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By Liz Sherman
Cancer has always been a part of my life — even before I had cancer.
Growing up in Muskegon, Michigan in the 1970s, I always knew I had a brother who had died of brain cancer at age seven. I was less than a year old when he passed, so I don’t remember him — but I remember the way my parents talked about him. He was kind, funny, and full of life. His smile lit up every room. His elementary school even closed the day of his funeral so all the children could attend.
I grew up watching my parents grieve, and I learned early what silence meant, which words hurt, and how fragile comfort could be. I tried to say the right things. I was careful and sensitive. Cancer had already shaped me before it ever touched me personally.
Then, years later, I got cancer.
Suddenly, I was the one everyone was trying to comfort. Some people said exactly what I needed to hear; others said things that stung. I resented the easy lines “I’ll pray for you” not because I didn’t want the prayers, but because sometimes the words felt hollow.
My counselor gently reminded me that everyone is doing their best. That it wasn’t fair to judge people for stumbling through something so hard to express.
She was right. I needed to offer the same grace I’d always hoped for. No one knows the right thing to say — and that’s okay.
Then came another blow: my 85-year-old mom was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer. When she told me, I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. I asked question after question, interrupting, challenging, demanding details. I was impatient, angry, and scared and lashed out, because I didn’t want this to be true.
And in that moment, I realized I was doing exactly what I had once resented in others. All my experience with cancer, all my lessons about grace, disappeared in a rush of fear. I said the wrong things because I was terrified of losing her.
Cancer sucks. The thought of losing someone you love sucks. None of this is easy. But as I walk through this again, I’m reminded that we’re all just trying — stumbling through grief, love, fear, and uncertainty. And when someone says, “I’m praying for you,” I’ll say thank you. Because I truly am grateful. I’m learning, again, that grace goes both ways.
Cancer has touched too many lives, but no one should have to face it without compassion. If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who needs to know they’re not alone — or take a moment to support the caregivers, friends, and organizations that bring comfort and hope every day. Small acts of grace matter more than we know.
Liz Sherman- Founder of the Keith the Cat Foundation
Elizabeth “Liz” Sherman is a 1991 graduate of Texas A&M University and has worked for the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA) for the past 25 years. Liz was hired as an imagery intelligence analyst covering regional and counterterrorism issues mostly in the African and Latin American regions.
She started the Keith the Cat Foundation to help those who are fighting cancer or any illness or battle. Her rescue cat, Keith, helped her get through her own battle with cancer. He was her constant companion who knew when she needed cuddles.
