Oncologist's Shock Diagnosis: A Doctor's Cancer Journey

For more than a decade, Dr. Sue Hwang had guided thousands of patients through the uncertainty of mammogram results. As a radiation oncologist, she was the expert in the room, the one who could interpret scans and explain prognoses with clinical precision. Her world was one of medical knowledge and professional distance.

That distance collapsed in January 2024. At 46 years old, Hwang was healthy, played tennis daily, and balanced a demanding career as a single mother to three sons. She had no symptoms and no reason to believe she was at risk. Yet when she reviewed her own scan results, she saw something impossible: five concerning masses on her right breast and an abnormal lymph node.

"It's like, this has got to be a joke. There's no way in one year I've developed five tumors. That's not possible. And I didn't feel it."

The diagnosis marked the beginning of a profound transformation—not just in her health, but in her entire understanding of what it means to be a patient.

The shock was immediate and visceral. Hwang's previous scans had all been clear, making the sudden appearance of multiple tumors feel like a cruel impossibility. As a physician, she understood the statistics and the science. As a patient, she was confronting a reality that no amount of medical training could have prepared her for.

The diagnosis triggered a cascade of difficult news. What began as a routine screening quickly evolved into a complex treatment plan that was far more involved than she had anticipated. The initial prognosis revealed the cancer was more extensive than expected, a sobering reality for someone who had always prioritized her health.

Her doctors—also her friends and colleagues—gave her an 85% survival rate. While medically encouraging, the number represented a 15% chance of failure, a weight that felt crushing in the moment.

"It's a great number, but I heard that number, and I think that was the first time I actually just full-on lost it in a doctor's office. I'm doing all of this and you're only going to give me a B. That was how I looked at it as a patient."

The emotional impact extended beyond the diagnosis itself. Hwang's first thought was for her three sons—then ages 15, 13, and 11—and the terrifying possibility that she might not be there to watch them grow up.

Treatment was grueling and transformative. Hwang underwent multiple surgeries, including bilateral mastectomies, followed by chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone therapy. Each procedure stripped away another piece of her former self, leaving her to confront a body that was fundamentally changed.

The physical losses were profound and visible:

• Her breasts, removed through double mastectomy
• Her ovaries and uterus, removed as part of treatment
• Her hair, lost to chemotherapy

Yet Hwang discovered that the most challenging aspect wasn't the treatment itself, but the aftermath. The side effects and anxiety were difficult, but the biggest challenge has been coming to terms with her identity as a cancer survivor.

"You are physically not the same person. By the time I was done with treatment, my breasts were gone, my ovaries were gone, my uterus was gone, my hair was gone and it's a huge emotional toll."

Her medical training had prepared her to treat the disease, but nothing had prepared her for the existential shift that followed. The woman who returned to her life was not the same one who had left it.

Before her diagnosis, Hwang took pride in maintaining perfect composure. She presented an image of having everything under control, never revealing the exhaustion or loneliness that sometimes overwhelmed her.

That changed when she became a patient herself. She began to see vulnerability not as a weakness, but as a bridge to deeper connection. By opening up about her struggles, she discovered a powerful truth: honesty fosters healing.

"Being more open to others about my struggles, helped me heal because I realized I'm not alone. Everyone is struggling, and by admitting it, it makes you more human. Patients were able to relate to me a lot better."

This shift in perspective transformed her medical practice. She began asking her patients for advice on recovery and adaptation, reversing the traditional doctor-patient dynamic. This exchange of wisdom became a source of strength for both parties.

The experience also gave her a unique perspective on breast cancer prognosis. She views breast cancer patients as the "straight A honors students" of the cancer ward, with as many as 95% considered low-risk and expected to be alive and well 10 years after diagnosis—a stark contrast to more aggressive cancers like pancreatic cancer, which has a five-year survival rate of about 12%.

Now in remission at 48, Hwang is navigating what she calls her "new normal." The process of rebuilding has required fundamental changes to her lifestyle and priorities. She has reduced her work hours, focused more on family, and learned to prioritize her own health in the face of uncertainty.

Her journey has culminated in a memoir titled "From Both Sides of the Curtain: Lessons and Reflections from an Oncologist's Breast Cancer Journey," available January 20. The book represents her effort to process her experience and share the insights gained from walking in her patients' shoes.

Beyond personal healing, Hwang hopes her story can serve a larger purpose. She wants to offer support to other patients and push the healthcare industry to provide better post-treatment structure. The transition from active treatment to survivorship often leaves patients feeling adrift, a gap she believes the medical community must address.

"I really want people to know they're not alone. It's okay to not know. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to have anxiety. This is just the nature of the disease."

Her message is clear: vulnerability is not a liability—it's a strength that can transform both healing and healing relationships.

Dr. Hwang's story challenges the assumption that medical expertise provides immunity from disease or emotional impact. Her experience demonstrates that survivorship is a journey that extends far beyond treatment completion.

The transformation she underwent—from a physician who maintained perfect composure to one who embraces vulnerability—offers a model for both patients and providers. Her willingness to share her struggles has not only aided her own healing but has also strengthened her connections with patients.

As breast cancer rates continue to rise, her perspective highlights the importance of comprehensive care that addresses both physical and emotional needs. The healthcare industry must evolve to support patients through the long-term challenges of survivorship, not just the acute phase of treatment.

Most importantly, Hwang's journey reminds us that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but a pathway to connection, understanding, and ultimately, healing.