Tooba's Story
of breast cancer diagnosed at 3 months pregnant
Looking back, I can see that I was experiencing symptoms while trying to get pregnant, but I had no idea they would turn into a cancer diagnosis a year later. This first happened while I was on holiday in Pakistan visiting my husband; it was 2024 and I had swelling in my neck and a very high fever. In my country if you're not having obvious symptoms they do not do extensive tests to see what is going on, so it was diagnosed as a lymph node swelling; they gave me some antibiotics and it settled.
I also remember having collarbone and breast pain; I noticed my left breast was very painful when I was doing physical activities. And my prolactin levels were high; which I knew because I was having hormonal tests because I was trying to conceive. I wasn’t aware at that time that a higher prolactin level can sometimes mean you are prone to developing breast cancer.
At three months pregnant, I returned home to the UK, and I went for tests because of the pain. They sent me for a biopsy and that was when I felt there was something possibly wrong and it still makes me overwhelmed to talk about it. I knew it was cancer because I’d seen it happen to my aunties.
My mother and I had seen them go through similar testing to me: first they find a hard lump in your breast, perform an ultrasound and then they start performing more tests and a biopsy and that’s how I knew. I knew it was cancer and it could not be changed.
I met with my doctor on a rainy morning in May when I was 19 weeks pregnant. I was with my mother and my brother and I was just hoping to not to get into a situation where I had to terminate the baby. Finally they told me: "You have triple negative breast cancer, and it's a very aggressive type of breast cancer."
I stood very strong and I didn't even cry once, I remember. I knew I had to hold myself strong because everyone else would be so shocked and saying "Oh my God, we haven't seen this situation before. We haven't even heard that women can have cancer and pregnancy together." So I was not even having one tear, I remember.
My first question to them was: “What about my baby?” At first they were more focused on my treatment: “We're going to do this chemotherapy… There are so many things to do."
But all I wanted to know was about my unborn son: “Is he going to survive this treatment? Is he going to survive this situation or not? And can he survive with a mother like me, with a cancer mom?”
Finally they asked me: "Can you tell us, do you want to keep the baby?" and my mother, I remember, started crying very much. It was a terrible moment for us. Then she shouted “No, you have to keep the baby. You've been trying since last five years. You have this baby now, and we have to keep the baby." And I thought: Yes, it's about the baby and me together.
But it’s not only about the baby. I was in a war between the illness and my pregnancy and I was going to win – with my mind and potential – not just for myself but for the baby inside me.
Treatment
It was a rollercoaster on that day. So many things, so many phone calls from my in-laws, my husband. And then treatment began. Chemotherapy started at 22 weeks pregnant. The tumour was aggressive and growing quickly so they told me: "You have to go through the treatment during and after the pregnancy. We will give you a very, a calculated dose during the pregnancy, so it cannot harm your baby." We discussed how the placenta can act as a barrier, protecting the baby.
There were so many appointments; a heart checkup, baby ultrasounds, some with my gynaecologist, some with the oncology team. So many people and organisations to keep track of. They said I was a rare case so they had to be very careful and very keen about the treatment and the times during and after because I’d be immunocompromised.
Chemotherapy was very hard. I had four cycles every three weeks during pregnancy, and then they gave me a pause after the fourth cycle. I was about to start my ninth month of pregnancy, so they said: "Now you rest, and now you wait for your delivery." I was induced into labour and I had my baby and went straight back into chemotherapy at 3 weeks post-partum for the remaining seven cycles.
It was very, very tiring and terrible for my body. I was just healing from the birth of my child and my body was not prepared for the treatment.
On the first dose after my childbirth, I had anaphylaxis; an allergic reaction and I was admitted to the hospital, away from my baby. It was a near fatal experience. My breathing was so low that night that they had to give me the CPR and then oxygen; it was everywhere sirens, doctors, the oncology team. I was separated from my baby almost for three or four days because I couldn't even walk after adrenaline shots that had brought me round.
I remember my mom was sitting on a chair with me one night and I insisted that she just go back home and rest, but she always refused because she wanted to be by my side. "You are pregnant,” she said, “you are having chemotherapy, and I just want to be here to sit along with you, and I can talk to you, and I can just make you feel better."
The treatment was impacting everything: my life personally, emotionally, physically, and it was too much. I couldn't enjoy the time when you have your baby and you cuddle, you give skin to skin, you have this emotional attachment, physical attachment with your newborn. I couldn't have that because I was always in the hospital.
And because I was immunosuppressed I had to separate from him even at home. When he was having his immunisations, I couldn’t be near him for at least 14 days. For 14 days I didn't even pick up my baby. It was heart-wrenching. I could see my baby in front of me on the bed, but I couldn't hold him. I couldn't give him a kiss. I couldn't cuddle him. So it was actually very painful time.
