My name is Alison Stone, and I have a PhD in Metaphysics, so I am often referred to as Dr. Alison Stone. I came to Qatar to open up a lady’s well-being center, and the reason that I took this journey of well-being and preventative medicine is that I was diagnosed with cervical cancer when I was 30. So, I attribute my success today to that incident many years ago. I have survived cancer for 27 years, and I think it is essential to see how things have changed in that period.

Here is a brief synopsis of my journey ;

I was married at 18 (in my generation, that was acceptable and normal), had two children, and when I was pregnant with my third child, I went for a routine check-up, and they discovered that I had lesions and they were cancerous. Now, one of the things that I was blessed with in the UK was that in the 80s and early 90s, Pap smears were becoming very accessible for women: they weren’t mandatory, and they weren’t encouraged, but they were accessible, so after the birth of my first daughter I had them done, so I continued getting Pap smears after the birth of my second daughter. Had I not been tested, I am convinced I would not be here today.

The cervical cancer that I had was very aggressive, and mine was mainly because I was pregnant at the time. The cancer had gone to my lymph nodes, so by the time I had delivered my child, I was in stage 4. I do feel very strongly about the need to be proactive with your health.

That experience forced me to look at my life and my control over it. The experience of the surgeries and the treatments that you go through has such a profound effect on you physically, but I think it is more the fear that has the most profound impact, and the fear I had 27 years ago was never addressed. So now, when I find out about societies like the Qatar Cancer Society in Qatar, I am so impressed and excited that women have this opportunity to be supported. Had we had something similar in my day, it might not have changed the outcome, but it would have changed the journey.

As a mother, back then, you would not know what cervical cancer was. And in my day, doctors did not understand that it was the human papillomavirus that caused cervical cancer. And so we suffered in silence. I remember on the fourth day after the surgery–about 14 hours of surgery–and I started to cry. I remember the nurse came in and said, “Stop crying. There are people worse off”. And I remember that I never spoke again. I never spoke about my pain, and I internalized it. So it was ‘keep a brave face, don’t speak about it, don’t talk about it,’ and when I look back now, I see how it took a good 10 or 15 years after that until cancer could be talked about openly. Now, having chemo and not having hair, we celebrate it; it’s ok, and I think that Social Media is a way for people to talk about their own experiences and raise awareness about cancer.

I chose to take control of my life, and I took a spiritual path – I was lost, and I was fearful, and I think that learning and things like meditation about your health give you back a sense of control. Because when you are diagnosed, and the doctor says, ‘You have cancer, it is in stage 4, this is serious’ – you hand everything over to them, and with it goes this feeling of hopelessness because now you are at the mercy of people telling you that ‘you have to have this surgery, you have to have this chemo, you have to have this radiotherapy,” but you don’t feel sick.

So, the growth of self-help groups has been positive since doctors are starting to understand that patients need to have some emotional care. As a patient, I am not just somebody who has had surgery and whose vital signs you will check – I have gone through something life-changing–a hysterectomy– and I might be facing the fact that I will never have children again, the fact that I might die and leave my children, the fact that my husband might never love me again, and I have scars everywhere – nobody addressed that. It was all ‘hush hush,’ don’t talk about it, or ‘You should be grateful you are alive.’ Now, I feel that people can talk about the cancer experience; they can address it.

I  think that the difference in Qatar (I was here ten years ago) is that nobody said the word nobody said that word, and women, therefore, especially Middle Eastern women who tend to put their children first, their husbands first, their sons first, would never even acknowledge having cancer, or want to know, that was the issue. I addressed a group of ladies in a Middle Eastern country 12 years ago, and we tried to convince them to get breast checks and pap smear tests, but they wouldn’t do it because they didn’t want to know. After all, they have fear, or they feel that sickness is based on divine intervention – and either way, they think they should surrender to it, and they don’t want to know. But the generation of women now, we can do something about it, especially the survivors. You can survive cancer, but that is a message that is never given out – you always hear ‘cancer death’ ‘cancer death’ – what about instead ‘cancer journey,’ ‘survival,’ ‘change,’ ‘power,’ ‘change in life,’ ‘change in perspective,’ ‘transformation’? There are a lot more positive words that can go with cancer, not just doom and death.

