Cancer Isn’t War
There’s a phrase people reach for automatically when someone is diagnosed with cancer. Fight. Battle. Warrior. Stay strong. Don’t give up. I’ve heard all of them over the last three weeks as my mother, 81 and terminally ill, moves through a diagnosis that no amount of grit or positivity is going to reverse. The language is so familiar that it feels comforting, even loving. But I’m increasingly convinced, even while speaking with her wonderful oncologist, that it can also be toxic.
Calling cancer a war turns a medical reality into a moral test. It creates winners and losers. Survivors and those who “lost their battle.” And when the patient’s old, frail, or facing an incurable disease, that framing sets up an impossible standard. If treatment stops working or comfort care becomes the kinder option, the unspoken implication is that someone quit. That implication probably isn’t intentional, but research shows it has real consequences.
A University of Michigan study published in Science Daily found that simply hearing metaphors about “winning the battle against cancer” changes how people think about the disease. “Hearing metaphoric utterances is enough to change the way we think about a concept,” said lead investigator David Hauser. When cancer’s framed as an enemy to be defeated, people become less likely to engage in prevention behaviors like limiting alcohol, quitting smoking, or adjusting diet. Those behaviors require restraint and care, not aggression. War metaphors encourage force and dominance over moderation and reflection.
Another peer reviewed study published in Psychological Science looked at how battle language affects beliefs about cancer prevention and control. Researchers found that reading about someone “fighting” cancer increased fatalistic thinking. Cancer felt more inevitable, more painful, and harder to treat. Even worse, those metaphors didn’t motivate people to seek medical care faster when imagining a cancer scare.
That disconnect becomes painfully clear when you sit in hospital rooms and palliative care meetings making tough decisions about whether your mom is even physically eligible for another round of chemo. Dr. Sunita Puri, assistant professor of clinical medicine and medical director for palliative care at USC, has spoken candidly about how war language interferes with honest conversations. “If we’re talking about treatment as fighting, then choosing not to treat or reaching the limit of the body makes them feel like they are giving up and weak, and none of that is true,” she explains. “Language can be very toxic and doesn’t ultimately serve an honest conversation about what’s possible and what’s in someone’s best interest.”
I understand what she means. When treatment’s framed as combat, there’s no room to talk about comfort without shame. There’s no vocabulary for choosing peace over pain. For an elderly patient, especially one with an advanced disease, aggressive interventions mean weeks of procedures, confusion, and suffering with little chance of meaningful benefit. My mom has sores on her wrists from the restraints she had to wear around the clock to endure her first round of chemo. Are these “battle wounds” worth it when she could be watching movies with my dad, which is all she wants to do? But stopping those interventions feels like surrender in a war narrative. No one wants to be the general who ordered a retreat.
Dr. Puri points out that “sometimes we inflict a lot of suffering on ourselves by trying to push past our limits.” That sentence lands hard when you’re watching someone you love endure treatment that adds days to life but subtracts joy, clarity and dignity.
Obituaries reflect this cultural problem. People don’t die of cancer. They “lose battles” and “fight until the very end.” We rarely say that someone lived well, was loved, or chose comfort when the physical cost of more treatment was too high. The war story demands a dramatic ending, even if that ending erases the humanity of the person at the center.
There are other ways to talk about illness that don’t carry this moral weight. Some researchers suggest framing cancer as an experience, or a chapter of life. That language allows for uncertainty and choice. It allows for rest. It allows someone to say, this is as far as I want to go, without implying weakness. Patrick Williams, whose words are with me throughout this process, said, “Acceptance is always the last thing to come around. You always hope it comes early enough that they still have months of life left.” Acceptance isn’t defeat. It’s clarity. It’s when care aligns with values instead of fear.
I’m not arguing that no one should ever use the word fight. Some people feel empowered by that framing, and that matters. Younger people with better immune systems often “fight” and win against certain less rare and deadly forms of cancer than an octogenarian facing CNS lymphoma. But it shouldn’t be the default language imposed on everyone, especially those nearing the end of life.
If we care about patients, especially the elderly and terminally ill, we need language that’s true. Words shape expectations; expectations shape decisions. And decisions shape how someone spends the last weeks or months of their life. That’s far too important to leave trapped inside a metaphor that was never designed to serve them.