Practicing Medicine

I reflect on my visit to the breast center the other day, and one moment keeps replaying in my mind. While I waited in the chilly waiting room, an older woman came in and sat across from me. I greeted her, and she responded with a warmth that instantly made me feel at ease. We started chatting casually—mostly about how cold it always seemed in that room. We laughed a little, both of us bundled up, joking about needing a blanket or heater just to survive the wait.

And then, as our conversation shifted from lighthearted to serious, she leaned in and said softly, “But you know… I’d rather show up for every appointment and be cold than ever be diagnosed with that awful thing. I wouldn’t know what to do if they told me I had cancer.”

Her words stopped me for a moment. I smiled gently and replied, “I totally understand that.” And I did. But inside, I felt a quiet ache. She didn’t know. She had no idea that the very thing she feared was the very thing I was sitting there living through.

In that instant, it hit me—how often we speak without knowing someone’s full story. Her words weren’t cruel; they were honest, heartfelt, even grateful. But they carried a weight that landed differently on my ears. For me, those weren’t just hypothetical fears. I had heard those words. I did know what to do. I knew what it meant to sit in that very chair, in that very cold room, after receiving a diagnosis that flips your world upside down.

It made me realize that sometimes words hold invisible layers, depending on the heart that hears them. Something said in passing can feel piercing for someone quietly carrying a burden.

But I didn’t correct her. I didn’t tell her my diagnosis. That moment wasn’t about me sharing my battle—it was about quietly recognizing our different realities, while still finding warmth in shared laughter.

As she got up and walked back for her appointment, I silently wished her continued health, while also honoring my own unseen fight. Because every day I show up—every scan, every treatment, every waiting room—I’m doing what she couldn’t imagine doing.