I reached my limit on a cloudy day in March 2025. I reached it not because of one dramatic event, but because of the slow, persistent erosion of dignity I’d experienced over time – an erosion caused by small but painful encounters with fellow healthcare professionals. As a Diagnostic Radiographer with more than 35 years’ experience working in healthcare, including 15 years in the NHS, I never expected that becoming a patient would be the hardest experience of my life.

My personal journey through breast cancer began in 2022 with a diagnosis that changed everything. Then, in May 2024, I received a second diagnosis – this time on the contralateral breast, discovered during my two-year routine surveillance. Since that first diagnosis, I have endured surgery, radiotherapy and ongoing systemic treatments, including an aromatase inhibitor. I’ve undergone biopsies guided by both ultrasound and MRI, and RF tag placements using stereo mammography. I carry the physical scars, tattoos and lymphoedema that tell the story of survival and pain. But those are only part of the story. The emotional bruises, the psychological toll of dismissive and impersonal care, are just as lasting.

I’ve seen the NHS at its most brilliant: efficient, kind and deeply human. But I’ve also seen it at its most disconnected. During my second round of radiotherapy, I chose private healthcare because the thought of enduring another NHS experience like the first was too much. That choice was right for me, but it shouldn’t have had to be that way.

My lived experience 

Across the 35 months since my initial diagnosis, I have felt increasingly invisible. My dignity and individuality were repeatedly overlooked. I was made to feel like an inconvenience, a task to be managed rather than a human being needing care. I was forced to get off a trolley while still under the effects of anaesthesia. A drug reaction was casually dismissed. I was discharged post-operatively before I could safely walk unaided. I wasn’t allowed a gown during radiotherapy. These may seem like administrative or procedural failures but, to the patient on the receiving end, they are deeply dehumanising.

I’ve been told my body habitus is awkward. A radiographer leaned their full weight onto my back during an MRI, pushing me into a hard device corner while I lay prone with my breast in a clamp and cannulated. I was told about potentially needing more extensive genetic testing – again, while I was clamped into a machine mid-MRI biopsy. This same biopsy team casually discussed how far apart the samples were being taken – again, while I was undergoing the procedure. In these moments, I wasn’t a person with fears and feelings. I was an object being processed.

Even moments that should have brought comfort instead delivered cold detachment. A nurse specialist gave me difficult news without even closing the door. A qualified nurse told me to stop crying when I broke down at a pre-op assessment. My concerns about lymph nodes were dismissed – by one of my own colleagues. And then, the final straw: a surgical registrar instructed me with a dismissive wave to undress behind a curtain, without a smile, a name badge or even a trace of empathy.

Because I’m a radiographer

As a radiographer, I experienced these moments with an additional layer of awareness. I knew the protocols, the systems and the pressures my colleagues were under. I recognised when things were done well and when they weren’t. I understood when a comment was inappropriate, when a procedure lacked explanation or when empathy was completely absent. This professional insight heightened my sense of vulnerability. I wasn’t just upset by these failings, I knew exactly how preventable they were. I knew the standards we are all trained to uphold, and it was deeply painful to see them ignored.

A better way

None of this was inevitable. Every interaction could have been an opportunity for connection and compassion. I wish I had been treated like the vulnerable human being I am – someone navigating the profound fear, grief and exhaustion that comes with a cancer diagnosis.

I wish people had said hello. I wish they had introduced themselves, worn their name badges clearly and taken just a moment to acknowledge that I was scared. It would have meant everything to hear: ‘I know this is hard; I’ll take good care of you.’ A few simple words, offered sincerely, can profoundly alter how a patient experiences treatment.

I wish healthcare professionals remembered that a cancer patient isn’t just physically wounded – they are emotionally raw. Thoughtless words, brusque actions or rushed procedures all become emotional burdens that patients carry long after their physical wounds begin to heal.

For me, the hurt was compounded by the knowledge that I would never have treated a patient in this way. That discrepancy – between what I knew was possible and what I experienced – created a powerful sense of disillusionment. The knowledge that I was both a colleague and a patient made the indifference that much more painful.

What can radiographers learn from my experiences?

As radiographers, we are often the first or only point of contact for patients undergoing terrifying and life-altering tests. Our role is not just technical, it’s profoundly human. Every time we position a patient, explain a procedure or guide them through imaging, we are part of a story they will never forget. We may perform the same task many times a day but, for that patient, it may be their first, or most frightening, experience.