Cancer took my mum, my grandparents and cost me my leg – but it’s never held me back

Amy Conroy photographed for The Telegraph near her home in east London earlier this month
Amy Conroy photographed for The Telegraph near her home in east London earlier this month - Clara Molden

Wheelchair basketball superstar Amy Conroy has represented Team GB in four Paralympics – London, Rio, Tokyo and Paris. Now, the 32-year-old from east London has her sights set on Los Angeles 2028.

All my memories of my mum, Anne, a secondary school teacher, are of her being sick. I was seven when she died from breast cancer in her late 30s – she’d had it several years earlier, but it returned so aggressively it proved to be terminal. Although she was weak, she was wonderful with my sister Alice, then five, and me, telling the nurses she wanted a private word with us, then sneaking us sweets or letting us try on her wigs.

At her funeral I stood up and read out the poem Footprints in the Sand. My dad, Chris, told us Mum had gone to heaven, then, while he was still grieving her, Dad’s own beloved mother – along with both my mum’s parents – also died; all from cancer. Yet Dad made sure our childhood in Norwich was a happy one, despite this almighty loss.

Growing up, sports proved a good antidote to grief: I played football, tennis, netball and danced. Then, aged 12, I noticed my left knee was sore. “You’ve got flat feet,” said the doctors. Then it became so swollen that I couldn’t play sports. It was only when I collapsed at school (mortifyingly, right in front of a boy I fancied) that Dad demanded a thorough examination.

Just after my 13th birthday in October 2005, I went to hospital and underwent numerous X-rays and an MRI. I remember Dad being ushered into a different room. When he came back in, I scanned his face, searching for reassurance, but he couldn’t look me in the eye and he’d clearly been crying. There were solemn faces, a long word I’d never heard of: “osteosarcoma”, then the easier-to-understand diagnosis of a “rare bone cancer”. I knew it was serious; I was stage three and it had metastasised to my lungs, too.

Panicking, I assumed cancer would kill me as it had Mum. The car ride home was awkward, neither one of us knowing what to say and both still reeling from the shock. But, from then on, Dad and I decided to give it our best fighting talk. “I’ve got this,” I promised him. He didn’t tell me at the time, but my doctors estimated that my chances of surviving were 50-50.

Amy Conroy (left), with her father Chris, mother Anne and sister Alice in the last family photo together before Anne's death
Amy Conroy (left), with her father Chris, mother Anne and sister Alice in the last family photo together before Anne’s death - Amy Conroy

I packed my bags for Addenbrooke’s Hospital that night and was admitted the next day, not realising that I’d spend the next year of my life there, nor that I’d never again walk on my own two legs. Osteosarcoma is a childhood cancer, but I don’t know why I developed it. The killer disease has literally ripped through our family, so there might be a genetic link but I’ll get tested for that when I feel ready.

The chemotherapy hit me hard. I was cheerfully eating Doritos on the first morning, naively thinking, “this isn’t so bad,” but later that day I was sick more than 75 times – and I still can’t look at those crisps.

By the time I’d been in hospital for three months, I missed Alice badly and was growing apart from my friends who were busy ice-skating and chatting about boys like normal teenagers, while I was bald and wearing nappies. But there was another blow to come: the doctors explained that even though they’d tried everything, my cancer was too aggressive and my best chance of surviving was to have my leg amputated from just above my left knee.

I cried knowing my life would never be the same again. How would I dance or play my sports? Dad looked ashen. I wanted to stay strong for him and, more than anything, I wanted to live. So I decided that if getting rid of my “bad” body part was needed, I wanted it off. At that age, I’m not sure I fully realised what life in a wheelchair would feel like. There was no mention of prosthetic legs – it just seemed vital to have the amputation, and quickly.

During that year in hospital, Dad gave up work to be with me, which was a huge sacrifice not just for him, but also for Alice – in fact, he still feels guilty about her being with a childminder so often. But after Mum’s death, the three of us had become extremely close.

Amy, with her father Chris, in a photograph to mark her return to school post-treatment
Amy, with her father Chris, in a photograph to mark her return to school post-treatment - Amy Conroy

It was not an easy time. I felt very poorly. But I saw that other children on my ward – my new friends – were dying. I was the lucky one. Chemo, I told myself, was only making me puke constantly because it was working.

Dad organised bingo games on the ward, with no one batting an eyelid as kids used the commode or sick bowls mid-game. “You can’t turn your life into a pity party, love,” he said.

In September 2006, after 11 months of chemotherapy, I was finally declared “free of disease”. We drove home loudly singing, “We’re coming home, we’re coming home!” Having my IV lines out and being able to have a bath was such a treat, as was tucking into plain rice from the Chinese takeaway.

