Silent Scars of Cancer

Cancer is a disease that scars beyond what scans or biopsies can reveal. As a research scientist who has spent over a decade working in cancer biology, I have seen firsthand the complexity and cruelty of this illness, from molecular signatures in the lab to devastating diagnoses in the clinic. But it was the recent loss of my young uncle to esophageal cancer that brought home the emotional brutality of cancer in a way no textbook or clinical trial ever could. He was in his early fifties, full of life and laughter, a devoted father and husband. Within months of diagnosis, he was gone—leaving behind four young children and a shattered spouse. The scientific part of me tried to make sense of it: mutations, progression, drug resistance. But what lingers most is the emotional wreckage left behind, the grief echoing through his home long after the final medical intervention.

Cancer, we are told, is a battle. But the metaphor is incomplete. It suggests a winner and a loser, a clear endpoint, a medal, or a eulogy. What it fails to capture is the internal war waged daily by patients and families—an unrelenting emotional fight marked by fear, anger, loneliness, and exhaustion. The emotional cost of cancer is immense and too often ignored, relegated to the shadows while treatment regimens and survival curves take center stage. Yet for many, the psychological pain of uncertainty, of watching a loved one suffer, of juggling hope and hopelessness is as intense as any physical symptom.

Despite decades of research and significant advances in diagnosis and treatment, the emotional dimension of cancer remains underexplored in both practice and policy. Studies suggest that nearly 40% of cancer patients suffer from clinical anxiety or depression at some stage of their illness. Family caregivers, particularly spouses and children, often experience stress levels comparable to or even exceeding those of the patients. In many ways, cancer becomes a shared trauma—affecting not just the person with the disease but their entire emotional ecosystem. And yet, our healthcare systems continue to treat the emotional toll as secondary, a quiet subplot to the main narrative of survival.

As a scientist, I find this oversight deeply troubling. We would never consider treating cancer without imaging or bloodwork. So why is mental health support still treated as optional, an afterthought rather than an integral part of care? Oncologists are trained to manage tumors, not trauma. Nurses are overloaded. Social workers are spread thin. Mental health professionals are rarely embedded within oncology departments, and even when available, patients are often hesitant to seek help due to stigma or lack of awareness. Insurance coverage for counseling is inconsistent. Support groups, if they exist, are frequently volunteer-run and under-resourced. This patchwork approach does a disservice to everyone involved.

I believe that emotional health must be treated with the same urgency and seriousness as physical health in cancer care. This means integrating licensed mental health professionals into multidisciplinary care teams from the very beginning. It means routine psychological screening at diagnosis, during treatment, and in survivorship. It means giving caregivers a seat at the table—acknowledging that their mental well-being directly affects the patient’s outcome and quality of life. It means reshaping public and institutional narratives so that emotional vulnerability is not seen as a weakness but as a natural, human response to an overwhelming experience.

My uncle’s children are too young to fully understand what happened, but the emotional vacuum in their lives is undeniable. His wife, once vibrant and full of plans, now moves through her days as if navigating a fog. There was no emotional playbook for what they endured. No structured counseling, no regular check-ins from the healthcare team after his death. Just silence and sadness. In conversations with other families touched by cancer, I hear similar refrains: "We felt alone." "There was no support after the chemo ended." "No one told us how to grieve."

That is why I am writing this—not just as a scientist, but as someone who has lived this pain and who believes we can and must do better. Cancer care must evolve beyond biology. We need a compassionate paradigm that recognizes the patient not just as a body but as a human being surrounded by other human beings. A model where mental health is seen not as an adjunct but as a pillar of adequate care. Where healing is measured not only by tumor response, but by the strength of the emotional scaffolding we build around those affected.

We often talk about curing cancer, and rightly so. But let us also talk about caring for those who carry its weight. Because until we address the emotional toll of this disease, no victory will ever feel complete. And for families like mine, the real healing will begin only when we stop treating emotions as the silent side effects of cancer and start treating them as wounds that deserve our deepest empathy and attention.

Ajaz Ahmad Bhat Staff Scientist - Associate Level, Doha, Qatar