Writing Through Cancer

The shock of being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness knocks us from the certainty of the life we thought we knew and propels us into the unknown.  “The knowledge you’re ill…” Anatole Broyard wrote “is one of the momentous experiences of life” (in Intoxicated by My Illness).  So momentous, in fact, it sometimes overshadows everything that came before it.

Cancer or other debilitating illness is a significant chapter of our lives and for some, it is the final one.  I remember so many men and women who’ve been part of my writing groups and, although their battle with cancer dominated the final months or years of life, it did not, in the end, define them.  Novelist Alice Hoffman, writing about her cancer experience, remembered the wisdom offered to her by a physician:

An insightful, experienced oncologist told me that cancer need not be a person’s whole book, only a chapter. Still, novelists know that some chapters inform all others. These are the chapters of your life that wallop you and teach you and bring you to tears, that invite you to step to the other side of the curtain, the one that divides those of us who must face our destiny sooner rather than later. (New York Times, August 14, 2000).

“Cancer need not be a person’s whole book, only a chapter.”  I’ve quoted Hoffman innumerable times because she reminds us that although our lives may be profoundly affected by cancer, it is not who we are.  I think of Anne, who, at each writing session, says, “I may have cancer, but it doesn’t have me.”  Her spirit and determination to live as fully as possible for whatever time she has left inspires us all.

Cancer changes us though.  As sociologist and cancer survivor Arthur Frank said, “Being ill is just another way of living…but by the time we have lived through it, we are living differently” (in At the Will of the Body).  Who we are, truly, may become more apparent in our struggles with cancer.  All that makes us uniquely human–our spirits, determination, resilience, even the emotions we have—are never more apparent than they are when illness strips our entire pretense away.

In my writing groups for cancer survivors, I witness struggle, sorrow, vulnerability and courage in those who write about their experience.  For a time, cancer dominates what gets written, but gradually—and this is a sign of healing, of becoming whole—other chapters of life emerge.

I remember P., who struggled valiantly with a vicious and aggressive cancer that ultimately took her life.  But, as the months wore on and her cancer spread, she wrote many more stories from her other chapters.  She  was remembering all she was, all she had lived, bearing witness to her life.  Raised in Sri Lanka, P. and her family endured unimaginable hardships during a civil war, but P. came to the United States and in the years afterward, found freedom, academic success and love.  Her stories from other chapters of her life  helped us understand the depth of her courage—and we all felt a deeper appreciation for the person she was.

Cancer wallops us, brings us to tears, but it teaches us, such as other chapters of our lives have “taught” us something about ourselves, chapters that shaped us and strengthened our ability to keep our footing in the uncertain terrain of life-threatening illness.  How many chapters does your life include?  In a short poem, “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters,“ Portia Nelson creates a humorous, yet insightful, brief portrait of her life.

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

Chapter 1

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost … I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in … it’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.

  (From:  There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self Discovery, Atria Books, 1994)

Examine the chapters of your life.  Imagine you’re writing a full autobiography or memoir.  You make an outline of chapters.  What chapters would you include?  Why?  Give each chapter a title.  Now take a look at your outline.  Are there any surprises? Choose one chapter, one memory from it, and write its story.  Why does it matter?  It’s legacy.  Evidence of the life you’ve lived.  A journey of remembering who you were to who you are now.  Besides, if you don’t tell your story, those chapters before and after cancer, who will?