“Write about a time when once just wasn’t enough,” I prompted my memoir students. This led me to reflect on my own life. What represents ‘not enough’ for me? Hiking the Swiss Alps at 18? Sailing the turquoise waters of Alaska? Eating steak frites in a hidden Parisian cafe? My mind drifted to cancer, a diagnosis I’ve faced twice. Apparently, once wasn’t enough.

In 2004, after discovering a suspicious thyroid nodule, I learned I had early-stage thyroid cancer. During my meeting with the surgeon, he reassured me. If I had to have cancer, this is the one I’d choose. In that moment, I felt unacknowledged. Understanding came later as papillary carcinoma has a high cure rate. Treatment involved thyroid removal, hormone replacement, and radioactive iodine therapy.

A year later, isolation brought seasickness and triggered menopausal symptoms. My biggest challenge became managing thyroid levels. Seventeen years passed before another diagnosis occurred. Again, it was an early-stage, slow-growing cancer. Surgery provided a cure, but two organs were lost—my thyroid and uterus.

Nowadays, patches and pills maintain my vitality, and I fight the fear tick in my ear. Cancer can seem like an anonymous threat, multiplying silently. In 1971, Richard Nixon launched a war on cancer. I didn’t notice then, believing youth protected me. Later, I watched lung cancer claim my grandfather, still naively believing I had a free pass.

Post-diagnosis, my sister suggested dropping the war metaphor. She advised me to love the cancer out; a notion I struggled with. My oncologist was trained to hate the cancer more than love the patient. Will love protect me from a third occurrence? Will it keep me from asking: when will it return?

Susan Sontag argued against cancer metaphors. In her book, Illness as Metaphor, she criticized misconceptions surrounding illness. Some perceive cancer as a result of repressed emotions. Yet, what if cancer merely exists—a biological anomaly?

Reflecting on Martha Graham’s speech, Your body is a temple. Do not take it for granted, I embraced love for my body. Despite exercise and organic eating, cancer claimed two organs. Nightmares of intruders haunt me, representing losses. Writing prompts introspection, rejecting anger and betrayal. Cancer is an invader, but is preparation necessary?

A 2020 Scientific American article cautioned against viewing cancer as a battle. Battleground language overwhelms patients and families. Invaders, warriors, and battles—these metaphors can entrap. What if cancer prompts transformation? Can it be a growth opportunity?

Nixon sought eradication, but cancer persists as a leading US cause of death. My oncologist shared that recurrence has a 2 percent likelihood—life is fragile. One scare seems sufficient, yet two teach focus—not on fighting, not perfect love, but on embracing life. Megan Vered, from Berkeley, California, shares her journey through personal essays in prominent outlets.

All views shared in this article are the author’s own. Interested in sharing your story? Submit your personal essay to Newsweek at [email protected].