“I guess… I just think that when you do what I do… When you’ve seen some of the things that I’ve seen—it’s not possible to walk around thinking that bad things can’t happen to me or people I love. You know?”

Even as I type this now, it comes to me so easily, having met every warm and well meaning, Hayley, you’re so strong, you really are just handling it all so well, over the last eleven months with this very matter of fact and radically accepting response, verbatim.

It was like any other nondescript weekday morning. I woke up to a FaceTime from my sister and immediately clocked the ceiling of our childhood home as I simultaneously rubbed the sleep from my eyes and was unknowingly propelled into my new reality. A reality where, just minutes later, my sister would text me our mom’s CT report from the night before, and I would dissociate from being “daughter” and “sister,” and instead step into “medical professional,” explaining to her that our mother likely had a terminal brain lesion.

Almost a year later, on March 10, 2026, my mother, Sheryl Bartkus, passed away after a 10-month fight against glioblastoma—the most common and aggressive adult malignant brain tumor.

I have thought about that CT scan and the medical imaging professional who facilitated it so many times over the last ten months. And each time I think, “did they realize they were spending the final moments of normalcy with my family before our lives were forever changed?”

When I think about that moment, the “before time,” I think about this peer of mine, out there somewhere in the ethos of it all, touching the moment, shaping our entire future, and then gone. What a privilege, we imaging professionals have, to ever be in such a position. What an incredible reason to go to work every day. What a constant reminder of the human experience. What an immense responsibility.

Over the last year and a half, I have been on the other side of the imaging. Instead of behind the control panel holding the probe, I’ve found myself, and the people closest to me, in the same positions as many of the patients that I have held the hands of, when our paths have crossed. The darker phenomena of the human experience: addiction, loneliness, grief, loss, terminal illness, and death, have shaped the lives of my loved ones this year. And as unimaginably challenging and unexpected this era of my life has been, I know my identity of ultrasonographer has made this profound experience somehow better and more beautiful for it. 

I have the best job in the world—where every day is school, and I have the honor of ushering in the next leaders of our field. My career has showered me with love—in unwavering support from the best students and faculty, handwritten cards from prior patients, and the sheer fabric of my support system woven so much in the loved ones I have ultrasound to thank for. And through it, I’ve done my best to try to emulate their example, and to show up as much as I can for others.

I share this because it is the people I know in the medical profession, who see their own patients and families through the scariest diagnoses, seem to have given me the most strength when it was my mom. It’s like they viewed her as all of our family—one of their own.

And that’s the point—every patient is one of our own. And as we are all learning from Victor Glover, the first Black American astronaut to travel around the moon, and from the rest of the absolutely astonishing and incredible Artemis II crew—“all of us, no matter where you're from or what you look like, we're all one people.” The same magical science that’s propelled humans as far as we’ve ever gone into space, and back—is happening right inside our ultrasound probes anytime we peer inside of bodies.

My mom was an incredibly kind and nurturing person who worked in healthcare as a medical assistant and practice manager for over 30 years. I did not realize until recently how profound an impact her approach to her duties as a healthcare professional was on me and my professional identity. And it’s pretty cool to think how that impact still echoes on to my students, and so on.

So, if you have ever questioned your worth as a sonographer, I hope my story can serve as a kind of peer-reviewed reminder of your impact. You are special. “…In all of this emptiness. This is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe. You have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist together.” Yeah, I know Captain Glover was talking to sonographers when he said that one for sure.

 


A note from EchoMentor: Hayley has been selected to run the 2026 TCS NYC Marathon through the National Brain Tumor Society's Gray Nation Endurance Team. Her team is fundraising in loving memory of her mother and other individuals whose lives have been upended by a brain tumor diagnosis. If Hayley's story resonated with you, please consider donating through her race page at the National Brain Tumor Society's Website.