My Pancreatic Cancer Survivor Story: Finding Strength When Doctors Lose Hope
My pancreatic cancer survivor story began with five words I’ll never forget: “You know it’s bad.”
When I was diagnosed, I already knew the numbers.
I understood the pathology, the prognosis, and the treatment options because I’m a healthcare clinician.
But nothing in my training prepared me for the way the news was delivered.
There was no encouragement.
No plan.
No promise to help me fight or even to live better.
Only the weight of those words and the silence that followed them.
After years of guiding patients through their hardest moments, I never imagined that when it was my turn, I’d be met without hope at all.
As a clinician and advocate, I’ve spent my career supporting patients through their hardest moments. You can read more about my journey and professional background on my About Page.
When the Clinician Becomes the Patient
Hearing “you know it’s bad” wasn’t just painful, it was disorienting.
I wasn’t only a patient. I was also a medical professional.
I knew what compassionate communication should sound like.
I knew how important empathy was, especially when the outcome might be grim.
And yet, there I sat: stunned, alone, and without support.
Even with all my training, I felt:
- Lost.
- Terrified.
- Small.
In that moment, I realized something my degrees never taught me: being a clinician doesn’t protect you from the emotional weight of a diagnosis.
For the first time, I wasn’t the provider.
I was a student; of illness, of silence, and of what it means to face a system that forgets you’re human.
Have you ever felt dismissed or unseen by a doctor when you needed empathy the most? In When the Doctor Doesn’t Believe You, I share a real moment from my journey that reveals just how damaging medical dismissal can be and what it taught me about reclaiming my voice.
What I Knew, and What I Learned
Pancreatic cancer is one of the most aggressive and unforgiving diseases in medicine. That much I already knew.
What I didn’t know was how it feels when that truth is delivered without compassion.
From both clinical and personal experience, I now understand:
- Hope is a clinical tool.
- Compassion is part of care.
- Communication can empower or paralyze a patient.
Research supports this. Studies from the Association of American Medical Colleges (AAMC) show that when doctors deliver bad news with empathy and honesty, patients cope better emotionally and physically.
Even when the prognosis is poor, hearing “We’re with you every step of the way” can make all the difference.
I never heard those words. The silence that replaced them left a mark that hasn’t faded.
Wondering how identity and race can shape the care you receive or the compassion you’re shown? In What It’s Like to Navigate Cancer Care as a BIPOC Woman, I share the realities of navigating a system that often sees color before it sees humanity.
I now share this message of compassionate communication talks. Learn more on my Speaking Page.
Reclaiming Power: What Patients Can Do
After that first appointment, I was too overwhelmed to look for other doctors or even think about second opinions. I felt trapped between statistics and despair.
Over time, I saw several oncologists each with their own approach, their own silences. The fellow who first told me “you know it’s bad” offered no comfort. His attending, the one I came to call Dr. Debbie Downer, was equally detached. When she eventually left the practice, I met others who were professional but distant. No words of encouragement, no acknowledgment of what surviving year after year actually meant.
By the time I reached my fourth oncologist, the tone of my care had shifted from fighting to simply monitoring. There was relief in stability, but also a quiet emptiness. No one ever said, “You’re doing great,” or “We’ll walk with you through this.”
What I learned was this: sometimes compassion doesn’t come from the system it has to come from within. I couldn’t change how my doctors saw me, but I could change how I saw myself. Hope, I realized, isn’t handed to you. You build it.
If you ever find yourself where I once sat, here’s what helped me reclaim power over my fear:
- Find a doctor who doesn’t give up on you.
Even when outcomes are uncertain, compassionate care matters. - Learn about your disease.
Knowledge isn’t about challenging your doctor. It’s about understanding your options so you can ask better questions and make informed choices. - Use your voice.
Ask the hard questions. Demand clear answers. You deserve to be part of every decision about your care. - Bring an advocate.
When you’re too tired or scared to fight, let someone else help carry the load. Bring someone who can take notes, listen, and speak up for you. - Join a support group.
There’s strength in shared pain and power in collective survival. If the first group doesn’t fit, keep looking until you find your people. - Redefine hope.
Hope doesn’t always mean cure. It can mean comfort, clarity, time, or simply one more good day and all of that matters.
And still, I can’t help but wonder: Would I have been treated with more compassion if I weren’t BIPOC?
Resources that can help:
- PanCAN (Pancreatic Cancer Action Network) for patient-focused support.
- Multidisciplinary care teams that see the person, not just the diagnosis.
- Cancer psychologists or therapists who help patients process both the medical trauma and the bias that too often shapes our care.
You can find more trusted links and support tools for patients and caregivers on my Resources Page.
Do you struggle to speak up during medical appointments or worry about being labeled “difficult”? Patient Self-Advocacy: How to Speak Up at the Doctor’s Office breaks down simple, effective ways to make your voice heard, even when it feels intimidating.
Why This Story Matters
This isn’t just a story about fear. It’s about how the system fails when it forgets the human being behind the medical chart.
It’s also about perspective because I’ve lived on both sides of the exam room.
I’ve been the doctor delivering difficult news to patients facing sight-altering diagnoses.
And I’ve been the patient sitting there, trembling, trying to absorb words that felt like a death sentence.
That dual experience, as provider and patient, is what drives my advocacy today.
Because no one, regardless of race, education, or background, should feel invisible in their own care.
Finding Humanity in a Clinical World
When I was told, “You know it’s bad,” what I needed to hear was:
“We will walk through this with you.”
If you’re a patient, caregiver, or clinician, please remember this:
- A diagnosis does not define your dignity.
- Even in the darkest moments, you still have agency.
- There is still life and it deserves to be met with compassion.
And to my fellow healthcare providers: Your words hold power.
You can be the person who makes the unbearable bearable or the one who makes it worse.
Choose humanity.
To everyone walking this path: You are not alone. I’m living proof.
If you’d like to explore my upcoming memoir and other projects, visit my Books Page or reach out directly through my Contact Page.
Be Part of What Comes Next
I’m building a space to share more of what I’ve learned about survivorship, healthcare equity, and the quiet courage it takes to keep going.
If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join my newsletter community. You’ll be the first to hear when new reflections, resources, and updates are ready to share.
Discover more from Dr. Yvette Colón
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