Not talking about cancer can be devastating – probably the most powerful memory I have about my experience is that I remember after my initial diagnosis from my doctor going home to my husband and when I told him and the look of fear in his eyes and then he shut down. I remember that they said I could terminate my pregnancy and that I had every reason to because my pregnancy would escalate the cancer, and I remember thinking, ‘What do I do? This will be the last chance to have a child because they are going to give me a hysterectomy. What do I do? And I again.

I told nobody about the look on my husband’s face and his inability to even respond to me. And so I carried that burden, which I am sure wasn’t healthy. I couldn’t even have the conversation about terminating my child or not because I didn’t want to reach out to anyone, because I didn’t want to see the fear again in somebody else’s eyes. And in those days, when you said the word cancer, you were met with silence. So I didn’t tell even my mother or anybody until after my surgeries. And then, when I was in the hospital, people started to visit. And I put on a very brave face to begin to deal with the fear because the fear I saw in other people’s eyes put fear back in me. But at least by then, I had gone through the process. In a way, keeping silent saved me because I could pretend it wasn’t happening. After all, nobody was talking about it. I fit into that era’s psyche: “Don’t speak about it; it doesn’t exist; let’s pretend everything is ok; just move forward.” Then, at night time, in the shower, you cry your eyes out.

I didn’t tell anyone about my illness, and I was in the hospital for about six or seven weeks. When I came out of the hospital, I asked my Mum to take care of me, so of course I opened up to her. I never told my daughters until they were 18 years old. I didn’t want them to be afraid that I was going to die. I did not want to put that fear into them. And I, not them, was preventing me from telling them. I always used the excuse that they were not old enough, and I didn’t want them to fear, but at the same time, I did want them to be proactive about cancer screening, so it was one of those challenges that I told myself: ‘I have to tell them.’ Two of my children have been vaccinated against the Human Papilloma Virus and regularly go for Pap smears. What I realized was that if I had dared to address it earlier, it is not that they would have gone earlier for Pap smears, but we could have had the conversations we had when I did eventually tell them. But my daughters have taken the situation on board, and nobody is afraid. I think the blessing in waiting to talk to them is that it is 22 years later, and they have only known me as a very healthy person, and now they understand the need to be proactive. As for everybody else, they avoided me. I lost contact with quite a few people after my illness. And I think some girlfriends were fearful because I was so young and healthy. That was the main thing: I was not a sickly person. I was healthy and had brilliant births.

But what the experience of illness has done for me is pave the course of my life since that time. My choices in development, self-development, and professional development have their basis in understanding and going through my journey. My Ph.D. is in metaphysics, and I am very keen on learning about epigenetics, which is the complete understanding that your cells are a reflection of your environment and not only your DNA, and so that is why they change. The internalization of fear and not taking care of yourself affects your genes too, which is fearful but empowering as well – it is fear because you ask yourself, ‘Did I do this to myself?’ but it is an empowering idea as well because whatever has happened to me, I have the power to change that environment. So therefore, again, having that supportive, nurturing, caring environment versus having that fearful environment is essential, which includes everybody else’s fear. Fear is quite toxic, and that can affect you too. That could affect your genes.

When I went for my surgeries, I was courageous. I took a breath and went in there feeling strong and brave. So I think the whole spiritual aspect to illness is faith, how strong faith is, what color it is and what it looks like to you, and how you can turn that into a physical element that walks you through that journey.

My illness made me a much better person, and it gave me a purpose in life – when I look at all the things that I had been planning before my illness and what my life has been like over the years, everything was about learning about care and preventative medicine. I have a bachelor’s degree in alternative medicine. A housewife with three kids – who would have thought it? I studied Ayurveda in India. Who would have thought that a homemaker would have done that? And I met the most incredible people who came my way. And I can look back and see that every single thing that I did without a plan, in reality, led me to get a Ph.D., to be in Qatar to build the women’s wellness center, to be connected, and to finally, after 27 years being able to tell my story someday.

