Ethlyn's Story

of breast cancer diagnosed in early pregnancy

Ethlyn first told her to story to the Squiggly Motherhood podcast in summer 2026. You can listen to/watch the episode here.

At around 8 weeks pregnant, I came out of the shower one day and could feel shooting pains in my chest. I Googled it and spoke to my sister because she's a midwife; she thought it might be mastitis linked to my pregnancy. I tried some home remedies, but weeks later the pain had become really intense. I would lay down in bed and try and go to sleep and I’d feel them. I'd be washing the dishes during the day and I’d feel them. I know my body and I knew something was wrong, so I took the step to make the GP appointment, and I'm so glad I did.

Diagnosis

My GP was really nice. Her first response was also that it could be mastitis. To follow protocol, she made a two-week-wait referral to have my chest checked at the hospital, and at the end of the appointment she reassured me that it would all be fine. I was yearning for that reassurance that it was nothing, but everything changed when I went for my hospital appointment.

The hospital called that morning and told me to come early. I had to bring my eight year old son with me, he waited in the waiting room while I went in for my scan. Then all of a sudden they were telling me I needed a biopsy and I had to wait to see a consultant. My son was in the room when he arrived, so he mouthed the words to me: “It looks cancerous.”

I literally spent the first couple of minutes in my head trying to work out what the doctor had said. Even though I knew exactly what he had said, he couldn’t have said that, could he? I was upset because I had arranged the support of my mum to be there, but because my appointment had been brought forward, I was alone. Instead, I was 8 weeks pregnant, sitting beside my eight-year old son and all I could think was “Okay, I've got to get my son to a party afterwards.”

When I got home later, I took my partner into the bedroom and I told him everything that happened. Luckily he's a very optimistic individual so he told me to get out of my head and wait for the full results, and we’ll cross that bridge together, whatever it is.

What followed was the hardest, longest three weeks of my life. I couldn't function because all I was thinking was: this is bad news. And obviously being pregnant, I just didn’t know what was going to happen.

They scheduled me a face to face appointment the day before I went on holiday and this time I took my mum to support me, my cousin who'd been through a different type of cancer, and her daughter who was a medical professional so she could translate. I needed a team.

When I went into the room there was the surgeon, the nurse, and another woman who was the surgeon's assistant. Already I was worried because there were a lot of people in the room. I sat down, we introduced everyone, and the next words out of his mouth were: “So, you have breast cancer.”

I am kind of grateful that he just came out with it at the very beginning because a big part of me just wanted to know. I wanted to ‘rip the bandaid’ off as they say.

Then, the next question out of his mouth was: “Do you want to keep your baby?” I was a bit taken aback, but I was certain, yes, yes, yes. There was a lot of panic and concern because obviously I didn't have any knowledge of any other pregnant person having cancer, or how they would treat her, save her life plus the baby's life. It was very surreal, very out of body experience, definitely.

He then went into the treatment plan we would have and that was the first time I could exhale since I had the biopsy. I would have a mastectomy and at the same time they would take a couple of lymph nodes to do a biopsy on those, to make sure the cancer hadn't spread. After that I’d have radiotherapy, but he didn't mention chemotherapy. Leaving that appointment I was like, okay, it won't be so bad; it will be surgery, but at least I don't have to do chemotherapy. Unfortunately, because the cancer had spread to a couple of my lymph nodes, they decided I was going to have chemotherapy after all.

I felt fairly positive about the surgery. I decided that if it means I get to live, let's go for it. I’d still have a breast left. However, after I'd had it done, I found it much more difficult to accept. I didn't want to look at my chest. I couldn't look. It took months. My son would ask when he could see and he gave me the courage to look at myself in the mirror for the first time. I had a nice neat scar, and to see that he still loved me exactly the same was everything to me.

