Cancer survivor’s story shared without seeking pity

This story was narrated to Dr Arif by a cancer survivor. It is shared with consent.

I want to say this clearly at the outset: I do not want pity or charity. What I want is for people to understand my pain—both physical and emotional. I begin like many women in Kashmir. I do not smoke or drink. There is nothing unusual about that. I loved studying, so I studied seriously. I completed my MSc and later my PhD from the University of Kashmir. I qualified a public service commission examination and began working in government service.

Before I secured a government job, finding a suitable marriage proposal was difficult for my parents. Once I got the job, proposals arrived in abundance. Eventually, I got married and had two children, both delivered through caesarean section. At that time, there was no public discussion around unnecessary C-sections or commercialisation. It was simply accepted as routine medical care.

Based on current scientific evidence, caesarean sections do not show a strong or consistent link with increased cancer risk in mothers. Studies on breast, ovarian, and endometrial cancers have largely shown no direct causal relationship. Some indirect associations have been explored, but nothing conclusive. These issues are best left for researchers and medical stakeholders to discuss further.

In 2009, the birth of a girl child in Kashmir was still not something widely celebrated. I mention Kashmir repeatedly because this is where I have lived my life; I cannot generalise beyond my experience. Still, I was content. I accepted that no life is perfect. My health troubles began in 2013, when I was diagnosed with diabetes and hypertension. I told myself this was common—hardly anyone is completely healthy anymore. My conditions were well controlled with medication.

In 2015, severe pain began on my right side. Doctor visits became routine. I moved from gynaecologists to surgeons to endocrinologists. CT scans and MRIs showed nothing abnormal. The pain persisted, often masked by my demanding professional and domestic life. In 2018, an orthopaedic surgeon diagnosed me with frozen shoulder. Treatment followed—medicines and physiotherapy. Multiple orthopaedic opinions confirmed the same diagnosis. In 2019, my life changed overnight. Investigations revealed Stage 1 ovarian cancer. What hurt deeply was not just the diagnosis, but how it was delivered. Many doctors are not trained to communicate such devastating news. In Kashmir, cancer rates are rising, but training in breaking bad news remains primitive. Files were handed over, tests advised, and I was told to return. Even in 2025, many confirmatory tests are sent outside Jammu and Kashmir. Patients wait weeks, sometimes months—often without empathy, sometimes without survival.

After a month, my fears were confirmed. I began chemotherapy at a government hospital. For two months, I underwent treatment while my children prepared for their exams. How they managed to perform well, only God knows. Long queues at the government hospital made treatment physically exhausting. On the suggestion of a surgeon, I underwent surgery at a private hospital where he worked part-time. I was hospitalised for 20 days. I believed the worst was over. I thought I could now live—if not healthy, then at least alive. At work, I was granted casual leave for three months instead of medical leave for cancer. I ignored it. Survival felt more important.

Like many married women, I also experienced domestic violence—emotional and physical. This is not uncommon. Some men carry their stress without support and release it in harmful ways. Not all men—but many. In 2022, I began experiencing persistent infection symptoms. My surgeon said the mesh implanted during my ovarian surgery was damaged, though no reason was given. Antiseptic dressings were advised. I complied. These dressings continued for months. I visited the private hospital more than twenty times. Eventually, I was told the mesh needed replacement. Another surgery followed. I was admitted for 15 days. By 2023 and 2024, I believed my health was finally stabilising.

In January 2025, I noticed swelling in my breast. Several gynaecologists dismissed my concerns. Some ridiculed me for attending breast cancer awareness programmes. I was told I was overthinking. In March, I was advised investigations “for my satisfaction.” They were wrong. I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer. Once again, confirmatory tests were sent outside the region. Government hospitals were overcrowded. Waiting lists were longer than before—reflecting the sharp rise in breast cancer cases in Kashmir. I had breastfed my children, like most mothers.

I sought treatment at a private chemotherapy centre. During insertion of a chemo port, my right hand was damaged. Even by December 2025, I required physiotherapy. I underwent mastectomy at the same private hospital where my ovarian surgery had been performed. I was discharged two days later. Currently, I am undergoing radiotherapy at a government hospital, as private centres do not offer it. You may think I sound bitter. Perhaps I am. But I have left everything to God. That is why I have not named doctors or hospitals. Perhaps everyone did what they believed was best. I am sharing this only to create awareness. People feel distressed after a simple dental procedure. Imagine living through chemotherapy, repeated surgeries, endless tests, and constant uncertainty. Please do not pity cancer survivors like me. We do not need pity. We need acknowledgement and validation. Trauma does not live only in memory. It lives in the body,  perception and in how safe the world feels.

Postscript:

This survivor has permitted Dr Arif for clarifications or initiatives aimed at improving future cancer care experiences.

Many trauma survivors suffer not only from what happened, but from what followed—the dismissal, minimisation and questioning of their pain. This is known as traumatic invalidation. It teaches the nervous system that even naming harm is unsafe. Healing does not come through logic or debate. It comes through presence, belief and dignity.

True safety is rebuilt when someone is heard and believed, not explained away.