Improv helps survivor navigate leukemia and grief

A decade after surviving acute myeloid leukemia (AML), I still rely on the same coping strategies I developed during treatment: mindfulness, exercise, humor, and journaling. But one practice stands out as uniquely transformative—improv.

My connection to improv began at Gilda’s Club, a support network for cancer survivors. There, I discovered Improv for Life™, a program that frames improvisation as both a skill and a life philosophy. The core principle, “yes, and”, became a mental framework for handling loss and uncertainty. It’s simple: accept what’s offered, build on it, and trust the moment. For me, this meant shifting from rigid planning to spontaneous engagement—a shift that proved critical after my wife, Sue, developed dementia.

As Sue’s condition worsened, I found myself cooking for her, a role that became a daily challenge. One evening, with no script, I adopted a fantasy: I was a chef in a high-end restaurant, and she was a returning guest. “Good evening, Ms. Scott,” I said, offering her an arm to the dining room. “We’re delighted you’re dining with us again.” When I returned with a “Chateau Pepsi” (my joke about her favorite drink), she played along, laughing as I teased her about a “particularly good March.” The exchange created a fleeting but vivid memory—a moment of connection in the midst of grief.

Improv’s principles had already shaped my cancer recovery. During hospital stays, I learned to stay present, avoid overanalyzing, and lean into humor. Those skills carried over to caregiving. “I was trained to listen, to react, to not judge,” I said. “That’s improv.” The difference was that improv gave me a structured way to practice those instincts—not just in therapy sessions, but in everyday life.

When Sue passed in 2023, I faced isolation. Improv became a way to reconnect. I joined a local comedy cabaret, then formed a troupe called Eaten by Locusts, performing throughout the Twin Cities. The stage demanded the same skills as caregiving: active listening, trust, and spontaneity. But this time, the stakes were lighter. “The goal isn’t to be funny,” I notes. “It’s to be genuine. The humor comes from that.”

Improv’s philosophy extends beyond performance. It’s a way to engage with life’s unscripted moments—whether in conversation, parenting, or simply handling a grocery store. Introverts, often assumed to be poor improvisors, thrive in this space because they’re already masters of active listening. “You don’t need to be outgoing,” I says. “You just need to be present.”

I don’t perform improv to escape reality. I do it because it’s a reminder that life, like a scene, is co-created. The “yes, and” mindset doesn’t erase hardship, but it changes how I meet it. When a memory fades, when a diagnosis looms, or when grief feels unbearable, improv offers a tool: lean in, respond, and find the next step together.

For those hesitant to try, I offer a simple starting point: pay attention. Notice the rhythm of a conversation, the unspoken cues in a text, the way a stranger’s story unfolds. Improv isn’t about perfection—it’s about participation. And in a world that often rewards scripted responses, that might be the most radical act of all.

Today, I perform regularly, but my real audience is myself. I still cook for friends, still tell stories at the dinner table, still practice the “yes” that keeps life from feeling like a monologue. The leukemia is in remission. The dementia has taken Sue. But the improv remains—proof that some skills, once learned, become part of who you are.