Creative Healing: How Writing Helped Me Live with Cancer

This post is by Angela Williams. A Founder Member of Pens Around the World, she left us in 2021 to dedicate more time to her writing
Read more about Angela on our Friends of Pens page here.

Having lost my mother to ovarian cancer when she was only 51, and fearing developing the illness myself, I underwent genetic testing to see if I was a carrier of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. I tested negative. This result gave me a false sense of security and influenced my decision not to have my remaining ovary removed (the other having been removed due to endometriosis). So when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in May 2023, I was shocked, aggrieved, incredulous…the gamut of emotions that one goes through when faced with a life-threatening illness.

After months of frequent peeing which I had associated with being 62 years old (who can ignore all those incontinence pads aimed at older women), my doctor found a growth the size of a grapefruit in my womb. The tumour was pressing on my urethra, which was also inhibiting kidney function.

The lump was malignant and needed to be removed as soon as possible, and I was hopeful; it sounded as though things would move along swiftly. But, owing to complications caused by the cancer, including lung embolism and near-fatal sepsis, it was five months before my tumour was removed.

I had been working on a second draft of a YA novel, written during Nanowrimo and revised during a novel writing course with Jericho Writers. But finding it impossible to concentrate on the intricacies of plot and multiple characters amid the chaos, I decided to park that project.

My therapist suggested that I get back into drawing, having originally studied art. Through research, I learned that octopus mothers are so diligent in caring for their young that they forget to nourish themselves, and I felt a nurturing awaken within me. I created a storyboard for my tumour, and Simon the baby octopus was born. Creating Simon stripped the tumour of its emotional malevolence, enabling me to open up about my diagnosis. I have always found the warlike imagery around cancer unhelpful, its binary spin-off of winning or losing ‘the battle’ serving to other people with a terminal diagnosis.

But even though I could face sporadic drawing and writing at the kitchen table, my deepening depression meant that I couldn’t bear to set foot in my writing room. Thoughts swarmed in my head like angry wasps. Had I become ill because I dyed my hair brown? Was it because I loved crisps? Was it because I’d broken so many mirrors creating shards for sculptures in my art degree show?

I followed American poet and ovarian cancer patient Andrea Gibson’s newsletter, Things That Don’t Suck, and one of her articles struck a chord. Observing her rescue dogs, she noticed that when animals experience pain or discomfort, they don’t ask themselves if it was because they ate too many sausages or nipped at a passerby’s ankles. Her words made me realise that my self-blame was keeping me out of the writing room, preventing me from doing the thing I love most.

I underwent an eight-hour operation in October 2023; coming round in intensive care with tubes inserted all over my body was one of the most nightmarish experiences of my life. But, against the odds, the operation and chemotherapy were successful in removing all detectable traces of cancer. In January 2024, a CT scan showed No Evidence of Disease. My three-act story of inciting incident, climax and resolution had been rounded off neatly.

In February 2024 I was offered a chance to perform my work at the American Book Center in Amsterdam, an experience so life-affirming that it gave me the oomph to get back into writing. My sense of self returned, and I enrolled in an online poetry course via Authors Publish. Writing poetry has opened up a more direct channel to my emotions; it’s easier to process and share my experiences in metaphors and similes. One of these poems, The Murmuration,was published by Amsterdam Quarterly.

But (and there’s always a but in real life) in July 2024 the cancer returned. I’ve had six rounds of chemotherapy, which appears to have worked, but I have to accept that treatment will be ongoing. Making peace with my condition has freed up so much emotional space. I would never elect to go through this illness, but it has made me a more compassionate person towards myself and others. And, in turn, my writing is going better than ever.

Originally Published in Mslexia Magazine issue 104 Dec/Jan/Feb 2024/25