Reader’s Corner: The most unexpected scar

I have always believed the first medicine a cancer patient needs is not chemotherapy or surgery—it’s a patient ear. So I listened. Every word, every tremor, every pause. When I studied her reports, something didn’t sit right. The scans were complex, but I sensed there might be more to her story. I advised a repeat scan at our hospital. For the first time in weeks, I saw a flicker of hope in her son’s eyes.

A few days later, while reviewing the fresh images with my team, I felt it—a faint but definite possibility of surgery. A small window of hope where none was thought to exist. What followed were long nights of planning, discussions with colleagues, and careful mapping of every vessel and nerve that would have to be navigated. I told the family everything—the risks, the uncertainties, the courage it would demand from all of us. They understood. The soldier’s spirit ran strong in them.

The day of the operation arrived. The tumour was massive, wrapped around major blood vessels, and of a rare type I had only seen in textbooks. But there was no turning back. For six hours we fought—scalpel, suction, sweat, and prayer. Every minute balanced between hope and focus. Finally, the tumour lay removed, every vessel intact. The danger had passed.

When I stepped out of the OT, her son’s eyes searched mine. “She’s safe,” I said. Those two words broke him. He wept—the kind of tears that come when you realise you’ve been holding your breath too long.

She recovered beautifully. On the fifth day, she walked out of the hospital smiling, her eyes moist but full of life. Her son held my hand and said, “I’ve already lost my father. You gave me back my mother. I’ll never forget this—and I’ll gift you something special.” I smiled and told him what I tell every grateful family—that for a surgeon, a life saved is the greatest gift.

A month later, after a long day at the hospital, I was scrolling through Instagram when a tag notification popped up. When I opened it, I froze. My full name—tattooed across his arm. My first reaction was disbelief. A part of me wanted to call him and say this wasn’t necessary. But when I met him next, he smiled and said something that silenced me completely.

“Sir,” he said softly, “film stars te singers de tattoo ta saare banande ne. Mere layi asli hero oh hai jisne meri maa di zindagi bachayi hai. Fer tuhade naam da tattoo kiwe galat hai?” (Sir, everyone gets tattoos of film stars and singers. For me, my real hero is the one who saved my mother’s life. How can it be wrong to have your name instead?)

I stood there, speechless. In that moment, every night of exhaustion, every missed dinner, every emergency call—it all felt worth it.

Medicine today is often accused of losing its soul, of turning into a business rather than a bond. But that day reminded me why I chose this profession.

Seventeen years in surgery have taught me many things, but this young man taught me something deeper—that healing isn’t just about removing tumours. It’s about restoring faith: in life, in humanity, and in each other.

(The writer is a surgical oncologist)

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