I missed posting on Mother’s Day. Not because I forgot, but because I was exactly where I needed to be: with my wife, our kids, and our family. We spent the weekend together, quietly celebrating everything my wife does as a mother of four—and everything she is. She’s emotional and empathetic in all the ways I sometimes am not. She is the pulse of our home. When she’s at ease, the entire house feels lighter. And when she’s burdened, we all feel it too. That’s the gravity of motherhood.
In reflecting on the day, my thoughts drifted not just to my wife and our moms, but to the many women I’ve met through oncology. Mothers who were patients. Mothers who were caregivers. Mothers who were fighters.
One story stands out. A young woman—not a patient of mine, but a relative of someone close—noticed a lump in her breast while living abroad. She was told she was too young to worry. That it was probably nothing. She trusted that. It wasn’t until her second pregnancy that the lump and persistent back pain finally led to a diagnosis: metastatic breast cancer. She gave birth to a healthy child. She fought her cancer as best she could. She showed up every day for her husband, her children, her family.
When I learned about her diagnosis, I did everything I could behind the scenes. I reached out to colleagues who specialized in breast cancer, made calls, tried to bridge conversations between experts and her local oncology care team. We all knew the odds weren’t in her favor, but the goal wasn’t just survival—it was to help her stay a mom for as long as she could.
She didn’t make it.
This story, like so many others, still sits with me. Because for all our advances in oncology—and they are real and remarkable—there are still mothers we cannot save. There are mothers who lose years they deserved to have. There are mothers diagnosed early and cured, but who carry forward the shadow of recurrence. There are mothers in treatment who never stop being mothers, who schedule infusions around carpool and chemo around PTA.
As oncologists, we aim to stay grounded in science, in evidence, in objectivity. But I defy any oncologist to stand in front of a mother—especially one with young children—and not feel something deeper. Not imagine, for even a moment, their own wife or mother or sister in that chair. These are the moments that move us. That break us and rebuild us. That drive us to go a little further, think a little harder, advocate a little louder.
This belated post is a small offering to all the mothers who fight cancer, and to those who do so while carrying others on their backs. To the mothers who are gone, and to those still fighting. To the wives, the daughters, the sisters, the patients. You are the heartbeat not just of your families… but of your care teams too.
This is the work that demands more time, more effort, more heart. It’s not the easiest path—but it’s the one that matters most. Because when we meet a mother with cancer, we’re not just thinking about her. We’re thinking about the lives that depend on her. And that makes the mission personal.
Quietly, steadily, I carry this motivation forward—not just into each patient visit, but into what I hope to help build in the months ahead. For every mother. For every family. For a future that gives more of them the chance to keep being mom.
We don’t always win. But we always see you. And we will.. always.. fight for you.
Happy (belated) Mother’s Day.
About the author
Dr. Sajeve Thomas is a distinguished medical professional and a compassionate guide in the field of oncology. With over a decade of dedicated experience as a board-certified medical oncologist/internal medicine specialist, Dr. Thomas has become a trusted expert in the treatment of melanoma, sarcoma, and gastrointestinal conditions. He brings a wealth of expertise to the complex and challenging world of oncology.
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