Even in my 5^th year being cancer-free, I was sweating and panicking – what if it has come back? This is interesting because you would not do that with any other disease. All of our terminology characterizes this disease as a beast, and once it has you in its grip, it is going to seize you, but if we could change the dialogue to an attitude of ‘let’s see how healthy you are’ or ‘your blood cells are fantastic today.’ Suppose we switched our approach to cancer and reframed everything, for example. In that case, we might say things like, ‘Let’s see if we can add you to our three-year list of cancer-free living,’ that would be a very different conversation about the disease rather than saying, ‘Let’s see if it’s come back’ or ‘let’s see if you are still in remission.’

I think that the medical profession could reframe the way it talks about cancer with patients. For example, changing phrases like ‘I am so sorry, but I think we need to see you…” or ‘we will only call you if there is something wrong’ – in simple terms, what the patient hears is, ‘we will only call you if you have cancer’ and you get a miscall, and you get upset, and you are waiting and waiting anxiously. Make the experience of going in for a check-up more positive, so I will want to return. Instead of telling patients, ‘You only have two months to live,’ why not tell them that the medical system will do the best it can, send them home, and ask them to focus on the quality of their life and their diet?

In an inspiring story of healing, Abdulrahman, a 13-year-old Qatari boy, recounts how his life changed drastically at age eight. He never anticipated that his innocent play with his cousins and brother would transform into a challenging journey.

The Difficult Start:

The days leading up to Abdulrahman’s eighth birthday were full of joy and laughter, but illness began to encroach upon his young body. After noticing his worsening health, his mother decided to take him to the pediatric emergency center in Al-Sadd. Abdulrahman thought this visit would be just another routine check-up, but little did he know it would drastically alter his life.

When the family arrived at the center, they were shocked to be asked to move to an isolation room, which caused great concern for his mother. Abdulrahman was too young to fully understand what was happening and felt a mix of anxiety and fear. His mother reached out to the doctors, but they did not explain the reason for the isolation procedures. Amid this uncertainty, she discovered through online research that Abdulrahman might have leukemia, although this was not yet confirmed by the doctors.

Searching for Hope:

Abdulrahman began his journey with chemotherapy at Hamad General Hospital, but this was only the beginning. After days of tests and diagnoses, he was confirmed to have acute myeloid leukemia, and his chemotherapy treatment began, lasting for years. Despite Abdulrahman’s pain and anxiety, his mother remained by his side, helping him understand the illness and cope with it in age-appropriate ways.

The Treatment Journey:

The family moved to a children’s hospital in Washington, D.C., where Abdulrahman started a complex medical journey. He experienced significant distress and sadness due to the chemotherapy, and losing his hair was among the most challenging aspects. Nevertheless, there were moments of support, such as his uncle comparing his catheter to Iron Man’s “arc reactor,” which gave him the strength to face his challenges.

Meanwhile, Abdulrahman’s mother worked tirelessly to ensure his education continued, with teachers coming to the hospital to teach him. Although it was difficult for him, he later realized the importance of continuing his education as part of his healing journey.

Overcoming Challenges:

Despite the numerous challenges Abdulrahman faced in the hospital, including graft-versus-host disease and repeated chemotherapy, his family’s support never wavered. His mother was particularly distressed by the lack of suitable donors, but hope was restored when a mother in Texas donated umbilical cord blood that matched Abdulrahman.

Returning to Normal Life:

After the transplant, Abdulrahman and his family moved to a new home instead of staying in the hospital. The new home had a large basement that Abdulrahman transformed into his playground, giving him a space for relaxation and fun. However, he was still under regular medical follow-ups. Over time, the family returned to Qatar, where Abdulrahman continued his recovery.

Returning to School and Community:

When Abdulrahman returned to school, he faced difficulties adapting to the new environment, including bullying due to the weight gain from treatment. However, with the support of his new school, he was able to overcome these challenges and make new friends. The school was welcoming and helped him reintegrate into a normal life.

