Being diagnosed with lymphoma at the age of twenty-one was not just a passing medical incident for the Sudanese youth Mohamed Othman; it was the beginning of something entirely new, a second birth of sorts.

Despite the pain that tore through his body and the suffering that weighed down his soul, that moment became a turning point in his life. Yes, his academic performance in high school was affected, and his early dreams began to fade.
However, the illness gave him something far more valuable: early maturity, wisdom born of suffering, and clarity that allowed him to recognize previously overlooked blessings and redefine his life goals.

Pain without Diagnosis

Mohamed recounts his story: “I’m a nursing student at the National University. I was born in Al Jazirah State and grew up in the streets and dreams of Khartoum.

My family still lives there, while my father spent most of his life working abroad in Qatar. Though all of my schooling was in Sudan, I lived parts of my life traveling between my homeland and Doha.

After graduating from high school and joining university in 2021, the illness struck. The onset of pain coincided with the pressures of final exams, an already stressful time for all students, but for me, it was harsher than I could bear.
At first, the symptoms were mild and unclear, and the disease went undiagnosed. However, as time passed, the pain began to creep through my body, slowly invading my everyday life. For a full year, I moved between clinics and medical reports with no conclusive answer.
While the illness silently advanced and my life seemed to halt under its weight, doctors in Sudan could not determine the cause. All the while, I held on to my dream of entering medical school—a dream that began to fade before my eyes.

By the end of 2022, the fatigue had become unbearable. I could not endure the pain any longer, so my father decided to bring me back to him, to be by my side and follow up on my condition personally.

As soon as I arrived in Doha, the treatment journey began. My first stop was at Hamad General Hospital, where preliminary tests raised suspicion of lymphoma. The doctors did not tell my family or me right away; instead, they referred me to the National Center for Cancer Care and Research (NCCCR), where the truth gradually unfolded.

Acceptance and Surrender

The delay in diagnosis worsened my condition. The doctors immediately began an intensive treatment plan, including chemotherapy and radiation, which lasted over seven months.

I did not know where my sense of acceptance came from or how I managed to endure it all without breaking down. I never imagined I had such strength within me, but I found a quiet resilience growing from my weakened body.
Even my father, seeing my steadfastness, once asked me after I had made significant progress in treatment, “Why weren’t you afraid when you learned you had cancer?”
His question reflected just how unexpected my response was, even to those closest to me.

Only then did I realize that my patience was a gift from God, granted so I could pass this test with a heart at peace.

The Cancer Returns
In 2024, after I had already declared myself in remission, I received shocking news during a routine checkup: the cancer had returned. The blow was devastating. I initially refused to go back into the battlefield. I felt depleted, as I had no strength left for another fight.

However, my father, with his wisdom, and the doctors, with their unwavering support, helped me regain my direction. They convinced me there was no option but to go forward. A bone marrow transplant was decided upon, and after the procedure, my health began to improve, thanks to God.

I first learned about the Qatar Cancer Society through the NCCCR. A staff member there told my father that the society might be able to help cover treatment costs. My father didn’t hesitate—he prepared the documents and submitted them. Not long after, my treatment resumed, through God’s mercy and the Society’s support.

Wisdom Through Illness
“Every hardship is followed by a blessing, by God’s will.” My father and I wrote this sentence on the first page of our journey journal. It still echoes in my ears whenever I recall those days.
Yes, the ordeal was harsh, but it gave me vision and a new purpose.
Today, one of my goals is to become a professional who supports others facing similar turning points. I plan to establish a project in Sudan—my home country—similar to the Qatar Cancer Society, to reach those who are battling cancer alone.

My family, especially my extended family, was my solid support system, the strength that cleared the way for my recovery.

Though everyone surrounded me with love, care, and tenderness, my father’s words anchored my soul, and his advice lit my path.

The medical staff at NCCCR played an unforgettable role in uplifting my spirit. They went far beyond their professional duties, constantly checking on me and planting peace in my heart with their words and smiles. Despite differences in nationality, religion, and titles, the common thread was hope.
This sense of connection created an atmosphere of comfort that eased the burden of my illness and the pain of treatment.

Though it was a tough time, those around me lightened its weight. Among them was my brother, my companion, and my support. God strengthened me through him—and through many others whom He sent during that time, people whose roles I won’t detail by name, but whose actions and kindness etched themselves deeply into my soul.

