John Smelcer is the author of 60 books, including a dozen books of poetry. His most recent collection is "Raven." For a quarter century, he was Poetry Editor at "Rosebud Magazine," where he currently serves as senior editor emeritus. From 2016-2020, he was the Inaugural Writer-in-Residence for the Charter for Compassion, the world’s largest compassion movement with over five million members in 45 countries.

John Smelcer, PhD, CAGS

I recently celebrated another birthday — another year older; another year to experience the joys of life and love. But things might have been very different for me. Around this time last year, I had just completed my cancer treatment: six grueling cycles of chemotherapy over as many months. The toll on my body was profound. My once muscular body was reduced to rubble. My bald head reminded me of Mr. Magoo or Charlie Brown (I wish I could say I looked tough like Mr. Clean, but I’d be lying). At times, I didn’t even recognize myself. It frequently crossed my mind that I might not see another birthday.

But then something unexpected and wonderful happened. Passing days became passing weeks and passing months until a full year had gone by. They say that “Time heals all wounds.” I learned how true that is. I hardly even think about my cancer ordeal nowadays. Folks who haven’t seen me in the year remark how great I look. “Wow! You look like you never even had cancer,” they say. I agree. My weight is back. My strength is back. My dreams of a future have returned. When I look in the mirror, I see someone I recognize — someone who is fit, strong, happy and full of life. I see a healthy, smiling face and a head full of hair (albeit white). Every day, the memory of what I went through fades the way the hurt after break-ups and loss eventually fades. I don’t know who first said, “Time heals all wounds,” but clearly they lived a life with the same kinds of ups and downs, pain and challenges as we all do.

During my treatment and recovery, I wrote dozens of blogs like this about what I went through. I felt the urgent need to share what I learned with others — for those going through cancer and for those who love someone going through cancer. This may well be my last writing. Cancer is far enough in the rearview mirror that I’m ready to leave it there, small and fading in the distance. For me, Time was just what the doctor ordered. I wish you the healing gift of Time.

What will I do with my Time, you ask? Everything I ever dreamed of. I bought a pontoon boat the other day. I’ve always wanted one. There’s a lake just a few miles from my house with a marina and a restaurant with a dockside bar. Now my family, including three dogs, can play and relax on the lake on sunny days. My wife and I also just bought a piece of land to build our dream retirement house, one modeled on the best ideas of Frank Lloyd Wright. I’m building it myself, with my own two hands. I built my last two houses by myself. I figure I’ve got it in me to build one last house. Now that I’m past cancer and my body has rebuilt itself, I enjoy using my muscles.

I’m also a writer. I just finished writing my 65th book, a novel based on a myth that was told to me by tribal elders when I was a boy back around 1970. Throughout my cancer ordeal, I wrote dozens of poems about my experience culminating in 

Running from the Reaper: Poems from an Impatient Cancer Survivor.

I always wanted to tell that story. I did just that during recovery. There are plenty of books left for me to write. So many books; so little time. But most of all, I want to spend my time with the people I love.

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After fully recovering from non-Hodgkin lymphoma, I’m ready to embark on my next chapter in life doing the things I love with the people I love. 

The Healing Power of Time After Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma

The other day my wife and teenage daughter were invited to a high tea party. My wife invited me to join them, but she reminded me that I’d be the only man there. Imaging dainty flora-patterned China cups, tulle dresses and crumpets, I said I thought I’d stay home and do something manly like juggling chainsaws. My wife laughed more than I had seen her laugh in years, which made me think about how I used humor to get me through my cancer ordeal.

When I was young, I used to read Reader’s Digest. I loved the “It Pays to Increase Your Word Power” section. I came to love etymology, the origin of words. I may have become a writer thanks in part to Reader’s Digest. One of my other favorite sections was “Laughter Is the Best Medicine.” I loved all the funny jokes and anecdotes so much that I sent in a funny anecdote about my time in the Army 40 years ago.

Over the years, scientific research has shown that laughing is good for us. Happiness in general is beneficial to our wellbeing. Anxiety is detrimental. There’s a lot to be anxious about when one is diagnosed with cancer. Going through chemotherapy isn’t a fun, relaxing thing. But I went through my six months of hospitalizations with the best sense of humor I could muster. Doctors, nurses, techs and other staff frequently remarked how much they admired my sense of humor, positive outlook, and optimism. As far as I could tell, they genuinely enjoyed their interactions with me. Even as the radiology staff thrust a needle into my lower spine for an injection of chemo, we always joked around. Month after month, they remembered me. I think it made the process more bearable for everyone involved.

Certainly, cancer is no laughing matter. Chemo is no joke. Getting poked and prodded is never fun. No amount of laughter will change any of that. But trying to make the best of the experience is really about connecting, about humans building positive relations. They say that the way a person handles themselves during difficult and stressful times shows one’s character and grace. I chose to seek joy and happiness, even during cancer.

Sometimes, laughter really is the best medicine, so I tried to maintain a sense of humor through my cancer treatments.  

