Auctioneer and Antiques Roadshow expert Theo Burrell on incurable cancer: I was 35. My son 21 months old. I've cried until I’m dry but I won't ever give up

Theo Burrell, who joined Lyon & Turnbull in 2011 and the Antiques Roadshow team in 2018, writes movingly on being diagnosed with an aggressive grade 4 glioblastoma in the summer of 2022 when her son was just 21 months old. Her fundraising auction for The Brain Tumour Charity has brought her back to life

Theo Burrell

In the winter of 2021, I became ill. At first it was a bout of travel sickness on a car journey. Then, I got sinusitis – well, according to various doctors. I was feeling tired, but my son was one year old, so when wasn’t I? Sleep was thin on the ground and I was working four days a week. A month later I had a migraine. My vision became kaleidoscopic, I felt faint and I was sick for 12 hours.

Over the weeks that followed, I got back on my feet but my eyesight felt a bit funny although the opticians couldn’t see anything wrong. Something didn’t feel quite right though. As the months went on, my migraines resurfaced, and I struggled to cope with bright lights or sunshine.

Doctors dosed me up with painkillers, but nothing touched the pain. So, I made do – what else do you do? In April 2022, things got worse. The headaches appeared any I time I bent over or laid down. They were so bad I would scream in agony – it felt like the contractions of childbirth in my skull. There was no way that I could work, so I was signed off sick.

Theodora Burrell and her partner Alex

On 7th June, my partner, Alex got up to find me wearing a pair of bright pink heart-shaped sunglasses on the sofa, where I’d been all night, trying to get some sleep. I couldn’t lie down, I couldn’t eat, I hadn’t washed in five days, and I had started hallucinating. Something was badly wrong. ‘I need to go to A&E’, I said.Before I quite knew what was happening, I was put through a CT scanner. Ninety minutes later the doctor returned, ashen-faced. I’d be lying if I said I could recall what he said but the words ‘large cancerous brain tumour’ were used. All I could think was how awful it must be to give this news; he looked so crest-fallen, so worried.

When the information slowly started to register, I shouted every expletive I knew, while my mum looked on and repeated ‘Oh, Theo’ over and over again. It was an out-of-body experience. I immediately got up and went outside for some fresh air. My mum phoned Alex and changed his world forever.The next week was an utter whirlwind. My phone didn’t stop buzzing with messages from friends and family, and gifts arrived as if I was celebrating a big birthday.

I had every imaginable scan and met every imaginable breed of doctor, from registrars to consultants, oncologists to surgeons. Here’s what I knew. I needed surgery. It was probably a glioblastoma: an aggressive tumour which was very difficult to treat. No matter what treatment I had it would grow back. It was incurable. It would take my life.

I had surgery the next week. I remember being given a clear liquid to drink before the operation, which would turn the cancerous cells in my brain bright pink under the lights, allowing my surgeon to remove as much of the tumour as possible. He said he’d aim to get over 90 per cent of the tumour removed, and he was good to his word.

I returned home within a few days, eager to spend time with my son, Jonah, and enjoy a little of the summer sunshine before I caught up with my oncologist. Any hopes we’d held that the diagnosis might be less awful were dashed. The histology proved that I had a grade four glioblastoma and the future was not looking particularly bright. I was 35. My son was 21 months old. I started mentally preparing my funeral.Six weeks of radiotherapy and chemotherapy followed in July. My dad drove me in to hospital every day. It was lonely sitting in the hospital waiting room. I was so young in comparison to other people. Everyone assumed my parents were the patients.

Just before Christmas, I had a repeat scan. It was good news – there was no re-growth and I now know my residual tumour has shrunk significantly. The treatment has been worthwhile.As I reach the first anniversary of my diagnosis, I’ve been reflecting on this strange, contradictory battle. The annoying things: I am no longer allowed to drive, and a lot of my hair fell out. More profound things – the unconscious belief I would grow old with Alex and see my son become a man is no longer something I can rely on. Incurable cancer swipes that all away. The intense pain and guilt I feel about my son losing me, and me leaving him, never eases. It makes me cry every time I think about it.

But some wonderful things have happened, too. Family and friends told me how much I meant to them. I re-prioritised my life. I realised how small so many of my past worries were. I have also met some incredible people within the cancer community. People battling the worst imaginable cancers, yet still living, still finding happiness. My faith in the medical profession was rebuilt – my oncologist and his team are literally keeping me alive. They are always there for me, and they celebrate every bit of good news as much as I do. I have realised how lucky I am in so many ways – I have a healthy son, a wonderful partner, a brilliant support network including my mum, a one-woman glioblastoma research team.

And my treatment, so far, has been working. The road can be so much more complicated for others.When in spring 2023 my closest friend, Hannah said we should have a fundraising auction for The Brain Tumour Charity – she brought me back to life. Suddenly we could turn this experience into something positive. I had been an auctioneer for 12 years, and having stepped away from work I suddenly had my mojo back. Hannah’s brilliant family have thrown everything they can at the sale, helping us with PR and linking us with celebrities. My dad phoned his entire address book and sourced incredible lots for the auction. My colleagues at Lyon & Turnbull created websites, branding and films. We now have over 40 lots, from sporting experiences, holidays, exclusive VIP experiences with comedians and much more. It has taken so much hard work and the generosity of dozens of people.

I also feel personally responsible to continue the work of amazing people like Dame Tessa Jowell and Laura Nuttall, who waived their privacy and campaigned so hard to raise awareness of this terrible disease.

So where does that leave me? Well, the battle continues. I have ‘forever cancer’. The last year has been physically and emotionally exhausting. The fatigue which comes with brain tumours and treatment is indescribably intense and the worry about each scan seizes me for weeks on end, leaving me anxious, angry and upset. Planning my future seems pointless some times, and at others very possible and absolutely worth doing.

I’ve joined charities, had therapy, laughed until I’ve cried, and cried until I’m dry. But I’m living, and I’m fighting, and I won’t ever give up.