Facing Cancer Twice: Reflections on Diagnosis and Survival

When I recently asked my memoir students to think about a time when once wasn’t enough, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own life. What would be my ‘not enough’? Hiking in the Swiss Alps at 18? Sailing through Alaska’s waters? Enjoying steak frites in a cozy Parisian cafe? Yet, my thoughts quickly returned to cancer, a diagnosis I faced twice. Once wasn’t enough for me. In 2004, my internist detected a nodule on my thyroid that turned out to be early-stage thyroid cancer.

The surgeon reassured me, saying, ‘If I had to choose, this is the cancer to have.’ It felt dismissive, like cancer was something trivial. His words minimized the reality but made sense; papillary carcinoma had a high cure rate. Thus, my thyroid was removed, replaced by hormone therapy. A year later followed a treatment with radioactive iodine and isolation. While distressing, the medical community was right: my cancer was manageable.

Seventeen years passed before cancer struck again. This diagnosis was more severe but detected early. Surgery was sufficient, yet I’ve lost both my thyroid and uterus. I now rely on medication and work hard to silence fears of cancer’s return. The dread is persistent, a nagging fear of uncontrollable cell growth. Cancer is an ominous threat, appearing suddenly and without warning.

Back in 1971, Richard Nixon declared a war on cancer, yet I paid little attention until my grandfather succumbed to lung cancer. Despite witnessing his struggle, an irrational part of me hoped I was immune. After my second cancer diagnosis, my sister advised against viewing cancer as a battle. She believed that instead of fighting it, love might be the remedy. This contrast between love and hate towards cancer stirred doubts within me.

The words of Susan Sontag in Illness as Metaphor resonate with me. She argued that metaphor burdens cancer, implying moral failure or suppressed anger. Society often blames cancer on internalized emotions. But what if it’s simply a biological issue, not a metaphor or punishment?

Do I fit the profile of someone at risk for cancer? I’ve pondered this question often. Since college, I embraced a lifestyle of health and wellness, inspired by Martha Graham’s words, ‘Your body is a temple. Do not take it for granted.’ Despite my efforts, cancer still claimed parts of my body.

Dreams about intruders and losing parts of myself trouble my sleep. When I write, words of anger surface, reflecting the turmoil within. Rather than gearing up for another battle against cancer, I find solace in another approach. Could redefining cancer’s narrative help, when the aggressive language of battle often leaves families feeling defeated?

Nixon’s promise of eradication hasn’t materialized; cancer remains the second leading cause of death in the U.S. My oncologist’s words, devoid of emotion, informed me of a 2% recurrence risk. Facing cancer once is enough, but two experiences taught me to look beyond combat or perfect love. Instead, I focus on life itself, anchoring my thoughts on enduring.