Spiritual Comfort
Some things in life are beyond our control, and illness is one of them. For this reason, I surrendered all my affairs to God, relying on my faith and my certainty that nothing befalls a person except what is written for them.
This complete surrender was my source of psychological comfort and played a major role in my recovery. I came to believe that mental and emotional well-being is just as crucial as the medical side when fighting a battle like this.

I advise those just beginning their journey with cancer not to burden themselves with thoughts of the future or the stages ahead. Take things one step at a time—that makes it easier on the soul and builds endurance.
As for me, I reached such a level of surrender that I barely paid attention to medical explanations or even to the consent forms they asked me to sign.

I simply trusted the doctors and entrusted my fate to God, believing that whatever He chose for me would be for my good.

Facing Cancer

To anyone battling cancer: Cling to that inner strength you feel, even amid pain. It is your shield against breaking down. Do not let others see you as weak or fading. That is why I hid my illness even from my closest friends—not out of fear of society, but because I had no desire to surrender or seek pity.

Moreover, to the survivors, know that you have endured immense hardships and challenges, but surely, something beautiful happened along the way.
That, I believe, is what you should hold on to.
Despite the pain I endured, I see that time as a moment of deep reflection and a powerful new beginning.

So, look to the bright side, and do not keep your story hidden—share it. Walk among people filled with hope and life.

Mona Arhema Al-Kowari, the Qatari woman of five children, lived a life devoted to beauty, creativity, and balance. As a visual arts teacher, she spent her days guiding young students to tell stories through color, to express emotion with the flick of a brush, and to see art as a mirror of the soul.

However, never did she imagine that she would one day become the story, her life transformed into a canvas where pain and resilience painted side by side.

Mona said, “I never imagined I would face something like this. The graduate of the Faculty of Art Education at Qatar University assured me there was no history of cancer in my family. I lived healthily, exercised regularly, and paid attention to everything I ate; each day was like a finely balanced artwork.”

“My life used to flow with the serenity of a morning breeze,” she recalls. “I loved the little details, my routines, my classroom, the energy of children discovering art for the first time. Then one day, out of nowhere, came a sudden pain and bleeding I couldn’t explain.”

Initial medical checks revealed nothing, but a quiet dread crept into her heart, much like the discomfort an artist feels when colors on the palette no longer blend.

Just days later, the symptoms worsened. A referral to Al-Amal Hospital, now known as the National Center for Cancer Care and Research, led to a battery of tests. The diagnosis that followed was life-altering: cervical cancer.

“The news hit me like a lightning bolt. Time froze. Even my heartbeat seemed to stop, and the world dimmed, all colors lost their glow. I was overwhelmed with fear, haunted by every dark thing I had ever heard about cancer, and I thought this was the end.”

However, it was not; something inside me refused to give in. I gathered myself together like a painter picking up the torn pieces of a canvas, and I chose to fight. Life, even in its harshest moments, is worth fighting for.”

A Decade of Battle

In the summer of 2010, my family received the heartbreaking news. The shock was immense, but so was their support, and I decided to seek treatment abroad, beginning with six months of chemotherapy in Germany.

“When I returned to Doha, I wasn’t myself anymore. I suffered from multiple complications, and over the years, underwent thirty surgeries.”

My treatment journey extended to London, where I continued chemotherapy in phases over nearly ten years, as Doctors had hoped to avoid invasive surgery, but the disease spread in waves to my thyroid, chest, and intestines.

“There were moments when I stood at the edge of death. I felt like I was losing everything, even hope. However, I held tightly to my faith. God’s light always found its way into my heart, urging me to cling to life, to resist despair.”

In 2018, after years of struggle, I underwent a hysterectomy, a major turning point in my battle. By then, I was physically and emotionally exhausted as I spent most of the past decade abroad, returning to Doha only briefly each year.

Loneliness and Enduring Strength

Perhaps the hardest part was not the pain but the isolation. I was alone in a foreign country, with no friends or support during the darkest period of my life,”

“The only comforting presence was my mother, who traveled with me for treatment until she passed away. After her, my eldest brother became my anchor alongside my five children, who gave me reason to keep going.”

Despite the loss, the loneliness, and the seemingly endless medical trials, I never gave up. My story was not just one of survival, but of strength, faith, and resilience.