Optimism and Support:

Abdulrahman and his mother have not forgotten the gratitude they owe to the doctors, nurses, and social workers who supported them throughout the treatment journey. Organizations like “Make-A-Wish” and “Panda Group” provided non-medical support, improving Abdulrahman’s quality of life. Gestures such as providing photos of children in the hospital or supporting them through nausea had a significant impact on his morale.

A Message of Hope:

As things settled, Abdulrahman’s mother wanted to share their experience with the community. She expressed her hope that society would become more open and understanding in supporting children and their families facing cancer. She said, “God tested many children with cancer, including my son. This topic should not remain taboo. Society needs to be more open and understanding to help children and their families, as mutual support greatly contributes to overcoming hardships.”

Conclusion:

Abdulrahman’s story is a powerful reminder of the strength of hope and the role of family and community support in overcoming tough times. His journey from pain to healing highlights the importance of empathy and cooperation in addressing health challenges.

Amid the melodies and harmonies that Roger Wickham long created with his saxophone and flute, he never imagined that life would one day play a different tune for him—a tune he didn’t choose, but one that became the key to a deeply human experience. This experience reshaped his outlook on life and inspired him to become a source of light and support for those walking a similar path.

A New Beginning

Roger Wickham, a 50-year-old British musician, spent much of his life moving between European capitals until he eventually settled in Madrid, Spain. But five years ago, he and his wife and their two children moved to Doha, Qatar, to begin a new chapter of their lives together.

“As a family, we are very happy here. We work hard and enjoy life,” Roger says. “Everything was going smoothly.”

He lived a healthy lifestyle—regular exercise, swimming, running, and never smoked. The only health issue he ever faced was a slight weight gain, which he considered a natural part of aging.

From a Sore Throat to a Life-Changing Journey

In late 2015, Roger noticed a mild sore throat and a small swelling on the right side of his neck. At first, it seemed trivial. His general practitioner prescribed antibiotics and told him to return if things didn’t improve within a week.

The pain subsided, but the swelling did not. At the follow-up visit, Roger’s doctor—whom he describes as “wonderful,” decided not to dismiss the persistent swelling and referred him immediately for further imaging, raising the possibility of cancer.

Roger then underwent a long series of detailed medical examinations, including a biopsy under general anesthesia and a PET scan. He recalls that phase as:

“The hardest part… The waiting was exhausting. Not knowing what you’re dealing with is terrifying. Every scenario seemed possible. Six weeks of uncertainty—swinging between fear and hope every moment.”

Although no one had used the word “cancer” at that point, Roger felt the fear deep within him. Eventually, the diagnosis came: throat cancer.

Despite the initial shock, finally understanding what was happening brought some relief. He could now begin his battle. He gave himself two days to absorb the news, then told himself“I can survive this. This isn’t the end of the road.”

He reached out to former patients, listened to their stories, and found hope. He saw people who had recovered and were living happy lives, and so his journey began.

In February 2016, Roger underwent major surgery followed by intensive chemotherapy and radiotherapy. He recalls the treatment in detail and spent three weeks in the hospital. Despite the challenges, the illness gave him no choice but to fight “I knew I was in a battle—and I had to face it with everything I had.”

The Strength of Family

Roger didn’t go through this alone. His wife stood by his side every step of the way, as did his children and friends. From the beginning, he chose honesty.

“We told our children because they were old enough to understand. You can’t hide something this serious from them. Being honest with them was a necessity. Every conversation with my family was like a lifeline. The more I spoke about my condition, the better I felt.”

He speaks about the immense emotional support he received from those around him:

“Words of love, care, and compassion were just as healing as the treatment I was receiving in the hospital.”

Even the moments of weakness, like when he broke down in front of his wife upon entering the hospital, were softened by the arms of his family and the waves of empathy that surrounded him.

Music as a Path to Healing

Despite the hardship, Roger held on to his musical spirit. Even if he couldn’t play, he would dream and plan. After his recovery, he composed two music recordings, and he hopes to complete five albums over the next five years—a symbolic tribute to life and healing.

“I want these next five years to be the best of my life. After everything I’ve been through, I don’t want to forget any of it—it’s a constant reminder that I’m one of the lucky ones.”