But it wasn’t challenge-free. Our Victorian house wasn’t wheelchair accessible, so we made a bed in the living room and it was another 12 months before I was strong enough to have a prosthetic leg fitted. Returning to school with patchy hair and having to skip PE made me feel very different. I didn’t know anyone else with a disability.

Aware I was growing despondent, Dad took me to a taster day for wheelchair basketball when I was 15. I wasn’t keen, I was self-conscious and nervous and hated the idea of some wimpy sport especially for disabled people. But as soon as I saw how hard the game was played, I perked up. Someone flipped over in their chair and was just expected to get back up, with no halt to the game. Dad was horrified, but I loved that no one was being pandered to or treated as “sick”. The courts, hoops and rules were all the same as in the usual game.

Amy, with Chris and sister Alice, after winning silver at the world championships In Hamburg in 2018
Amy, with Chris and sister Alice, after winning silver at the World Championships in Hamburg in 2018 - Amy Conroy

I was hopeless on the pitch initially, but soon my competitive spirit kicked in: I wanted to learn to shoot, score, be speedy and win. It felt like I had my freedom again.

I studied YouTube videos before joining a team, the Norwich Lowriders, and, after a year of playing, a coach told me I had the potential to be good, but I’d need to ditch the artificial leg to play better. Psychologically, the thought of losing her – my literal and metaphorical crutch in life – was hard. Until then I’d always hid my missing limb in flared jeans.

However, watching the Beijing Paralympics in 2008 made me determined to get to that level. If those players didn’t care about being seen with missing body parts, why should I?

Over the next few years, throughout my GCSEs, A Levels and then university at Loughborough, I’d get up at the crack of dawn to train. I took time off for basketball camps in Rio and a gap year to compete professionally in Italy. It makes me laugh when I’m asked if Paralympians “actually have to train” because this is a competitive sport, so we train very seriously.

Eventually, the hard work paid off: in 2012 I joined Team GB at the London Games, and since then I’ve competed at Rio, Tokyo and Paris. I see Los Angeles in 2028 as unfinished business – I want a gold medal. But I’ve learnt to look outside the world of basketball for success and fulfilment, too. Back in 2018, following a bad injury and feeling heartbroken after a break-up with a boyfriend of seven years, I realised I’d been too sports-obsessed. I couldn’t put all my eggs in one (hoop-shaped) basket; I needed to widen my life experiences. So, I became passionate about raising awareness of people with disabilities, and started modelling for companies such as Gymshark, Asos and Primark – I even walked the catwalk at London Fashion Week.

I do sometimes feel my presence, as someone with a disability, is a “box-ticking” exercise for brands and organisations to appear “inclusive”. But I take that on the chin. The important thing is that children with disabilities see people like me exist – and that we can shine just as much as anyone else.

Life does change after cancer, but it doesn’t mean it’s over. I don’t think, “Woe is me, having this awful disease woven throughout my life”. Instead, I focus on how lucky I am to be here now and try to make the most of every minute. A huge part of that mentality is down to finding basketball, and possessing the drive to compete and succeed in life – not merely become another victim.

Amy and her dad in 2024 at the Paris Paralympics
Amy and Chris at the Paris Paralympics last year - Amy Conroy

I honestly think that my diagnosis has made me more determined to achieve more, to do more, to be better than I ever imagined. I wouldn’t have been so hell-bent on representing my country had it not been for that major setback and refusing to let it derail me.

Yes, it’s important for children with disabilities to see people like them enjoying life and achieving their dreams of competing at the Paralympics. But, in a wider sense, I want to send a message to anyone with cancer that life doesn’t need to go downhill. I know it’s not easy or obvious, but I urge you to fight hard to turn a diagnosis into any positive you can. That’s why I’m backing the AXA Health campaign – because its message about life post-cancer is just as relentlessly optimistic as mine.

Able-bodied people can feel awkward in the company of those with disabilities, fearing they’ll say the wrong thing. So I’m also starting a business with my sister (who’s now a cancer nurse) called Squad Games, running wheelchair basketball away-days for companies, so everyone can play alongside each other. Being able to talk, ask questions and laugh together helps break down barriers.

Some days, feeling gratitude is harder than others, but I try to find the joy in small things and channel the wise words my dad said to me once: “You can’t choose the cards you’re dealt with, but you can make sure you play the hell out of your hand.”

As told to Susanna Galton


Amy is a brand ambassador for AXA Health, a company helping cancer survivors navigate life beyond the ‘all clear’ with a new online handbook