“It must be cancer. Just look at her face and hair.”

Even knowing that she meant well, I stopped my friend from speculating about his aunt.

“It’s best not to guess,” I said lightly. “People will tell you when they want.”

The next day, King Charles announced to the whole world that he went into hospital for prostate surgery and emerged with a cancer diagnosis – one reason doctors should be loth to attach the prefix “routine” to any procedure. The details are sparse: his cancer is unspecified, he has begun treatment and retreated from public duties.

When Angelina Jolie revealed her deleterious genetic mutation, leading to the prophylactic removal of her breasts and ovaries, patients flocked in with their questions. Could they have the gene? How might they get tested? What did it mean for their offspring? Noting the ubiquitous headlines and “analysis” about King Charles’s diagnosis, I wondered how my patients would react. So far, not a word.

For my patients, life continues to unfold in all its enormity and mundanity. Parking is hard to find, specialists even harder. Tracking appointments is a full-time job. Absorbing good news and swallowing bad news – and having the stomach for both at every visit – demands equanimity. Then, beyond the heavy logistics, there is the sheer emotional fatigue of carrying a diagnosis that everyone feels entitled to weigh in on.

I work in an area of stark socioeconomic disadvantage. Many of my patients are not just from the other side of the tracks, they may as well live on another planet. They lack language and........

© The Guardian