Batra is a board-certified oncologist/hematologist at the David & Donna Long Cancer Center at Sharp Grossmont Hospital and lives in San Diego.
There are pivotal moments in life one clearly remembers, such as the moment you fall in love or when you have a child. You remember more than just the event; you also recall the sounds, the smells and the feelings you had inside of you at the time. I carry the memory of the day I learned I had breast cancer the same way.
Before my diagnosis, I was healthy, had no family history of cancer, and, at age 45, was relatively young. I’m an oncologist at Sharp Grossmont Hospital and understand cancer. Not only do I know the disease, but I also witness the emotions people feel when they learn they have cancer. I have celebrated treatment successes, but, all too often, have also grieved with my patients and their families. At times, all you have left to offer are hugs and prayers. None of this history or experience, however, left me thinking that I was vulnerable to cancer. If anything, I felt somewhat invincible, but I was wrong.
In December 2020, the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, any feelings of invincibility I had were dashed. My day was packed, but I managed to squeeze in a mammogram appointment. Between seeing patients, picking up my 8-year-old twins and a date with my tennis group, I was tempted to cancel because I was so busy. To top it off, it was the holiday season. But I had already put my mammogram off for a few months, so I kept my appointment, a decision that quite possibly saved my life.
The technologist took my images, and I was waiting in the lobby for the all clear to head home and grab my kids. I was getting a little impatient when the tech and radiologist walked in together unexpectedly. The radiologist told me he saw an abnormal area on my left breast. I knew I had a pre-existing cyst. So, I told him no worries, it’s just a cyst, and that I would follow up in a few months.
But he insisted, “You know, while you’re here, let’s do an ultrasound.” I sighed and reluctantly agreed. I called my husband, told him not to worry and asked him to get the kids.
The ultrasound room is where it all changed. I couldn’t help but peek at the images, and although the tech didn’t say anything, her silence scared me. It was then that I began to see images of my kids as babies, and all the times I missed out on being with them at home. I thought about loved ones and how I hadn’t said I love you to my parents or even talked to them recently.
After what felt like the longest 20 minutes of my life, the radiologist came back in. He recommended a biopsy and showed me the image on the screen. With my experience, I immediately knew it was going to be cancer. He reassured me and said it could be nothing, and I held onto that hope despite my intuition.
I considered postponing my biopsy until after New Year’s to avoid dampening the holidays (and to avoid knowing with certainty that I had cancer), but a dear friend convinced me to do it as soon as possible. I received the results on Dec. 23, two days before Christmas, and three days before my twins’ birthdays. The pathologist and a colleague who I work with daily told me at work that I had cancer. The world stopped.
I canceled the rest of my day and went home to be with my family. After that moment, the next few weeks were a blur. Ultimately, I was diagnosed with a favorable tumor, early stage — caught early thanks to that mammogram. I received 16 rounds of radiation therapy and avoided chemotherapy. I still take a medication called Tamoxifen, but it’s a small price to pay for my life.
That day in December changed the course of my life. I now have a much deeper connection to my patients and understand their fears intimately and viscerally as they learn to face an uncertain future. Although my diagnosis was the worst news I could’ve imagined, I now realize no one is invincible, we’re all vulnerable in one way or another. I embrace a different kind of invincibility, one that is strengthened by a newfound appreciation for the world around me. And I live a life where I focus on developing precious memories to continue building my shield of hope.
