A Circle of Hope

When you tell someone they have cancer, you are fighting more than just the disease; you are fighting despair. That’s why I always start by telling my patients three things: cancer is curable, you are not alone—help and support comes from people and organizations in ways you can’t imagine—and above all, never give up hope. Every so often, a case comes along that proves all three points with a result that even today makes me smile, like that of a 9-year-old schoolgirl I’ll call Priya.

About twenty-five years ago, a colleague referred Priya to me. She was pale and tired. Her blood reports confirmed our concerns: a low haemoglobin and platelet count, but a high number of white blood cells. More telling was the presence of ‘blasts’—the definitive sign of acute leukaemia, a blood cancer that can be rapidly fatal if not treated in time.

Her parents saw me in my office, where I disclosed the diagnosis. They were shattered. The fear in their eyes was palpable, and I knew it was twofold: the fear for their daughter’s life, and the fear of the crushing financial cost of saving it. Her father had a steady job at a private firm, he felt he could get some help but was uncertain if that would be sufficient. The journey ahead seemed insurmountable.

Before they could lose themselves to despair, I shared the one piece of good news we had. Further tests had confirmed the diagnosis was Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia, but crucially, it was a ‘low-risk’ subtype. In the world of childhood leukaemia, a diagnosis of low-risk Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia in a girl of her age was the best news we could have hoped for. It meant her chance of a complete cure was very good. I reassured them, ‘This is very treatable.’

The parents committed to the treatment with everything they had, and Priya began the long, multi-year chemotherapy regimen. Her response was excellent—within four weeks, she was in remission, meaning there was no longer any evidence of cancer in her bone marrow.

We knew the financial strain of the long treatment ahead would be immense. Before their savings could be exhausted, a friend of mine stepped in to help. In today’s world, one might think of online crowdfunding, but this was long before the era of social media. Instead, my friend relied on a more direct approach: he simply started talking to people. He reached out to his relatives and social contacts, explaining that a child’s life could be saved, but that the family needed financial support for the treatment.

And the help came. Donations, both large and small, came from his network. To Priya’s family, these donors were strangers, but their generosity formed a circle of hope around her. This support system ensured that the family never faced a shortage of funds, and that not a single dose of chemotherapy was missed or delayed.

The treatment took nearly three years. The initial, more intensive phase kept her out of school for about six months, but her teachers made special arrangements to ensure her education didn’t suffer. It was a long journey, but it worked.

Today, Priya is a young woman in her early thirties. She is cured. She not only completed her graduation but now holds a steady job.

Her story is a testament to three truths we should all remember. First, cancer is often curable, so one must never lose hope. Second, a normal life after cancer is a reality for millions of survivors. And third, help is always available for those who need it.

A final chapter in this family’s story offers a crucial perspective. Two years ago, Priya’s elder brother was diagnosed with diabetes. It is a serious, lifelong condition that, unlike his sister’s cancer, cannot be cured. The irony in people’s perception is stark: the disease that struck terror in the family had a definitive end, while the one often seen as manageable requires a lifetime of care to mitigate the risk of complications. This contrast puts the word ‘cure’ into perspective, highlighting the crucial distinction that many cancers can be cured, while most chronic diseases can only be controlled. My hope is that medical advances will not only continue to lessen the harm from chronic diseases, but will one day offer him, and all those living with lifelong conditions, a cure just as they did for his sister.

Over the last few years, Priya and her mother see me less and less often for their follow-up visits. I am happy as the saying goes, “no news is good news.”