Donna Morrison, 31, Forest Lake, Qld
Shoving the blood-test form into my bag, I waddled to the car. At 34-weeks pregnant, I'd developed gestational diabetes and sciatica, so I'd had dozens of needles already. I was sick of being prodded and poked.
But I also had unexplained stomach pain, so I went to the clinic and had the blood test done just in case.
At home, I collapsed on the bed. 'I can't wait for you to be born,' I murmured to my unborn daughter, Imogen, as I rubbed my aching belly.
It was my first pregnancy and my husband, Raymond, now 34, and I were so excited. I'd taken leave from my job as a bank manager and even packed my bag for hospital. All I could do now was wait.
When the phone rang a few days later, I hauled myself up to answer it. 'Something's wrong with your blood-test results,' my obstetrician said. 'It looks like you've got leukaemia.'
I couldn't take it in. How could I have leukaemia? I was about to have a baby.
I called Raymond, who came home immediately. 'They must have my results mixed up with someone else's,' I reasoned.
I went to Brisbane's Mater Hospital for a bone-marrow biopsy. A big needle was put into my hip - and I couldn't have any pain-killers because I was pregnant! 'It hurts!' I cried as Raymond squeezed my hand.
We phoned my parents, Joy and Ian, who arrived with my sister Helen and friend Melinda.
As we waited for the results, a nurse came in to check on me. 'You need to have your baby by caesarean tomorrow,' she said.
'But I'm having my baby at a different hospital,' I said, glancing from Raymond to Mum.
'No, you're having it here tomorrow,' the nurse continued. 'You do know you've got leukaemia?'
'Let's wait until we get the results,' I said, still convinced that it was all a mistake.
At 7.30pm a doctor came in, looking grim. 'It's leukaemia,' he said. Raymond looked as if the wind had been knocked out of him. 'I can't lose you,' he said.
'Don't be silly, I'm not going to die,' I said, the gravity of the situation yet to sink in.
The doctor told me I needed chemotherapy immediately, so I was scheduled for a caesarean the following afternoon.
'But I'm having a baby shower on Saturday,' I said. 'You might have to put that on hold,' he said.
Because the chemo would deplete my immune system, I wouldn't be able to breastfeed my bub, change her nappy or even hold her. There was a risk that she could pass on even the slightest infection.
'But how will I bond with my baby?' I sobbed. 'What if I don't have chemo at all?'
'Then you won't be here in a month,' the doctor said. 'You're lucky we found it when we did. If you hadn't have been tested because of your pregnancy, it might've been too late.'
The next day tiny Imogen was delivered by caesarean and placed very briefly on my chest. 'She's beautiful,' I mumbled before drifting back to sleep.
When I woke up hours later I saw Raymond's worried face at the end of the bed. 'How's Imogen?' I asked groggily. 'She's perfect,' he said. She had been taken to the Mater Children's Hospital, just 15 minutes walk away.
'I'll go and get her,' Raymond smiled. He brought her over and I stared at her little button nose and pink lips.
'Give me a little cuddle,' I begged. I wanted to be as close to her as possible before the chemotherapy started.
She was warm and snuggly and I vowed to fight the disease for her sake. When Raymond took her back I cried. I didn't ever want to let her go.
My treatment began the following day. I was connected to cannulas and catheters, and along with the chemo I was given all kinds of medications.
My mind became so foggy at the end of each day I couldn't remember what had happened.
'Who visited today?' I'd ask Raymond. 'Did I eat my lunch?'
Raymond brought Imogen over every day and although I wasn't allowed to feed her or change her nappy, the doctor eventually said it was okay for me to touch her. I cried every night when Raymond took her back to the nursery.
On the weekend, my friends arrived at the hospital carrying balloons and presents. 'We're here for the baby shower!' they declared. 'I can't believe you've done this!' I sobbed.
Two weeks later Raymond took Imogen home. The pain of not being able to do it myself was unbearable, but Raymond was amazing. He ran the household, cared for Imogen and brought her to see me every day. 'We're here!' he'd say, looking a bit frazzled.
Imogen had a loving family around her who were only too willing to help out.
Mum and Dad along with Raymond's mum, Shirley, took turns looking after Imogen at night, and our sisters helped during the day.
A couple of weeks later I was able to go home for two hours each afternoon. I'd spend the whole time with my darling baby girl, changing her outfits and playing with her.
But I still couldn't feed or even burp her in case I caught something - my immune system was at rock bottom.
I had a high temperature yet felt frozen to the bone. I also had itchy skin and mouth ulcers. Then my hair started to fall out. 'I feel so unfeminine,' I cried to my friend Melinda over the phone one day.
Two hours later she arrived with an assortment of caps, handcrafted soaps and nail polish and my sister Helen brought me a Chanel scarf. Their thoughtful gesture really lifted my spirits.
Six weeks later I was allowed home for four days. I wouldn't let Imogen out of my sight. 'I'm never going to leave you,' I whispered.
I was petrified the cancer would rob me of a life with my daughter, but I was also determined not to let that happen.
Over the following few months, I settled into a depressing pattern - a month in hospital, then a week at home. I never even unpacked my suitcase, and when I was in hospital, I pestered the doctors to let me go home again. 'No. We're sorry,' they'd say.
The day before my 30th birthday, we had a quiet celebration at home before I headed back to hospital for the next round of treatment.
Finally, 11 months later, I finished my treatment. I was in remission and home for good!
I'd already missed so many of Imogen's milestones - her first solids, her first words, her first steps. But I knew it was a small price to pay because I'd now be around for so many other milestones. I would see my daughter grow up.
And if it wasn't for her, the doctors may not have discovered the cancer so soon. My pregnancy saved my life.
One day after some heavy rain, Imogen jumped into a puddle and stood grinning in the mud, clearly delighted.
'Your first puddle,' I sighed as I smiled at her splashing about.
Today, my leukaemia has been in remission for two years, although I still need monthly plasma treatment to help fight possible infections. Imogen is an energetic two- and-a-half-year old and Raymond and I can't imagine life without her. We are just so thankful for every day we have together as a family.
Although those months of treatment were awful, the memory grows more distant with every smile, every giggle and every muddy puddle.
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