WHAT CANCER COULDN’T KILL
A Poem by Lisa Keefauver
Exhausting what seemed to be every last ounce of energy that remained, she tugged on the mask that protected her war-torn body, revealing a familiar steroid-swollen face. She inhaled sharply, as if shocked by her unencumbered breath, and with shoulders gently bouncing, she began weeping silently, her tears curiously illuminated by the florescent lights of the infusion center waiting room. Her right hand quivered as she repeatedly reached for her scalp, fingers curling as she touched gingerly each of the eight or so purplish red sores scattered across her newly bald head. Her whole body shuddered on contact. Each time as if an electric current ran through her body. Each time as if a bolt of lightening struck me from across the room and reverberated down my own spine. And then without apparent pause, she jumped up, or perhaps more accurately, slowly lifted herself up when another cancer patient entered the room to find no empty seats.
@lisakeefauvermsw When the nurse called her name she sighed heavily. With a mix of resignation and anticipation she peeled herself off the wall then bent down with care to pick up the soft-sided cooler laying by the seat she’d abandoned earlier. Our eyes met briefly as she made her pilgrimage to the other chair. The chair that comes with busying nurses, beeping machines, needles, tubes, steroids, chemotherapy drugs, frozen hands, frozen feet, nausea, pain, and a brain fog that makes the world disappear. In that quick unspoken exchange I desperately wanted her to know, that although her generous act may not cure her, it was evidence that even cancer couldn’t kill her kindness.
About the Poet:
Cancer has taken much from Lisa Keefauver. In 2011, she held her young husband Eric as he died just 2.5 weeks after a brain cancer diagnosis, following a year of searching for answers. In 2023, after advocating for herself, Lisa was diagnosed with triple-positive breast cancer, undergoing surgery, chemotherapy, immunotherapy, radiation, and years of hormone therapy. The grief, loss, and medical trauma she has endured have affected her body, her sense of safety, and her sense of self. There were times she did not recognize herself, physically or emotionally.
Here, I heard her say, please take this seat, as she gestured to where she had just been resting. There was no hesitation in her instinct, even if her body couldn’t move as fast as her heart.
What Cancer Couldn’t Kill grew from a workshop prompt by poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: to write in the third person about a recent difficult time with compassion toward the subject.
And then, as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs, she fell back with a thud onto the wall next to the bathroom door, out of breath from her efforts and appearing stunned that it was there to catch her.
Lisa Keefauver is a narrative-therapy trained social worker, widow, and cancer survivor turned grief activist, as well as a critically acclaimed author, podcast host, and speaker. Her work has appeared on TEDx and Endwell stages, and she helps us center aliveness in a world full of loss. Learn more at lisakeefauver.com
GET GRIEFY MAGAZINE | ISSUE 8 | PAGE 94