Coping with Cancer: Reflections on a Personal Journey

In a recent class, I asked my memoir students to recall a time when once wasn’t enough. Turning the question on myself brought to mind cancer, a diagnosis I’ve faced twice. Once didn’t suffice. In 2004, a suspicious thyroid nodule led to a diagnosis of early-stage thyroid cancer. When I met the surgeon, he reassured me by saying, “If I had to have cancer, this is the one I’d choose.” Though diminishing the seriousness of my condition, his perspective wasn’t entirely misplaced, as papillary carcinoma has a high cure rate.

Following surgery to remove my thyroid, I started on hormone replacement therapy. A year after, I underwent radioactive iodine treatment, accompanied by a week of isolation—a challenging period marked by hormonal imbalances. The doctors were right. Compared to other types, mine was an easier cancer to manage. The primary challenge was maintaining proper thyroid levels.

After 17 uneventful years, a more serious but treatable cancer presented itself. Again, early detection ensured successful surgery. Despite surviving two cancers, I’ve lost significant parts of myself—my thyroid and uterus. Daily, I rely on medications to sustain my health and constantly battle fears of recurrence. Cancer’s presence feels like a looming threat.

Richard Nixon’s 1971 war on cancer, likened to the Apollo mission, stood out in my mind, although I paid little attention at the time. Cancer seemed distant until it claimed my grandfather’s health in the mid-70s, shattering my naive belief in immunity from the disease.

Following my second diagnosis, my sister encouraged me to abandon the war metaphor and embrace my cancer with love. Noted oncologists often stress hating cancer more than loving the patient. Such ideas challenge me to consider if affection for my body could prevent a third diagnosis or quell recurring apprehensions about what’s next.

Susan Sontag, famously critical of cancer metaphors, emphasized that illness should not be viewed as a moral failing or emotional repression. Cancer is not a result of anger or weakness; it’s a biological anomaly characterized by the unchecked growth of abnormal cells.

Questioning whether I fit the cancer-risk profile, I recall living by Martha Graham’s words after attending her college talk. She described the body as a temple, urging not to take it for granted. Committed to health, I danced, exercised, ate well, and tended to my mental health. Yet, unavoidable biological factors led to significant health challenges.

In dreams, I confront intrusions and loss, waking up fragmented and fearful. Writing prompts me to examine emotions like rage and betrayal, which I scrutinize repeatedly. While perceiving cancer as an intruder, I’m unsure about waging war. Fear and doubt plague me regarding future cancer risks and preparations.

Scientific American in 2020 highlighted that battleground language in cancer narratives can be harmful to patients and families. This narrative fosters images of “invaders,” “weapons,” and “warriors” embroiled in battles. Perhaps reframing these perceptions could offer relief.

Rather than conflict, could cancer suggest transformation or introspection? My sister advises finding stability within myself, eschewing the battleground metaphor. Through introspection, I sense buried sorrow and loss. Uncovering these emotions may take years, but I hope for time to heal, love, and regain wholeness.

Nixon’s ambitious aim for eradication remains unfulfilled, with cancer as the U.S.’s second-leading cause of death. The struggle persists, and the metaphorical language fails to eliminate fear.

After my latest surgery, my oncologist calmly mentioned a 2 percent recurrence risk, which would be fatal. Facing two cancer scares, I learned to focus on living intentionally, rather than fighting or clinging to perfect love. Daily, I wake, prepare, and step into the world.