I also had blackouts during the chemotherapy. So one day I’d have my chemotherapy, and the next day I would collapse on the floor. I was also having nausea and diarrhoea, fatigue, anemia and palpitations as well. I would ask myself: is it from the chemotherapy or is it because of the pregnancy? I didn’t know.
My mother was looking after my baby completely. I still appreciate the time and the attention and the love she has given to my baby as just like a mother, more than a mother.
I also experienced hair loss during my pregnancy. I had very long hair but because of the chemotherapy I lost my all of the hair at once, after about three weeks of the treatment.
I had this beautiful baby bump but losing my hair made me feel like I had disappeared. I wasn’t myself anymore. I shaved my head with my own hands and my brother was right behind me and he was crying. I was full of anxiety and pain but I could not cry. I had to be strong for them.
After chemo came my lumpectomy. I was afraid of the surgery because I've been never been given anaesthesia before. But surgery was good; my surgeon did a beautiful job I healed well. Then I had radiotherapy in the summer. It was tough for me. The whole underside of my left breast had skin peeling off and there were blisters all over the breast itself. It also caused pain in my arm and lymph nodes, so it limited a little bit of my mobility. All of the active treatments finished in July 2026. I'm now having immunotherapy every six weeks.
After
Being out of treatment is hardest thing, much harder than during the treatment, even harder than during the appointments, during the diagnosis.
During the chaos of having the cancer, you're always busy. You're into hospitals, having weekly chemo, then a rubbish week with the side effects, and then surgery and wound checkups and for the, the side effects of radiotherapy. Now, I feel like I have nothing to do. And so I feel like I should be doing everything. Should I meet up with people? Should I be on a podcast? Should I be talking about the cancer thing to just to make awareness to the people?
I am a totally new person. Physically, it's like a tomboy era; I’ve gained weight because of the steroids, my hair is still short. I look like a boy sometimes, and find myself dressing less feminine because I don't have my long hair.
Mentally, I have flashbacks of the hospital and the horrible experiences during chemotherapy; sometimes I just want to forget it.
I’ve had to restart my life, but now when I walk, I’m slower because of fatigue. I look at my mom and I feel like she's in her late 60s and she's more active than me. When I try to eat normally, I can’t because I remember all the strict rules from when I was sick.
Everything reminds me of the cancer. You cannot be a normal person after your cancer diagnosis, never. The day of my diagnosis, the old me, she died on that day.
This is the new me now. It’s a new life, new body, new shape, new breast, new lifestyle, new thinking, and new, perspectives on life. It's very different and actually it’s very exhausting.
My family have been a huge support to me throughout; my mother, my brother, my father, and my one cousin. My brother would drive me to and from appointments after how work shifts, or even come visit me after late shifts just to see me. My father - he's my care - and every appointment I had, every appointment, he was with me. My cousin would often sit with me too. Even when I told them not to they never left me to be alone. And after my baby was born, my mom and dad both looked after my son.
I also had wonderful emotional support from my Breast Care Nurse, Sarah, who I still miss. She was a friend to me, always calling me and checking on me every week, asking: “How are you doing, Tooba? Are you okay? Do you need any help?" My GP service was good as well. And I also received financial and emotional support from Mummy’s Star and Macmillan; Mummy’s Star especially. My Support Worker is still connected to me and they’ve provided vouchers and other financial support for me and my baby.
You know, when a woman thinks about her pregnancy journey, you often imagine the glowing. You have these beautiful dresses, and you eat whatever you want, and you throw up in the first three months. Then you have this glow on your face, and you enjoy your baby bump, and you enjoy your meetings with the doctors, and then you start shopping for your newborn. And then when you give birth, and you have a very normal kind of delivery, and everyone is congratulating you on the birth. So you click pictures with them; I've seen pictures of the ladies in their mom pyjamas with the nice hair in the hospital beds, just showing off the baby; showing it as a victory.
But for me, it was actually very different. So it was the pregnancy and the chemotherapy happened together. I lost my hair, so I couldn't even click a single picture of myself with my long hair and baby bump. I was not in a position to just have this glowing body or glowing face during the pregnancy. I was so pale. I was not even able to click a good picture with my son on the his first day because I was in so much pain that I couldn't even feel the birth of my child. I was so numb.
Because I was a cancer patient and all I could think about was that my child was going to be out of me, but the cancer was still inside.
But I have my baby; my sweet baby and now is a precious time because I'm always spending time with him, and I love to be with him. I have this beautiful golden time now to spend with him now. And I'm growing as a mother, along with my baby. It’s a new person that I'm growing into; the new look I have and the new inside. My baby is 11 months old now, so I think that, "Oh, I'm also 11 months old now." I feel like I was reborn along with my baby. So I don't feel my identity has been lost… it has been changed.
And one day, when my son is 18 or 20 maybe, and he asks for the story I will show him the smiling pictures and tell him “Oh, look at you. You were born and we were celebrating you, your birth." I did not lose my identity as a mother to my cancer; I overcame my cancer with my positive behaviour, my mother behaviour.
Tooba x
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