Humor Helped Me Through Cancer

One of my favorite poems when I was younger was Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” a poem he wrote for his dying father urging him to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” and not to give up without a fight. To me, the poem was what any young person might say looking at another half century or more of life ahead. Young people seem to think they’ll live forever. When I was older, I became friends with Thomas’s daughter, Aeronwy. She even appointed me as the judge of the Dylan Thomas Prize for an American poet under age 40 (Thomas died in New York City in 1953 at 39 years old).

But my ordeal with non-Hodgkin lymphoma taught me something I hadn’t expected. I was 59 years old; not a young man any longer. Not half a century was waiting for me. I didn’t rage against the possibility of my death like I thought I would. Instead, most every night, my wife and I lay in bed holding each other and talking honestly about my possible fate. We made decisions together. We planned for what might come. We drafted and executed a durable power of attorney for health care decisions.

I got the chance to say my farewell while I was clear-headed. Although I would have loved another two or three decades with my wife, I didn’t rail against the possibility as Thomas would if he was me. I accepted what may come with grace. That doesn’t mean to say I gave up in any way. I still went through the chemotherapy protocol as prescribed by my oncologist. I spent my weekly hospitalization every month with a positive attitude, and always with a sense of humor and smile for everyone I encountered. I did my best to maintain my wasting body. The cancer wreaked havoc on my body, but not my spirit. I still had weekly coffee with my best friends. I still thought of the future as a place where I belonged and where I wanted to be. In between my last two hospitalizations, when I was at my lowest, I even went to Harvard University for a week to earn a special certificate in leadership. 

Needless to say, I survived. I’m still here. For how much longer, I don’t know. But I’ll gladly take whatever time I’m given. Cancer taught me something I never expected. It taught me to be grateful for the time I have and for the people I love and who love me in return. I hope you learn the same lesson.

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My experience with non-Hodgkin lymphoma taught me to be grateful for the people I love and who love me.  

Accepting Cancer With Grace 

One day somewhere in the middle of my battle with cancer, I walked into a local store where no one had seen me in months. When several lady customers saw my gauntness, my skeletal frame, my bald and shiny head and several ladies asked about my health. I told them I had been going through chemotherapy and immunotherapy for non-Hodgkin lymphoma. They asked if they could lay hands on me and say a little prayer. I know that some folks like to do that. They may even feel compelled to do so. I told them that I didn’t mind, and so they did, right there in the middle of the store. It looked like a scene from some movie.

Many months later, I saw the same group of ladies in the same shop. When they asked about my health status, I told them that I had recently “Rung the Bell,” signaling that I had beat my cancer. I didn’t look recovered, for sure. My body was still wasted away, but I was on the other side now. I was in recovery. Those women raised their hands in the air and shouted in unison, “Praise the Lord! It’s a miracle!” Naturally, I thanked them for their support and left.

But for days afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about what they said: “It’s a miracle.” The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my cure was not a miracle. My cancer didn’t just vanish without a trace and without medical explanation. It was totally predictable. There was an established protocol, based on the experiences and treatments and outcomes of hundreds of thousands—even millions—of other patients diagnosed with the same cancer all over the world. From the beginning, my oncologist said that my survival rate was something like 87% or higher, based on previous studies.

I don’t mean to ruffle any feathers, or anything, but it bothered me to dismiss all the good people who played a role in my survival including the oncologists, nurses, techs, radiologists and all the scientists and researchers who developed the chemotherapy and immunotherapy protocols. Not to mention the pharmaceutical company scientists who developed the medications I was prescribed by my doctors. And I can’t forget all the phlebotomists who did my blood drawings, and the kind lady who worked at the desk at the hospital where I did my weekly blood draws in between hospitalizations. She always greeted me by name, which made me feel welcome.

And what about that superhero I call my wife? She drove me to every appointment, and she even stayed with me in the hospital during my first week-long hospitalization. We played chess to pass the time. She refilled all my meds for a year and made sure I took them as directed. She cleaned my PIC line (tube in the arm for chemotherapy) several times a day. Once, she even had to give me an injection in the belly at home because it was accidentally missed during one of my hospitalizations. In fact, the quality of care I received during treatment was because my wife’s workplace paid for my excellent health insurance. I owe her everything. I’ll happily repay her back with all the love I can give her for the rest of my life. I will never forget what she did for me. I hope and pray that you have someone like her in your life if and when the need arises.

The more I thought about what those ladies said, I thought that the miracle, if any, was that all those healthcare professionals pursued their education and training and licensure that led them inevitably to me and my cancer battle. To call my cure a miracle demeaned all those folks, their commitment and professionalism and sacrifices, and the arduous years they spent at university, and the massive student debt they must have amassed in the process of pursuing their career dreams. One preacher friend said that when he was visiting folks in the hospital, his prayer was not necessary that they be cured of whatever ailed them, but that they may be surrounded by caring and competent healthcare professionals. For all the good people that helped me, there is no way I can dismiss all the help afforded to me over six months of intense chemotherapy and immunotherapy. To my thinking, they are the true miracles.

When a group of people told me my non-Hodgkin lymphoma cure was a miracle, I realized it was only made possible because of health care professionals.

John Smelcer, PhD, CAGS

The Healing Power of Time After Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma

Humor Helped Me Through Cancer

Accepting Cancer With Grace

The Miracle Workers of Cancer

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