A Message from the Heart

Having completed much of his recovery journey, Roger refuses to stay silent. He wants his voice to reach every person facing cancer:

“You are not alone… and every moment that passes brings you closer to healing.”

“Don’t hesitate to ask for help. Don’t underestimate what you’re going through. Accept support, and give it in return. Life doesn’t end with illness. We are stronger than we think.”

Gratitude

Roger expresses his deep appreciation for the Qatar Cancer Society, which supported him during different stages of his treatment:

“This organization plays a powerful humanitarian role. I shared my story with them because I want it to be a guiding light for anyone walking the treatment path. The joy of giving far outweighs the pleasure of receiving.”

In early spring of 2017, a short visit to the doctor changed his life forever. He had begun noticing a small mass on the left side of his neck in April, but I didn’t think much of it then and initially dismissed it. Fahth only decided to get it checked out when prompted by his friends and family. Fahth said, “I conceded for their sakes, but I wasn’t worried; it was flu season, and everyone in my family was in good health. I remained oblivious as I took sick leave, so I avoided them like I had the plague—which wasn’t so far from the stock-keeping company I worked for and made my way to the hospital. The doctors poked and prodded, hunting for a diagnosis and scouring my body for information. The doctors decided on a surgical removal of my thyroid, and in June 2017, I underwent surgery and a biopsy. They then told me that I had papillary thyroid carcinoma, a type of cancer that affects the thyroid gland.

Upon learning my condition, I was shocked. The cancer had been the last thing on my mind. The lump in my neck now felt like a noose, and my diagnosis was a death sentence. But my initial fears were put to ease by the doctor’s reassurances that this type of cancer is the most common, amongst the most curable, and my chances were fantastic. Despite my initial reactions, my mind was surprisingly straightforward, and I worked with my doctor to draw up an elaborate plan to overcome my illness. I knew exactly what I had to do and was determined to beat the cancer.

The following month, the doctors performed a surgical removal of my thyroid gland, which was thoroughly colonized by cancer cells. The surgery was declared a success, but the doctors advised me to do high-dose radioactive iodine therapy, as opposed to the standard dosage. The higher dosage would almost guarantee that the cancer wouldn’t come back, at least not for a while. However, it wasn’t offered here in Doha, so I had to travel to another country to receive the treatment. So, in September of 2017, I had high-dose radioactive iodine treatment.

I was also given a lifelong prescription of thyroxine supplements and a tiny scar to remind me of the victory. I was satisfied and ready to close that chapter and move on. I could return to enjoying my time by video-calling my family and shopping with friends. I felt carefree again. Every three months, I had routine follow-up appointments. The doctor also gave me a regular follow-up appointment, and it was during one of these that they found a 6mm mass that, thankfully, wasn’t cancerous.  I had low-dose radioactive iodine therapy in June 2018 as part of my treatment.

As time went on, I was no longer thinking of obscure masses on my neck or anything cancer-related. The routine follow-up appointments every three months and the regular follow-ups with my doctor were the only reminders that I had even gone through that experience. Every visit felt like a small victory. Every time the doctor told me that there was no sign of cancer, I let out a small sigh of relief. As the months passed and I continued testing negative for any recurrence of cancer, the follow-up appointments began to feel redundant, and I felt confident that we had warded off the tumor. So, during a follow-up appointment in November of 2019, I failed to notice the unusually long ultrasound, the doctor’s careful manner, or the nurses’ sympathetic expressions. With an almost guilty expression on his face, the doctor informed me that he had found a new 3mm mass in my lymph nodes, which was a new recurrence of the cancer. Again, the medical staff tried to reassure me that this was a fairly common phenomenon, that 75% of patients with thyroid cancers exhibit metastasis to the lymph nodes. They advised me to complete another round of high-dose radioiodine therapy.

I felt sorry. I had followed through with the plan and had done everything right. I had already beat the cancer. How could it be back? I tried to trace my habits, searching for clues in my lifestyle. I needed answers to find logic in my illness. I came up blank. I began to blame myself at this point. Not just for this complication but for getting the cancer in the first place. Was it an unhealthy diet? Was it bad luck? Or perhaps a neighbor’s evil eye? I felt responsible, convinced that I might’ve prevented it if I had done something differently. But the truth is that nobody can control or predict cancer. It took me a long while and much heartache before I realized this, but when I finally did, it became easier to modify my action plan and move on to the next phase of treatment.