Treatment

After I was first diagnosed I was full of questions: ‘Why me? It's not fair. Why are there people out there who aren't so nice, but nothing happens to them? You feel like, it’s a dream. Is this really happening? I'm going to wake up soon. It can't be me. They must be wrong. I'm going to die. My God, I'm not going to see my children grow up.” All of that piles on, but then a nurse from Macmillan said to me: ‘Make sure you go through the motions. It's important that you do.’ Because eventually you reach another stage, where you can look back and think: ‘Wow I went through all that and I got through it.’

Me and my partner came together after the diagnosis to decide how we were going to tell our son what's happening. I found a book written by a woman telling her family that she had a brain tumour; it was a poem. I found it in video form and showed it to him.

I remember years ago, my mum saying to me, always be honest with your children because as they grow they'll be honest with you. So that’s what I did.

I reassured him that any questions he had, he could ask me, or his daddy, or his nanny. And if he could cry, or scream, or talk about it, or write it down, or draw a picture; every reaction is absolutely fine. Throughout the process, he would draw pictures, he'd write things down and he'd ask me questions. And that's exactly what I wanted.

My consultant said I would need to be induced at 37 weeks. We went in on the Monday and the induction didn't work, so we had to do an emergency C-section. I didn't know what to expect, but actually it was fine. It was a bit surreal. I was talking to my partner as the surgeon was doing his job and I was like, my goodness, we're going to meet our baby soon. We're going to hear his cry. Then, a couple of minutes later, we heard the cry and that was another moment when I exhaled. I didn't have to worry anymore about whether my baby would make it here or not. It was amazing.

We had to stay in hospital for five days. We had a private room and only specific members of staff were allowed in to keep me isolated. And it was great.

It was my favourite time because it wasn't about the cancer, it was just about this beautiful baby being born and the fact that he was so healthy and so happy and so strong and we didn't have to think about cancer. It was the first time since my diagnosis that I didn't feel like a cancer patient. I felt like I was just a mum who gave birth and this was us celebrating. It was euphoric.

When we got home I had four weeks grace before I started chemo again. The health visitor would come and we instructed her beforehand so they had masks, and used the foot covers and stuff at our house. There was also the nurse who cleaned my picc line. Those were the only two people allowed to visit once I'd had the baby because I still needed to be well enough to go back to chemo. It was extremely overwhelming.

When I went to the cancer centre, people would look and do a double take as if to say: is she in the wrong place? I remember one time one old lady asked me: “Are you lost? This is the cancer centre.”

Equally, at my maternity appointments, I got to the point where I had shaved my head and had a drain sticking out of me, and the pregnant women were all shocked and surprised. All I could think was, you don't get it, you don't know what's happening, don't worry you're not part of this. I felt like a zoo animal in both settings.

It’s a very lonely place when you're diagnosed and the people around you haven't been through it. Bless them, they try their hardest, but there's just some things they will never get. I found Mummy’s Star and they have a community of other women who are pregnant with cancer or they've been diagnosed with cancer within the year of having a baby; a lot of them share their stories. No-one is expecting to see a pregnant woman walk into the cancer centre as the patient. Their stories made me feel so much better. I knew it wasn’t all in my head.

I couldn't have any skin to skin time with my baby during the three days after each chemo session, because the chemicals would excrete from my skin. I would feel immense guilt. I even asked the Health Visitor: ‘Does he know I'm his mum?’ She reassured me said, of course he did and my partner would always put him on me when it was safe to. He always made sure I bottle fed him too, because that was another chance for us to bond.

Emotionally it was really hard. I just wanted to hold him all the time. Sometimes it wasn't even because of the chemo, I just wasn't strong enough or I wasn't feeling well enough.

I would remind myself there are women out there who were experiencing this with their first child or their only child, and they hadn't experienced the things that I had with my first child. That was a reassurance to me.

My first rounds of chemo were while I was pregnant and my symptoms were mostly fatigue and nausea, but I was never sick. But after I gave birth, I had a slightly different chemo drug and wound up in A&E twice. The first time I was just 4 weeks post-partum and I had a fever. It was really hard because I’d just had my baby and I wasn't with him, I was in hospital. My partner would put my night dresses next to my baby when he was sleeping so he could still smell me, and we had a baby monitor attached to my phone so I could watch the baby.

