I was diagnosed with cancer in April 1998 while living in Westchester County, just north of New York, with my husband David. I was 30 years old and 18 weeks pregnant with our first child. The pregnancy had progressed normally up until then: I was enjoying being pregnant and, ironically, felt the healthiest I had ever felt.

When breast cancer was diagnosed, I was initially told I should terminate my pregnancy (I would need surgery and, besides, if there had been considerable cancer spread I would need chemotherapy immediately). It became obvious that statistics for long-term life expectancy for women like me were not very good, mainly because by the time there is a diagnosis, the cancer is usually fairly advanced.

Fortunately for me, I was referred to a consultant who specialises in cancer in pregnant women. He did not advise a termination, but instead suggested we wait until we had determined how advanced the cancer was. It turned out that there had been no spread to the lymph nodes; I was able to continue with the pregnancy and wait until after my baby was born to have chemotherapy.

I'm very happy to say that Max survived six hours of surgery and was born four months later on August 17, 1998, five weeks prematurely, at Queen Charlotte's hospital, London. (We were relocated back there shortly after my surgery.)

Having cancer forces you to deal with all sorts of issues, like writing your will and deciding where you want to be buried. Being pregnant and having cancer means you don't have the luxury of the colour scheme of the baby's nursery being the most crucial decision you make. You must think about the next 20 years and plan for your child's welfare, taking into account that you may not be around to oversee their maturity. I feel cheated that my pregnancy was not all baby showers and ribbons, but also feel fortunate that I now fully realise the awesome responsibilty of bringing a child into this world.

Until a cure for cancer is found, it can return anytime, and next time I might not sail through the surgery and chemotherapy, leaving my son to grow up without a mother. Max has just started nursery and he cries when I say goodbye to him every morning. It pains me to think that one day I might not be coming back at the end of the day to pick him up. Who will console him then, when it is only his mother's embrace that will comfort him?

I have been very lucky, so far at least, but I often wonder what would have happened to me if we'd been living in the UK at the time. Would the doctors here have been able to diagnose the cancer so early? Or because I do not fall into any of the supposed high risk groups, especially being so young and pregnant, would I have been turned away?

Lack of resources in the UK means that the professionals work with their hands tied - they may be aware that there could be a problem but are unable to waste vital time and equipment on testing and treating people who may turn out to be red herrings. Bad luck if you happen to be a very unusual statistic like me.

Fortunately, I wasn't in Britain - God bless America - and a whirlwind of referrals and second and third opinions followed my diagnosis. It was only a week after the diagnosis that I was admitted into the New York Cornell Hospital for a mastectomy.

I don't want to be unfair about the standard of medical care in Britain, because since my return to London in August 1998, it has been fantastic. But am I just lucky? My doctor in New York used to work with my doctor in London, so I got referred to the best cancer specialist's list in this country. Professor Ian Smith and his team at the Royal Marsden are incredible - but what happens when your GP is not so well connected? Fewer women would die from breast cancer if they received the treatment they needed and deserved. Early diagnosis is vital.

Having faced up to my own mortality I wanted to do something for my son, something that would make him proud. So I decided to compile a book, and contacted several women who I knew had also experienced cancer. These women took a giant leap of faith when they shared their experiences with me for the book, but women facing the same diagnosis can take comfort in the fact that others have been there before them and survived. I am certainly motivated and encouraged by their tremendous zest for living. When I started to research and write All Woman it was that very enthusiasm and positiveness that was missing in the media and how the media dealt with cancer and survivors.

Indeed, in every article on cancer the word victim always appeared. I have come across many people who have experienced cancer and the only word that doesn't describe them is victim. They are courageous and wise, leaders and motivators, achievers and visionaries. They are a special group of people. Every cancer story is unique, yet a common thread bonds each of us together. When I was asked to share my thoughts and insights about cancer I thought, "Easy, I've been there, seen it, done it - even written the book and got the T-shirt." However, it took a week of procrastination before I eventually sat down to write.

Cancer, in any of its forms touches your life in so many unimaginable ways. Dealing with cancer or a life threatening illness makes you realise your own true strength. It is actually quite a blessing to know just how much you can tolerate. It is liberating to know that you can take on the world and win; that the human body is capable of such great renewal. Ignorance and fear of cancer gives it the power to destroy. Understanding, knowledge and trust in ourselves instills the power to heal.

• Tania Farrell Yelland's book, All Woman, is published by Metro Books priced £9.99, available in bookshops from September 21 or by calling the credit card hotine 0500 418419.Readers interested in raising funds for Breakthrough's breast cancer research can join the charity's £1,000 Challenge by calling Paula Bennett on 020-7557 6611.