When I first started working in oncology, I expected the biggest challenge to be the medicine. Cancer treatment is incredibly complex, and I knew I had a lot to learn about chemotherapy regimens, supportive medications, dosing adjustments, and the countless details that go into caring for patients safely. I assumed that if I became proficient in those areas, I would become a better pharmacist.
I was right about needing to learn the medicine, but I was wrong about what would shape me the most.
Looking back, the lessons that have stayed with me had very little to do with drug references or treatment protocols. Instead, they came from the people I met along the way. Oncology taught me that healthcare is never just about treating a disease. Every patient arrives carrying a story that began long before they walked into the clinic, and if we overlook that story, we miss an important part of caring for them.
Before working in oncology, I thought compassion meant being kind to patients. Now I think it means something much more practical. Compassion means slowing down enough to understand another person’s experience before deciding what they need from you.
I Quickly Learned That No Two Patients Experience Illness the Same Way
One of the first assumptions I had to let go of was the idea that patients with similar diagnoses would have similar concerns. From the outside, it can seem logical to think that two people receiving the same treatment would need the same information and support.
That simply wasn’t true.
Some patients wanted to understand every detail of their treatment because learning helped them feel more in control. Others preferred to focus only on the next appointment because thinking too far ahead became emotionally exhausting. Some patients asked endless questions, while others said very little. None of those approaches were right or wrong. They were simply different ways of navigating an incredibly difficult season of life.
Watching those differences taught me something I still carry with me today. A diagnosis tells me what someone is being treated for, but it tells me almost nothing about the person sitting in front of me. It doesn’t tell me how they process uncertainty, what responsibilities they have waiting for them at home, or what worries are keeping them awake at night.
Those are the things I have to learn by paying attention.
I Stopped Thinking My Job Was to Have Every Answer
Earlier in my career, I felt a responsibility to answer every question thoroughly. If someone asked about a medication, I wanted to explain exactly how it worked, what side effects they might experience, and what they should expect moving forward. I believed that if I shared enough information, patients would naturally feel more confident.
Sometimes that happened.
Other times, I noticed that patients weren’t really looking for another explanation. They already understood the treatment plan. They knew the schedule. What they wanted was someone willing to slow the conversation down long enough to hear what they were actually worried about.
I remember realizing that many of the conversations I considered most meaningful had very little to do with medications. Patients talked about missing family events, trying to continue working during treatment, worrying about their children, or wondering how life would look six months from now. Those concerns weren’t distractions from healthcare. They were healthcare.
That realization completely changed the way I approached patient conversations. Instead of thinking about what I needed to explain first, I became much more interested in understanding what the patient needed from me before I started talking.
Compassion Rarely Looks the Way I Expected
One thing that surprised me was how often I felt pressure to find the right words. When someone is facing a life-changing diagnosis, there is a natural desire to say something encouraging or reassuring. Earlier in my career, I worried about saying the wrong thing, and I probably spent too much energy searching for the perfect response.
Eventually I realized that there usually isn’t one.
Most patients were not expecting me to solve problems that had no simple solution. They weren’t looking for carefully crafted advice or inspirational speeches. More often than not, they appreciated honesty, patience, and someone who was willing to stay in the conversation without rushing to move on.
That lesson changed the way I think about compassion. I no longer see it as finding the perfect words. I see it as being fully present, even when there isn’t a perfect answer to offer.
The Small Moments Stay With You
People often assume that the biggest moments in healthcare are the ones that leave the strongest impression. Certainly, there are milestones that patients and healthcare professionals never forget.
At the same time, I have found that many of the memories that stay with me are much quieter.
I remember conversations where a patient finally admitted they were confused about their medications after pretending they understood. I remember watching someone’s shoulders relax after we took a few extra minutes to organize a medication schedule that actually fit their daily routine. I remember seeing the relief on a person’s face when they realized it was okay to ask another question.
None of those moments would seem particularly remarkable to someone walking through the clinic.
To the person experiencing them, they often meant everything.
Working in oncology made me appreciate that good healthcare is built through ordinary interactions repeated consistently over time.
The Lessons Extended Far Beyond Oncology
Although my career has included retail pharmacy, hospital pharmacy, ambulatory care, and leadership roles, I still find myself returning to the lessons I learned in oncology.
I ask more questions than I used to because I know the first concern a patient mentions is not always the most important one. I spend more time listening because experience has taught me that people often reveal what they truly need only after they feel comfortable enough to trust the conversation.
Most importantly, I try to remember that every prescription represents a person whose life extends far beyond the medication in front of me. Every patient has responsibilities, relationships, hopes, disappointments, and challenges that cannot be summarized in a medical record.
The more I remember that, the better pharmacist I become.
Compassion Is Something You Practice
When I think back on my time in oncology, I do not remember every medication regimen or every clinical decision I made. Those things were important, but they are not what shaped me the most.
What I remember are the people.
I remember learning that compassion is not something you feel. It is something you practice. It shows up in the way you listen, the patience you bring to difficult conversations, and the willingness to treat every patient as an individual instead of another diagnosis on the schedule.
Working in oncology reminded me that healthcare is ultimately about relationships. Science and medicine make remarkable things possible, but those advances have the greatest impact when patients feel heard, respected, and supported along the way. That lesson has stayed with me throughout my career, and I suspect it always will.