Words to Heal

As a two-time breast cancer survivor of 30 years, and now a skin cancer survivor times five, I’ve learned just how powerful words can be when spoken from doctor to patient.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 40, my oncologist walked into the cramped exam room, shook my hand and said the words I desperately needed to hear: “I’m so sorry for this unfortunate thing that has happened to you.” I burst into tears. He didn’t tiptoe around my feelings; he validated them. I had been silently carrying the “Why me? Why now?” questions, but in that moment, I felt seen.

Then he gave me hope: “Your tumor is ER/PR positive and has good markers. I have every reason to believe you will see your boys grow up to be men!”

I clung to those words. And I did live to see my boys graduate from high school and college, walk down the aisle, dance at their weddings and cradle their newborns in my arms. All because my oncologist reframed my diagnosis and offered me hope — a medicine as vital as any prescription or chemotherapy drug.

When a new primary tumor appeared in the same breast 22 years later, I held on to that lesson. This time, I wrote my own script: “You will survive this too.” Because words matter — not just what doctors say to us, but also what we say to ourselves.

Unfortunately, not every physician gets the memo.

Recently, I underwent Mohs surgery for my fifth basal cell carcinoma in five years. The first four were easy to disguise, but this one stretched straight across my forehead — every millimeter mattered. I experimented with hairstyles to hide it, until my 7-year-old granddaughter, an aspiring stylist, suggested: “Mimi, you should try fringe bangs. You’d look great with them.” The sparkle in her eyes gave me hope.

That afternoon, after clean margins were obtained, the surgeon widened the incision and closed it with dissolvable subcuticular stitches and rolled sutures on top. The result: a two-inch scar.

While stitching me up, my surgeon made an offhand remark that cut deeper than the scalpel: “No amount of sunscreen is going to help you now.”

Her words seared like hot cautery. A tear slipped down my cheek, unnoticed. I felt stripped of hope. Was I now a hopeless case? Should I give up on sunscreen altogether and surrender to the sun?

As a former tumor registrar, I know the statistics: basal cell carcinoma rarely kills, but approximately 2,000 people die each year from basal and squamous cell cancers. Still, survival isn’t the only measure. A patient isn’t just a sum of body parts — we carry a soul. And words can either comfort that soul or wound it.

That day, my surgeon failed me. The operation was a success, but I left her office without the medicine of hope.

Fear threatened to creep in, but I stopped it cold. Thirty years ago, when I first heard the words “You have cancer,” I made myself a promise: never to let those words — or any words — steal my hope.

So, I pass along this reminder: Words matter. To patients, to survivors, to families, to friends, to one another. Choose them carefully. Choose them to heal, not harm. And when in doubt — choose life-giving words of hope.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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