seemed to capitulate when Lyon scored four unanswered goals. Then came the United response, three of their own, deep into extra time. After conceding two goals in seven minutes, United scored three in eight. Six-four down on aggregate after 113 minutes of an epic tie, they prevailed 7-6.

The late rally was led by the outstanding Bruno Fernandes, the captain coolly slotting in a penalty that may have been generously awarded after Casemiro went to ground under Thiago Almada’s challenge.

Then Kobbie Mainoo, sent on as an emergency striker, finishing like a centre-forward, taking Casemiro’s pass and curling a shot into the corner. Then Maguire, the 121st-minute hero heading in a cross from Casemiro. Him again, the Brazilian, the serial Champions League winner taking himself closer to Europa League glory. It threatened to be the last European night at Old Trafford, potentially for years. It became a special occasion. “In this stadium, in this club, you always have the feeling anything can happen,” said Ruben Amorim. So it appeared on a night of credibility-defying drama. “That is why we like this sport so much and all the frustration the coach has, the bad moments, when you have moments like this it is all worth it. We can forget for a few minutes what kind of season we are having.”

And yet, perhaps, they are saving their season. Galvanised by their plight, motivated by the prize, United played with the air of men who knew what was at stake. When ignominy beckoned, they responded. For Amorim, spurred on by a glimpse into United’s past, there was a night to make history. “I was watching the 1999 [Treble] documentary to have some inspiration for these moments,” he said. As the watching Sir Alex Ferguson may have again remarked, football, bloody hell.

For Lyon, it was merely hell. They could be forgiven for wondering what had hit them. They had mustered a terrific fightback of their own. At 2-0, they were seemingly down and out. At 4-2 up, they only had 10 minutes to see through. Yet there was a cruelty for Paulo Fonseca and his team. United may be 14th in the Premier League but they are the only unbeaten team in the Europa League, a different beast in Europe. When embarrassment was on the cards, they produced excitement.

Where to start? For an hour or so, this was one of United’s best performances of the season, leaving everyone wondering where this kind of football had been all year. They began well. They were rewarded with a goal. The dynamic Alejandro Garnacho took Fernandes’ pass and turned sharply in the penalty are to cut the ball back. Manuel Ugarte sidefooted in his second United goal.

As United continued to push, Casemiro had a low shot pushed just past the post by Lucas Perri. It was terrific goalkeeping, but the Brazilian was beaten again on the stroke of half-time. Dalot latched on to Maguire’s long pass to angle a low shot beyond Perri. A wing-back in the box, scoring goals: this may be part of Amorim’s vision.

Meanwhile, Fernandes was brilliant, almost scoring one of the great United goals when he volleyed Dalot’s long pass against the bar, twice also coming close to spectacular goals.

For Fonseca, barred from the touchline for nine months in French football for an altercation with a referee, the view from the technical area surely was not enjoyable initially. Yet he took advantage of his greater involvement to change the game with his substitutes. In particular, the introduction of Alexandre Lacazette provided a lifeline. He gave Lyon a focal point in the box. United creaked under pressure.

Corentin Tolisso headed in from six yards after Casemiro failed to clear a free kick and the substitute Lacazette glanced the ball into the midfielder’s path. Six minutes later, Lyon struck again, Nicolas Tagliafico angling in a shot from Ainsley Maitland-Niles’ cross before Andre Onana could claw it back from behind the line. Lacazette followed up to make sure anyway. For Onana there could, eventually, be the relief that his first-leg errors did not cost United; premature as his dancing celebrations of Ugarte’s opener proved, he ended the night jumping into Amorim’s arms in delight.

Others crossed the divide between hero and villain. Tolisso departed, a trip on the raiding Leny Yoro bringing him a second yellow card. It gave United a man advantage, yet, a quarter of an hour later, Lyon had a goal advantage, the excellent Rayan Cherki drilling the ball into the bottom corner after a burst from the replacement Malick Fofana. Scorer of a 95th-minute equaliser in Lyon, he struck even later, leaving Onana motionless.

For a while, Lyon were magnificent with 10 men. Then the dynamic Fofana was tripped by Luke Shaw, a United substitute, and Lacazette converted the penalty. So it was 4-2, with United heading out, with Fonseca’s changes working better than Amorim’s.

Until they weren’t. Until the substitute Mainoo scored and Casemiro starred and Maguire wrote his name into Old Trafford folklore. Like Teddy Sheringham and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer in 1999, but as a centre-back shunted into attack because of his aerial ability. “I just see one guy who is good in the box,” said Amorim. And the midfielder Mainoo proved another who was good in the box. “A win like that can bring so much momentum,” said the 120th-minute scorer. “We’re rolling the snowball and it could get bigger and bigger.” And now the snowball rolls on to Bilbao.