Living on Both Sides of The Bedside

In February of my first year of medical school, I noticed a lump on my neck. I went to my GP multiple times, but each time I was reassured and told I was young, had no family history, and there was nothing to worry about.

But I wasn’t convinced.

Eventually, I said I’d unintentionally lost weight - something I remembered from lectures as a red flag. It wasn’t true, but I knew it might finally lead to more thorough investigation. In that moment, relying on my medical education to advocate for myself, not knowing that one sentence may have saved my life.

After a long wait with a ‘normal’ ultrasound and so even more begging for further investigation, I was diagnosed in December, a few weeks before Semester 3 exams, with Stage 3 adenoid cystic carcinoma of the parotid: a rare, aggressive, and relentlessly recurrent salivary gland cancer. ACC accounts for less than 1% of all head and neck cancers, and it’s typically seen in people decades older. I was only 18 when the lump first appeared, and just 20 by the time I finished treatment - making my case statistically exceptional. The odds of someone my age developing this cancer are vanishingly small, which likely contributed to how long it took to be taken seriously.

My diagnosis came through haematology, and for weeks I had no clear plan, no explanations, and no idea what was going to happen. It was just me and Dr Google - switching between anki revision and terrifying search results, with the quiet, overwhelming belief that I might be dying.

Still, I sat those exams - and passed with distinctions. The results were released while I was in surgery, and the first thing I asked my mum when I came round (half-conscious and very confused) was if I’d passed.

The day of my semester 3 exam, I met the head and neck surgeon who finally explained everything. I was terrified walking into that appointment - unable to eat properly, even while celebrating the exam with friends - but I left with a sense of clarity I hadn’t had since it all began.

I had major surgery mid-Semester 4 (in February, a year after I first noticed the lump), followed by six and a half weeks of proton beam therapy (a precise and highly targeted form of radiotherapy), meaning I was in the hospital 5 days a week, all while continuing my studies. I kept my attendance above 80% (a requirement to pass the year), revised for, and completed every assessment.

Along the way, many people encouraged me to take time out. The first ENT I saw was insistent I shouldn’t stay in university through treatment. But I had worked so hard to get into medical school and throughout semesters 1-3, continuing was the one thing that gave me purpose, stability, and identity when everything else felt uncertain.

That decision taught me a lot. It showed me how medicine, and the chance to one day practice it, wasn’t just an academic path for me, but something I held onto when everything else was falling apart.

It also taught me how strange it is to be both patient and student at once. I was revising oncology and different kinds of cancers while receiving treatment for my own. In one session, we acted in a simulated consultation where the ‘patient’ had a terminal cancer and was asking for help to end his life - while I still hadn’t met my own specialist with no clue how/if my cancer could be treated. In another class, a tutor asked whether ‘people our age’ can really get cancer, and I remember how the room suddenly felt quiet, not because everyone knew, but because I did as I sat there thinking, if only you knew.

These moments changed how I see medicine.

I’ve learned what it’s like to feel ignored, even when you know something’s wrong. I’ve learned how powerful it is to be truly listened to. I’ve learned that clinical knowledge is a tool for patients as well as doctors - sometimes the only way to be taken seriously. And I’ve learned how vital empathy and honesty are, especially when someone is scared and in the dark.

I’ve also come to understand that resilience isn’t always loud or dramatic - sometimes it’s just turning up. Attending a lecture after treatment. Sitting an exam while waiting for scan results. Being a student, even when you’re a patient too.

And the truth is, this might not be the end of my journey with cancer. Adenoid cystic carcinoma is slow but persistent, with a high risk of distant metastasis, sometimes years after initial treatment. That uncertainty will always be part of my life. But I carry it with me now not as fear, but as perspective.

Amid everything, I’m deeply grateful to everyone who cared for me - yet it was my surgeons who had the greatest impact when I needed it most. Before meeting them, I felt confused and unsure. Their calm, clear approach helped me feel safe - and made things seem a little less impossible.

This experience has made me more thoughtful. More attuned to what patients don’t say out loud. More willing to question assumptions. And more motivated than ever to become the kind of doctor who doesn’t just treat disease, but really sees the person living through it.

If this experience helps me make even one patient feel less dismissed, less afraid, or more understood then something good will have come from it. And that’s all I can hope for.

Here are a couple of photos from my journey: