← Back to Lung Cancer Awareness - August 2026

As oncologists, people often ask us the same question: "How do you deal with so much sadness every day?" The truth is, we don't always have an answer.

There are victories that stay with us forever. There are miracles that remind us why we chose this profession. But there are also patients whose stories never leave us — not because we cured them, but because we helped them achieve something that mattered more than medicine.

One such patient walked into my consultation room a few years ago. He was around 65 years old. He wasn't simply walking in — he was struggling for every breath. Huffing and puffing, he slowly sat down across from me and placed a biopsy report on my table.

"Doctor," he said quietly, "I've been diagnosed with lung cancer."

I asked him not to rush. Whenever I meet a patient for the first time, I like to begin at the beginning. Before discussing scans or reports, I want to understand the person behind the disease. I ask about the very first symptom, previous illnesses, family history of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, lifestyle, occupation — everything that helps me understand the complete picture. Only then do I review the investigations.

His work-up had already been done meticulously by an experienced chest physician in Mumbai. The chest X-ray, CT scan, PET-CT scan and biopsy all pointed towards the same diagnosis. It was Stage IV lung cancer. The primary tumour occupied his lung. The cancer had already spread to his liver, bones, and multiple areas of his brain. The brain metastases had started affecting his vision, causing troublesome double vision.

Then he looked at me and said something I will never forget.

"Doctor, my daughter's wedding is in four months. Please help me live till then. After that... I can die peacefully."

He continued almost apologetically. "I have smoked 20 to 30 cigarettes every day of my life. I've consumed alcohol almost daily. I've brought this upon myself. I don't deserve sympathy. But I want to see my daughter's wedding."

There are moments in oncology when you realise that your patient's goal is very different from yours. Sometimes, our goal is to fight cancer. Their goal is simply to be present for one precious moment.

We immediately started radiation therapy to control the disease in his brain and improve his neurological symptoms. At the same time, we sent his tumour tissue for advanced molecular testing to look for genetic alterations that could allow us to use targeted medicines. Unfortunately, every report came back negative. There was no actionable mutation. His immunotherapy biomarker testing also returned negative, meaning the chances of benefiting from immunotherapy were disappointingly low.

After completing radiation, we started chemotherapy. But his cancer was aggressive. Every week, he became weaker. The man who had walked into my clinic during our first meeting gradually became wheelchair-bound. Soon, he required continuous oxygen because his lungs could no longer keep up with his body's demands. He was simply too frail to tolerate aggressive chemotherapy.

We administered carefully modified, lower-dose weekly treatment — not with the expectation of dramatically shrinking the tumour, but in the hope of slowing its relentless progression. It was enough. Not enough to defeat the cancer. But enough to buy time.

His daughter's wedding finally arrived. He attended the ceremony seated in a wheelchair, with an oxygen cylinder beside him throughout the celebrations. Yet he was there. He watched his daughter get married. He fulfilled the one promise he had desperately wanted life to keep.

Six days later, he returned to my clinic for his next chemotherapy session. He smiled. "Doctor," he said, "I've done my duty. I don't want any more chemotherapy. Please just keep me comfortable."

We stopped active cancer treatment and involved our palliative care team, whose sole purpose was to ensure that whatever time remained was peaceful, dignified, and free from unnecessary suffering. Around two months later, he passed away peacefully.

People often think that success in oncology is measured only by years added to life. Sometimes, it is measured in moments. One wedding. One family photograph. One last festival. One last birthday. One fulfilled promise.

Those moments can become priceless. Fortunately, not every lung cancer story ends this way. Today, our understanding of lung cancer has changed dramatically. We now know that lung cancer is not one disease — it is many different diseases that happen to arise in the lung.

— Dr. Jeyhan B. Dhabhar Consultant Medical Oncologist and Hemato-oncologist