Hannah thought she just had a few too many drinks, but the truth was devastating...
Plonking my glass down, I leant over to my best mate, Sophie.
‘Time for a refill?’ I giggled.
We were down the pub, celebrating our team Wigan winning at rugby league.
I smiled and thought: Life is good.
Just 18, I was following my dream and would soon start training to become a nurse. And in just a few weeks, I was off on holiday to Tenerife.
But the next day, I had the hangover from hell.
After work, I popped round to Tracey, Sophie’s mum’s house, and promptly threw up.
Around 7pm. as a few of us sat in the garden, I was still feeling rough.
‘Hannah, what’s wrong?’ one of my friends suddenly said.
Next thing I knew, the garden was flooded with flashing blue lights and two paramedics walked in.
I didn’t have a clue what was going on, as I was rushed to hospital in an ambulance.
My mum, Carol, and dad, Peter, arrived, and Mum explained what had happened.
'You've had some sort of seizure'
‘You’ve had some sort of seizure,’ she said, softly. ‘Apparently one minute you were fine, the next you were thrashing around in your chair.’
After two days, I was allowed home, but given a follow-up CT scan, then an MRI.
Two weeks later, a nurse and a doctor sat Mum and me down.
‘Hannah, I’m afraid you’ve got a brain tumour,’ the doctor said.
In shock, I blurted: ‘Does that mean I can’t go to Tenerife?’
A nurse herself, Mum stayed calm as we were told the tumour was the size of a satsuma, and I’d need an op.
‘At this stage, we don’t think it’s cancerous,’ the doctor added.
We broke the news to Dad and my siblings.
Three weeks later — just two days before my 19th birthday — I had my operation at The Salford Royal Hospital, a half-hour drive from where we lived in in Haydock, Merseyside.
Allowed home the morning of my birthday, I celebrated quietly with my family.
But just days later, doctors told us what my surgery had revealed….
‘Hannah, the tumour is cancerous,’ the surgeon confirmed.
I had a glioblastoma, an aggressive form of brain cancer.
Then he added: ‘I’m afraid it’s terminal.’
All they could do was try to extend my time with radiotherapy and chemo.
I was stunned.
My family and friends were my rock as I began 30 sessions of radiotherapy first.
But doctors explained that because the tumour had been on my pituitary gland, my hormones would be affected by the treatment.
I was told: ‘There’s very little chance you’ll be able to have children.’
The medic’s eyes shone with kindness. But ever since I was a kid, all I’d ever wanted was to be a mum myself.
‘This is worse than hearing I’ve got cancer,’ I said, broken.
When the radiotherapy, and then four months of chemo finished, there was surprising news at my next scan.
My consultant, Dr Roa, told me: ‘Your tumour has disappeared. You’re in remission.’
‘Thank you!’ I beamed at him, bursting with gratitude, as Mum hugged me.
It was only much later that she admitted doctors had originally believed I had just 12 weeks to live.
We had an end-of-treatment party to celebrate, then the following year, my sister, Dawn, and I went off to the Rugby League World Cup in Australia.
I thought: I’m going to get out and live life.
Two weeks in, we were at a pub filled with rugby fans in Melbourne, when we got talking to a bloke from Wigan, called Mike.
He was with his mum and sister, and seemed really sweet.
I thought: Ooh he’s lovely!
When I got back to the UK, we continued to text but just as mates.
Three years in, we started dating.
When Mike found out I was a cancer survivor, he took it in his stride.
Just a few months into dating, I got all teary as we were having a drink.
‘I probably can’t have kids,’ I told him.
‘I don’t care,’ Mike shrugged. ‘It’s you I want.’
After 11 months together, we got engaged. Then, two years after that, we tied the knot at a local church, in front of 150 guests.
At the reception, Mike and I danced to Stand By Me.
Mum, Dad, and my brother and sister all stood there gawping at us, crying happy tears.
Mike and I settled into our home in Wigan, and I got a job as a school teaching assistant.
One year into married life, I went for my regular six-monthly scan, and got the all-clear.
‘We can offer you hormone treatment if you want to try for a family,’ a nurse smiled.
'I probably can't have kids'
I shook my head.
I had the contraceptive implant, but only to balance my hormones. I’d accepted I’d never have my own kids.
Then, just three months later, Mike was cooking steak and chips — when I took one sniff and threw up.
Later, I said I fancied some onion rings.
‘But you hate them!’ Mike said, confused.
Still, he popped out to Asda and came back with onion rings — and a pregnancy test.
‘Just in case?’ he suggested.
‘There’s no point,’ I insisted.
But unable to sleep, I woke up at 5am, and nipped into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, I ran back to the bedroom and snapped on the light.
‘I’m pregnant!’ I shrieked, shaking Mike out of his sleep, and waving the pregnancy stick under his nose.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, just as stunned.
There were more shocks too…
At my 12-week scan, the midwife pointed at the screen and said: ‘There’s baby number one.’
Then she added: ‘…and there’s baby number two.’
‘Sorry, say that again?’ Mike said.
I was carrying twins!
The two nurses knew my case notes, and what I’d been through. Soon all four of us were in tears.
When Mike and I excitedly rang our mums, at first they thought it was a prank.
Then there were more joyful crying.
In time, when I was 37 weeks and one day pregnant, doctors induced my labour.
The following morning, I was rushed for an emergency caesarean because one of the twins was lying sideways.
First, baby Alice arrived, followed three minutes later by her brother, Thomas.
They both weighed 5lb 12oz, and I gave each of them a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Moments later, Mike sat on a chair, a baby in each arm, looking like he’d burst with happiness.
When the twins were six months old, to celebrate their first Christmas I took them to meet Dr Roa at The Christie.
He wheeled them around in their double buggy, introducing them to other cancer patients to give them hope.
Our twins are eight now.
Over the years, I’ve explained to them that ‘Mummy used to have a poorly head.’
Recently, they joined me, Mum and Sophie doing a 5K as part of The Christie Festive Dash in Heaton Park, Manchester.
I still can’t thank all the staff at The Christie enough. Without them, I wouldn’t be here today.
Hannah Hill, 36, Wigan
To support the work of The Christie Charity, which supports the work of The Christie NHS Foundation, please go to christie.nhs.uk/the-christie-charity/donate or ring 0161 446 3988.