Today, I stand as a symbol of endurance, a woman who turned her suffering into a masterpiece of courage. “I’ve been through more than I ever thought I could bear. However, I am still here. And I still believe that healing is possible, even after the longest, darkest night.”

“It wasn’t just the illness that weighed heavily on my shoulders; it felt like life itself had conspired to test my patience all at once. Treatment, exile, and responsibility all collapsed on me like a mountain falling without warning.” Yet, I stood tall.

“I faced that trial with dignity unshaken despite the breaking points, steadfast despite the tremors. I carried myself forward. My treatment was fully covered by the state, a blessing I thank God for every moment, but it didn’t ease the sting of loneliness or the ache of solitude.”

Just before returning from my final treatment abroad, life seemed determined to strip me of every comfort, as I owned no home to return to, no car to spare me the exhaustion of travel.

Everything was rented, even my sense of stability. It felt like peace itself was on hold, postponed indefinitely. However, I never allowed sorrow to take root in my heart. I would always remind myself: If I’ve endured cancer, no hardship in life can defeat me.”

I became not only the caregiver but also the entire support system for my family. “I was the mother and the father. The anchor and the refuge. I was solely responsible for my children, their education, their weddings, their daily needs, big and small.

There was no room in my life for weakness, but the truth was, when the body falls ill, it is not just the flesh that suffers, but the soul tires. The spirit grows heavy.”

Depression crept in quietly, like an uninvited guest. It stole the light I used to find in my children’s smiles or in the colors that once healed me. I did not need blame; I needed help.

Therefore, I reached for a lifeline, I sought the support of a social worker, and I spoke and opened up. I revealed the things I had buried inside me for so long. And slowly, I began to breathe again.”

“I made a decision: I would reclaim my life. I sat with myself and created a plan not just to survive the hardship, but also to emerge from it wiser, stronger, and more grateful. I realized that healing isn’t only about physical recovery, it’s about freeing the heart and spirit from everything that weighs them down.”

One of the most difficult chapters of her journey came during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“The lockdown period was the hardest phase of all. When I returned to Qatar, I spent a long quarantine in a hotel due to my weakened immune system. I remained at home, completely isolated, for nearly a year and a half. I didn’t leave the house at all.”

Yet even in London, where I received much of my treatment, I wasn’t only fighting for myself, I wasn’t just caring for my own pain, I was also caring for my daughter, who had a physical disability at the time. I would move between chemotherapy sessions and her rehabilitation appointments. I carried my pain and hers within the same heart.”

It was not easy, but it was deeply transformative. I drew strength from my unshakeable faith. I was certain that God would not abandon us, that this storm would one day pass. Moreover, it was by God’s grace that I recovered from cancer, and my daughter healed from her disability. It felt like we were both reborn.”

Throughout my treatment, I became a beacon of hope to others as well. I remember the medical staff in London used to call my room ‘The Positive Energy Room’. They said I was always radiating hope despite everything I was going through. I made it my mission to spread optimism, to smile often, to speak with kindness, and to believe, always, that healing is possible by the will of God.”

I did not allow fear to take control of me; instead, I transformed my pain into a driving force to keep going. This faith became the light that illuminated the darkness of the difficult days.

To every patient going through cancer or any serious illness, I say: do not give up. Hold on to hope, and draw strength from your family and close friends; they are the true support in this challenging journey.

Do not let despair creep into your heart, and do not weaken in the face of illness. Strength does not mean the absence of pain, but rather the ability to face it with resilience and faith. Always remember that every moment of patience brings you one step closer to healing, and that you are far stronger than you believe.

I have fully recovered, by the grace of God, from cancer—a blessing for which I thank Him every moment. However, the truth that many people do not realize is that the journey does not end with recovery. The aftermath of the illness and its side effects continue to affect every aspect of my life, both physically and emotionally.

I still undergo regular follow-ups at the hospital, including tests and treatments to manage the complications left behind by the disease—from chronic fatigue to changes in my body and lifestyle.

Healing from cancer does not necessarily mean the end of suffering, but rather a new beginning in the journey of adaptation and coexistence. I firmly believe that patience, resilience, and faith in God are my provisions for this stage, just as they were during the previous one.