Support

My partner was a huge support. He's very logical; I'm a bit of the romanticist, the fantasist and he'll just bring me back down to earth. This man bathed me, cooked for me, cleaned the house, looked after our son when the baby was born, looked after the baby, drove me to my appointments. People don't realise that going to and from the hospital is really draining, especially for the people taking you. But he would do that.

I tell you this man, he did everything. He was amazing and he'd always took time to let me know how much he still loved me and how attracted he was to me and that he wasn't going anywhere.

When I really didn’t feel well and I wasn't able to articulate, he would explain to my older son that mummy had had the medicine, she's not feeling well, so we need to let her rest and help her when she needs it. That definitely helped ease him into what it looks when mummy has cancer, and that she’s going to be a little unwell sometimes but she will get better.

I also worried that I would be abandoned because I was a burden now; he was younger and I'm not going to be in the mood for intimacy, so why would he stick around? But he would remind me that intimacy isn't just the physical side, it's being around you, in the vibe and touching you or smelling you, or just enjoying memories together. I didn't have to worry I could just focus on getting better. I'd always encourage him to spend time with his friends too; talk to them, do what you want to do. I was really happy when he did because I knew I needed him to be out of this environment sometimes.

Remission and reflection

I'm currently in remission, hallelujah! I'm now doing hormone therapy and targeted therapy because my cancer was oestrogen receptor positive, which means the cancer was feeding off of my oestrogen. So I take pills and have one injection every three months. It completely strips all of my oestrogen which means I'm now in a medically induced menopause. I also take an IV and medication to protect my bones and I'll be doing that for the next five years.

I've been expressing to my partner that I don't feel very attractive recently and it's not even necessarily because I'm one breast down. I think it's more to do with the fact that I put on weight from pregnancy plus chemotherapy; because you have to take steroids. I'm part of a course with the hospital where they help you get healthy again and get back into exercise, because it's really hard to get back into exercise after cancer treatment.

However, with all of that said, I absolutely love my body because it brought my child into the world safely and it fought against that cancer like Mike Tyson.

I feel like anything that's put in my way in life, I can overcome it. Before my anxiety was awful, it played a big role in my life. Now, nothing really bothers me. Life is good. I am blessed. We need to go through certain adversities to rise up and realise our strength and our blessings. I enjoy the simple things: going to my son's performances at school or doing the school run which sometimes used to be like: ‘Do I really have to?’ I find joy in all of these things now because I've had that experience that this could have been a very different story and my time here could have been a lot shorter.

I think it's easy as human beings to forget that when you feel like you're at your weakest or your lowest, that's actually when your true strength appears and you amaze yourself at what you can actually handle. I know that sounds cliche but it's completely true, you really can conquer rise and conquer.

It’s also had a creative outcome. When I was looking for literature to help explain my diagnosis, it was very much from the adult perspective and very factual. So I thought, I'm going to write one, but it's going to be my son's words and from his perspective, to show that this is how children deal with it. So we’ve written a book and we're in the midst of publishing it. We’ve named it Hugs, Hope and a Baby, Mummies Fight with Cancer. I purposefully chose to use the word cancer in it because it wasn't in any of the other books and I think it's really important for people to know that it is just a word, and you don't need to be afraid, especially when you're in it.

I would encourage all women to take time to feel your body, know your body, and know what's normal. I know for me I sometimes thought: I don't have a lump, so it doesn't matter, these shooting pains. But I knew they weren't normal to my body. It’s important to know your body so well that if you suspect something's up, you make an appointment with your GP.

Ethlyn x

• 

• 

• 

A donation to Mummy's Star means that mums like Ethlyn have access to the stories, the support, and the community to combat the loneliness and isolation of cancer in pregnancy, and to make the very best choices for themselves and their family.

Make your gift today.