The Magnificent Healing Power of Poetry for Those With Cancer

In the fall of 2022, I was diagnosed with Stage 2 B-cell, non-specific, non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. My oncologist said it was a particularly rare and aggressive form of cancer and that I needed intense chemotherapy immediately. For the next six months, I spent a week living on the Oncology ward of a hospital in Columbia, Missouri. Luckily for me, on February 6, 2023, I got to "Ring the Bell," signaling that my cancer was gone.

During that half year, I wrote poems about what I was going through. The poems ranged from the first phone call in which the doctor's office reported that I had cancer, to the day I rang the bell. They were about everything in between, every feeling that every cancer patient has ever experienced. The poems were about despair and doubt, but also about hope and faith. Some poems were satirical, even humorous. After all, it's easy to poke fun at an old man strolling around the floor dragging his IV pole with his butt hanging out the back of one of those hospital gowns.

Similarly, it's not hard to write about mediocre, taste-free hospital food. I eventually learned to order DoorDash. My pockets were always crammed full of scribbled notes. Thinking about the poems and writing them gave me purpose other than to simply endure the six months. I was making lemonade from the sour lemon life gave me.

Month after month, I sent out the individual poems to magazines, journals, and national associations related to cancer. To my amazement, every poem was eventually accepted and published. After my treatment, I compiled the poems chronologically into a book and penned a foreword. The book, "Running from the Reaper: Poems from an Impatient Cancer Survivor," came out that May. This spring, the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society added the book to their "Suggested Reading" page on their website. Millions of people now know about the little book that was written for anyone going through cancer, or for anyone who cares for someone with cancer. I am pleased to share two poems from "Running from the Reaper" — one written early on; the other at the end:

The Fighter

Folks always say that people diagnosed with cancer are "fighters."
"He's fighting cancer," they say.
But I'm not so sure.
I just finished my second cycle of chemo —
a week in the hospital both times.
I'm no fighter. I'm a surrenderer.
I just lie in bed giving in to the cure
letting the doctors and nurses put whatever they want into me:
Hang another bag of chemo,
swallow a heap of pills,
roll over for a spinal infusion.
"We're killing you to save you," they remind me every day.
And they're not lying. I've lost ten pounds already. All muscle.
I'm no fighter.
I'm just a little, frail, balding, and frightened old man
lying in my sick bed waving a little white flag
torn from my pillow.

Checkmate

To pass time, I sometimes played chess during hospital stays.
Despite my chemo brain, I could still beat most challengers.
On the last day of six excruciating months of chemo,
Death comes and we play a game. It was the first time
I'd seen him since we ate churros in the desert.
Several times, he had me against the ropes, but I fought back,
took all his pawns, killed his queen, and chased his king into a corner.
"Checkmate!" I gloat, toppling his king. "You lose."
As a sullen Death departs, he stops and glares over his shoulder.
"You know, Johnny Boy," he hisses with his forked tongue.
"This isn't over. I'll be seeing you someday."
"Someday," I reply with a smirk as I do a little happy dance.
"But not today."

For a year or so after I finished the grueling chemo protocol, I wrote some 40 to 50 blogs for CURE. I wrote until I had nothing left to share. I'm happy to tell you that I've had about a dozen follow-up appointments since that sunny February morning. There's no sign of my cancer returning.

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