I did not know I was going to meet someone like her. She was all of 32 years old and sat in front of me with the poise of someone who had completed finishing school. Her white top enhanced her wheatish complexion. She crossed her legs one over the other with such elegance that even her linen pants did not wrinkle. Her ageing father watched her as she responsibly arranged all her files and papers on the table in front of us—the metaphysical barrier that allows a physician to maintain an emotional distance from their patient. 

She had black wavy hair with streaks of silver. Her eyes seemed to have the accrued wisdom of several previous generations. Her face had the serenity of the Buddha and adorned a gentle compassionate smile. But the first words that came out of her mouth were earth-shattering to me. “I have breast cancer,” she said with a composure I have never seen. From the corner of my eye, I could see tears rolling down from her fathers’ face. “In both my breasts,” she added stoically. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I emphasised, “but what brings you to me?” the neurosurgeon in me enquired. “My oncologist got a PET scan done to plan the course of treatment and they found a tumour in the brain as well. That’s why he sent me to you,” she said. “We also got an MRI dedicated to the brain to ascertain what tumour it is,” she continued, as she pulled out the films to show me.