I looked seven months’ pregnant but it turned out to be cancer

Helen Teasdale, 45, an NHS Nurse, was so bloated, she looked seven months' pregnant but the reality was quite different. Helen lives with her husband Mark, 54, and two daughters, Maddison, 15, and Marlee, 14, in Middlesbrough. Here she explains how she coped with her shock diagnosis.

Trigger warning: includes graphic post-surgery images.

I’ve had problems with my stomach for most of my adult life. When I was around 20 I was rushed into hospital with bloating, pain and discomfort, as well as issues with bowel movements. Doctors suspected appendicitis at first but then I was sent home because they decided it wasn’t that, after all.

I continued to have the same symptoms on and off for years and was told it was probably IBS. But in lockdown I developed a heavy feeling in my groin and lower back, and the bloating got worse.

I felt full all the time and had gained about two stone even though I wasn’t even eating big meals. Instead, I was getting by on cereal and small portions, then often having diarrhoea and stomach pain after eating. As a nurse and someone who looks after themselves, I knew something wasn’t right.

I went back to my GP surgery and saw a nurse practitioner five or six times during 2020 but I kept being told it was urinary infections and given antibiotics.

Worrying symptoms

By November 2020, I was 42 and feeling so unwell with exhaustion, nausea, pain and discomfort in my stomach. I also had constant issues with bowel movements. It started to impact my job and life in general.

I looked seven months' pregnant because my stomach was so bloated, even though I wasn’t eating much.

Eventually, blood tests showed that my cancer tumour markers were high. I felt numb at the possibility I could have cancer but tried not to worry until it was confirmed.

I was referred to a gynaecologist who arranged for me to have a scan and a laparoscopy, a procedure to put a camera inside me to examine my stomach and pelvic area.

My husband Mark was by my side throughout and we were both terrified of what this might mean.

Bombshell news

I had my laparoscopy at James Cook University Hospital, Middlesbrough, on 22nd December 2020 and beforehand the consultant mentioned the possibility of a rare type of cancer called pseudomyxoma peritonei (PMP) which he’d seen in other patients and usually begins in the appendix.

"I’ve looked at your CT and felt your appendix looked odd," he explained gently.

During the procedure, I had my appendix removed and sent for biopsies. I was back home recovering two days later when the consultant phoned with worrying news.

"Your appendix had a tumour that'd burst and this had spread mucin jelly around the abdomen area," he told me. "I believe it’s PMP, but we will need to send it off for further tests."

Not knowing much about PMP, I began researching it online. It was terrifying to learn the extent of surgery that many people with PMP needed, not to mention the impact it could have on life expectancy. It was hard not to fear the worst.

In between Christmas and New Year, the colorectal specialist called me with devastating news.

"The tests confirm that you have pseudomyxoma peritonei, or PMP," he explained. "One positive is that it looks low grade but that will need to be confirmed by the specialist."

Although I had suspected this, nothing could have prepared me for the news that I had cancer. Worse still, that I would have to tell my loved ones.

When I got off the phone I told Mark and he tried to be strong, but the look on his face said it all. Seeing his world fall apart was the hardest thing.

Fears for the future

I wasn’t quite ready to tell my daughters, so I put on a brave face in front of them, before crying in the shower so no one could see how scared and upset I was.

I was terrified about what the future held. I couldn’t help wondering, 'Would I get to see my children grow up? Would I get to live out mine and Mark’s dreams of retirement together?'

I learnt that PMP is a rare cancer believed to affect just one in a million people and usually starts in the appendix. Normally slow-growing, it eventually spreads into the space inside the abdomen. Mine was already widespread.

I was referred to The Christie specialist cancer hospital in Manchester and in the meantime my mum and Mark phoned close family and friends to let them know.

I’d been off work sick for the surgery but wanted to tell my colleagues about the diagnosis, as well as wanting people to be sensitive around my daughters who were only 10 and 11. I also wanted to raise awareness of this rare cancer and the symptoms.

Telling my daughters

So on New Year’s Eve, I decided to post about it on social media: 'I wanted to let you know that I’ve recently been diagnosed with a rare cancer…. we face a difficult time ahead so please be mindful and patient and we will keep you updated…'

We sat the girls down and told them the news, deciding not to mention the word 'cancer' so as not to worry them but instead saying I was 'really poorly'.

"I’ll need to go into hospital for an operation and I’ll be poorly for a while," I explained, "so you might have to help me and Dad with some things."

"Are you going to die?" Marlee asked, worried.

"No, we’re seeing great doctors," I reassured her, before emphasising I'd be ill for a while.

We played it down, so they didn’t know the full extent of it.

In February 2021, I went to the cancer hospital for my initial assessment and my consultant asked me, "Is your family complete? Do you want more children one day?"

I was 41 and lucky to have two daughters and two older step-children.

I told him I wasn't planning any more children, adding, "You can take my ovaries and whatever else you need to keep me alive."

Major operation

Before the surgery, I wrote lists of what Mark should do if I didn't make it, like paying for the kids' school lunches, what he needed to sort for the dog, where our life insurance and wills were, and how to handle life without me. My mind went into overdrive.

On 15th April I was fighting back tears as Mark dropped me at the hospital because Covid restrictions meant that he wasn’t allowed to come in.

The next day I went down to theatre for the 10.5-hour operation during which surgeons cut me open from my breast bone to my pubic bone. They also made several smaller incisions on my stomach for drains and the HIPEC Chemo (which was where my stomach was basically washed out with chemo to mop up any rogue cancer cells).

Surgeons removed several of my organs, including my gallbladder, spleen, both fallopian tubes and ovaries, and my belly button. They also did a series of procedures to explore which areas had been affected by PMP and remove them, as well as to repair my bladder and fit a right chest drain.

Recovering from surgery

The first thing I remember is waking up and looking under my hospital gown and seeing the great big cut down my middle, and tubes coming out of my stomach. There were also tubes in my nose and lines in my neck. I was on oxygen with lots of machines around me.

Thankfully I didn’t need a stoma bag which was a relief, because the prospect of this had terrified me.

The surgeon told me afterwards that the operation had gone well. “There was a tiny bit of disease we couldn't get to but we are confident that the HIPEC Chemo wash would get that, but time will tell,” he added.

My whole body was in pain, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, but I was determined not to be beaten and by the next day I was standing up for a few seconds.

No one could visit me because of the restrictions but the surgeon phoned Mark to tell him how the surgery went.

Afterwards, I went instantly into menopause. I started suffering from hot sweats, felt tired all the time and as if my body was on fire.

After 11 days in hospital, I was allowed to go home. Mark picked me up and we headed home where I hugged the girls. Nothing could have prepared me for the wave of emotions I felt and they were shocked at how fragile I looked.

But with their loving support, I slowly recovered. I also met people via The Pseudomyxoma Survivor Charity who’d been through similar experiences, which was another great help to me.

Making the most of life

Doctors don’t know exactly how long the cancer was in my body for, but when I think back to 20 years earlier when I had suspected appendicitis, there’s no doubt in my mind that it was in the early stages then.

Going through cancer has changed my outlook on life. I don’t worry about the little things any more, I’m incredibly grateful to be here with Mark and the children, and I’m focussing on making the most of life. I’d never been to London before but now I’ve been there as well as on lots of other trips like Harry Potter World, concerts and summer holidays.

I'm grateful that there are now no signs of cancer in my body, but I'll continue to be monitored for many years. I'm thankful to both hospitals because without our fantastic NHS, I wouldn’t be here today.

I wanted to share my story to raise awareness of rare cancers, particularly PMP. If it helps to save one person’s life then it’s worth it.

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