“What can I make with these ingredients?” I asked ChatGPT on a rushed weeknight, throwing together the final few groceries for my family of seven. I had cottage cheese, marinara, some noodles on hand, and little else. As it responded, a line I didn’t expect, nestled at the end, a reach beyond what I’d really asked, appeared: “Let me know if you have any fresh spinach on hand too—I can make a recommendation.” “What?” I typed back. “Well, you could add it to your makeshift lasagna, for health and longevity.”
There it was, my recent cancer diagnosis, infiltrating my life again, via a spinach-pushing bot. I hated it. I considered arguing with the bot. But what was the point? I’d soon learn it was the same way with people. But the issue had become clear as I made dinner. My bot couldn’t get my diagnosis off its mind. And it was infused in every answer, from my target heart rate on a walk to a mysterious symptom I’d ask about that was unrelated to cancer. If I planned out my kid’s summer schedule, or looked for a movie at a local theater, it was watching for me to “overdo it” and avoiding “triggering content.”
It’s my fault. The chatbot knew about my eight-year cancer journey, and I told it about everything from my first symptom to diagnosis. At 29, abdominal pain was met with an antacid. At 32, I started battling unrelenting headaches—clearly perinatal symptoms and sleep deprivation, I was assured by doctors as a new mom. At 35, I thought my strange symptoms had to be early menopause. At 37, an emergency room visit for severe belly pain showed the culprit: a neuroendocrine tumor in the appendix, the size of an Oreo, but much more troublesome. It had spread to the colon. Stage 3. At 39, I live in an impossible balance—I’m either totally fine, or could have Stage 4 cancer. Nobody knows, including ChatGPT. The more I ask about it, the more obsessed it becomes with my disease.