I returned in February 2020 for another round of high-dose radioactive iodine treatment. This would help eradicate the cancerous tissue migrating to my lymph nodes. As standard protocol, they had asked me to stop taking my thyroxine medication in the weeks leading up to the therapy, so I was constantly fatigued and in pain. The pills they gave me for my symptoms only replaced my lethargy and pain with overwhelming nausea. My hormones were all up and down; some days, I would be shivering, while other days, I would be sweating so much that I would have to take up to three showers. These were the most difficult times of my cancer journey. My life became bland, and it had little to do with the low-salt diet that was prescribed to me. I expected that the radioactive therapy must have felt agonizing, like my insides were burning. But I don’t specifically recall that pain. Thinking back, I wonder where I drew the strength to endure a treatment that felt like being nuclear bombed. I suspect that perhaps it was because I had no choice. I didn’t have time to dwell on the details of my discomfort as I just needed to be done with it to proceed to the next phase of the plan.

After the radioiodine therapy in February, I was in one-month isolation. The radiation that I was emitting would harm anybody in my vicinity. Those few weeks where I was entirely on my own reinforced my sense of alienation; my physical isolation reflected the mental isolation of my cancer diagnosis.  But there was light at the end of the tunnel. Soon after this period, my doctor gave me the good news. I had cleared the last hurdle: I was once again cancer-free.

From then on, I was wary during my follow-up appointments. I was careful not to be overconfident about the status of my cancer this time, cognizant that my papillary cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes before and that it could happen again. Like clockwork, a couple of months later, they found more cancer sprinkled in my lymph nodes. With every encounter, my cancer grew more robust and more persistent, but I was unfazed; I was evolving alongside my cancer and felt prepared for it this time. No longer naïve, I was ready to attack the next course of treatment.

The treatment was the same radioactive iodine ablation therapy that was used against my cancer the last time. However, I was advised to seek a higher dosage, as opposed to the standard dosage that was previously administered. The higher dosage would almost guarantee that cancer wouldn’t come back, at least not for a while: a new battlefield, the same old enemy. Where I had been supported financially and emotionally by the Qatar Cancer Society (QCS) in Doha, I would have to look for new solace wherever I decided to seek treatment. I decided to continue my treatments back home in Sri Lanka so that my family and friends could surround me; it seemed like a fair enough trade-off.

Before I left, QCS gave me a booklet called Story of Hope, which detailed the experiences of many cancer survivors. While reading through the stories, I was filled with the strangest feeling. Although the individuals in the stories differed from me—their backgrounds, types of cancers, and individual experiences — I still could relate to bits and pieces of their journeys. Until now, I remained strong because I felt I had no choice. I had to go on. But reading through the stories in the booklet filled me with extraordinary hope and inspiration. It helped me realize there is no cookie-cutter cancer experience, only a rich variety unique to every patient. Finally, I could make sense of my experience and take control of my narrative. It was hard to constantly hear that I had the “good” or “easy” type of cancer because while I respect that many others have had more difficult journeys, it undermined the fact that my experience was far from good or easy. Cancer is still Cancer. It was now as straightforward as the doctors would tell me, as the websites reassured me. I constantly had to modify my action plan; I had to be determined yet flexible, hopeful but not naïve. Reading the QCS booklet helped me realize that cancer is not the monolithic disease that the label suggests. Instead, it is a continuum experienced differently by every cancer patient. Suddenly, I felt liberated from any expectation of how this process was supposed to go and drew strength from the fact that cancer could be beaten even in all its different forms. I began to see the unpredictability of cancer as predictable and felt comforted that no matter how the cancer presented itself, I would be able to overcome it. Now that I have finished my treatment, I hope that my story can similarly inspire other cancer patients who felt as lost as I did. I hope they can find clarity and see themselves in my story. But I would expect even more for them to be able to create their own story on their terms.