Today, I live my life normally, praise be to God. Every morning, I return to my job at the school with renewed energy, filled with determination and love for what I do. I have become one of the distinguished staff members in my workplace, and over the past two years, I have received several certificates of appreciation in recognition of my dedication and sincerity in serving my students and colleagues.

I feel as though I have been reborn after my journey with illness. What brings me the most joy today is that I was able to turn my pain into a driving force for success and become a role model for those who think illness marks the end of the road—when in fact, it can be the beginning of a stronger story.

I also became involved with the Qatar Cancer Society after learning about its various activities and tremendous efforts in supporting patients and promoting health awareness in the community. After my experience with illness, I felt it was my duty to be part of this noble mission.

I made it a point to participate in awareness campaigns, open discussions, and seminars, where I shared my personal experience with others to instill hope and affirm that cancer is not the end—it can be overcome with determination and support.

My goal has always been to extend a helping hand to anyone going through this journey, to be a supportive voice for those who need words of encouragement in moments of vulnerability, and to share my story of resilience and recovery, praise be to God.

Today, I share my story with cancer—a journey that granted me a new chance at life after a painful experience filled with challenges and hardships. I share my story in the hope that it may become a turning point for patients whose strength and determination have been weakened by the disease, and that it may ignite within them the belief that recovery is possible and that life is worth fighting for.

My name is Sami, and I am from Jordan. I moved to Doha in 2016, carrying big dreams and clear plans to establish my own business and improve the financial and social well-being of my family. I was a loving and responsible father, committed to maintaining my health. I exercised regularly, never smoked, and never imagined that I would face the greatest challenge of my life.

After settling in Doha, I began to notice changes in the vision of my right eye. Initial eye examinations did not reveal the cause, but after undergoing a brain MRI, the shock came—the results showed tumors in my brain. Further tests later revealed that the disease had spread to other parts of my body, including the liver, adrenal gland, lungs, and spine. In that moment, it felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath my feet, and I was suddenly confronted with a reality I had never imagined.

Fear and overwhelming thoughts consumed me. I asked myself: Is this the end of my journey? Should I surrender so easily? I was alone, far from my family, facing this fate on my own. Yet, in the midst of this darkness, I paused and said to myself: Why think about death when I am still alive? At that moment, I made my decision—to fight, to live, and to hold on to hope no matter how difficult the path would be.

I chose to keep my illness a secret so as not to burden my family with worry and sadness. I did not want them to feel helpless or suffer because of me, especially my wife, who was already carrying the responsibility of caring for our children. My treatment journey began with radiation therapy, followed by chemotherapy—a phase filled with physical and emotional challenges, including severe fatigue, weakness, inflammation, and difficult side effects.

Despite everything, I refused to give up. I continued working and faced the illness with silence, faith, and determination. During my time in the hospital, I found moments of reflection and inner strength. I would sit in the hospital garden, breathe the fresh air, talk with the medical staff and other patients, and thank God for every moment I was still alive.

With time, the treatment began to show results, and the disease gradually started to retreat, thanks to God and the medical care I received. I later began immunotherapy, which restored hope within me and gradually brought life back to my exhausted body. The treatment was difficult, but it never broke my spirit.

Throughout this journey, I carried a great burden on my own, both physically and emotionally, until I was eventually compelled to tell my wife the truth. It was one of the hardest moments, yet she became a strong source of support despite the distance. As treatment continued, my condition improved significantly, and I eventually reached the stage of recovery, thanks to God, the dedicated medical team, the National Center for Cancer Care and Research, and  Qatar Cancer Society, which provided me with unwavering support and care.

After some time, I was able to travel to visit my family. It was an emotional moment when I told my mother the truth, but I reassured her that I was in safe hands and had overcome the most difficult stage.

I emerged from this experience as a different person—someone who values life, time, and relationships more deeply. I learned that determination, faith, and hope are the most powerful weapons in facing illness, and that trust in God gives us the strength to move forward. I realized that life is a gift, and every day we live is a new opportunity.

My message to every cancer patient is this: commit to your treatment, never lose hope, and do not rely on unproven remedies. While some healthy practices may support the body, they cannot replace specialized medical treatment. Most importantly, hold on to life and face the disease with strength and faith.

Today, I live my life with a new perspective, grateful for every moment, and firmly believing that hope always exists—and that recovery is possible.

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?