DIARY OF A BIRTH: 'I was diagnosed with cancer. Days later, I found out I was pregnant.'

Preparing to be a mum is like packing for a balmy beach holiday when your destination is Reykjavik. You think you've prepared yourself to handle the unexpected.

You know it's not going to be all rainbows and REM sleep. But, well, you don't. You literally have no way of knowing the neurochemical and hormonal soup your brain will concoct in response to this ridiculously intense biological event.

Nor can you confirm your partner's readiness for fatherhood by his fondness for playing footy with his nephews at family catch-ups.

So, in a twisted way, being diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukaemia the same week I found out I was pregnant proved somewhat of a blessing, because nothing teaches you to roll with the punches like a cancer diagnosis.

Before the shock subsided (and the post-diagnosis opioid fog cleared), my brain was glitching between thoughts of funeral planning and folate supplements.

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My diagnosis had come after a random GP visit prompted by a bout of gastro. I'd been exhausted, but given the intense workload I'd taken on – newspaper lifestyle writer on weekdays, red carpet interviewer on weeknights and a radio jock and TV reporter on weekends – that was considered a workplace hazard.

Mainly, I was curious to see if I had any deficiencies to fix before my husband and I started trying to conceive.

I expected a suggestion for more iron or sleep. Instead, I got a referral to a haematologist. Then a bone marrow biopsy. Then a diagnosis that detonated the plans and dreams for my thirties I'd carefully crafted in my head.

Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia. Rare. Incurable, but treatable — just not while pregnant. Slow-growing, too, fortunately, but only at first. Eventually, if left untreated, the proliferation of abnormal white blood cells would develop into life-threatening acute leukaemia.

"Preparing to be a mum is like packing for a balmy beach holiday when your destination is Reykjavik," writes Elle Halliwell. Image: Supplied.

I didn't even know what a myeloid was. But now I was expected to make life-defining decisions while also navigating the moral and emotional complexities of choosing my own health or that of the four-week-old fetus growing inside me.

I had two choices: terminate, freeze some eggs, and start treatment as soon as possible — or ignore professional advice, monitor my bloods, and hope for the best.

There wasn't a spreadsheet in the world that could make that decision easier. But I figured if this baby was strong enough to stick around in a sick body until the 12-week mark, we'd keep going. By then, we only had to get to 36 weeks before my baby was 'cooked' enough to deliver safely.

Pregnancy under normal circumstances is a head trip. Ironically, aside from the cancer diagnosis and all the emotional and logistical chaos that came with it, the pregnancy itself was pretty uneventful.

In fact, I quite enjoyed being pregnant — aside from feeling like my pelvic and hip joints were being ripped apart from the 30-week mark.

It was around then that my cancer markers jumped, and I was advised to have an induction at 36 weeks so I could start treatment. About two days before I was due to go to hospital, I had this sudden moment of panic and remorse.

Like a kid pushed off the edge of the tallest waterslide at Wet 'n' Wild. I'd been so focused on surviving — me and the baby — that I'd given zero thought to the actual birth part. You know, the bit where a small human with an off-the-charts head circumference makes its way through and out of your body. There was no way off the ride now.

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During pregnancy, my diet had been cleaner than… well, it was very clean. I was doing what I could to grow a healthy baby. But when it came to the birth, nothing was off the table.

With so many variables — cancer, a four-week premature baby, and all the unknowns that come with birth — my plan was simple: go with the flow and get the baby out with as little trauma and distress as possible.

The induction process was laborious (pun intended). Tor didn't want to come out. Cervidil tape, then a balloon catheter, then prostaglandin gel. After that, things escalated quickly. I went from mild twinges to raging inside-ripping pain in what felt like moments.

I was not going to be a hero about it. I got my epidural request in early. Unfortunately, it didn't work the first time. By the time the second attempt kicked in, the pain had become so bad I could've kissed the anaesthetist's feet — as could my husband, who'd just endured an hour of me screaming "Please just kill me, but save the baby!"

Tor was born in December 2016, chunky and pink. A lot of mums talk about the rush of love and connection when they first hold their baby. For me, when I met Tor, I felt overwhelming relief. Like I'd run through a desert for eight months and finally reached an oasis with some shade to rest before the next stretch.

Tor was born in December 2016. Image: Supplied.

I started treatment a few weeks after giving birth. Looking back, it was brutal. I struggled with the mental and physical effects of the TKI drugs, sleep deprivation, hormonal surges — and honestly, the details have blurred into an emotionally charged fog.

But it worked. I reached a type of remission a few years later. I'm still on treatment, but it's tolerable. Aside from the odd day when the fatigue and brain fog knock me around, I'm doing great. My son Tor is too. He's eight now and thriving.

We talk openly about my cancer. I'm trying to teach him that if he changes the way he looks at things, the things he looks at can change. I choose to see my cancer as a daily reminder to appreciate life in all its complexity.

It's usually at this point I watch his eyes glaze over and he asks if I've ordered his new football boots.

I like to believe it's sinking in behind the scenes.

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Feature image: Supplied.