I borrowed this from Facebook to share on this, my 15th anniversary of being in Ovarian Cancer remission.

“For five years, Gilda Radner owned Saturday nights in America. She created characters so memorable that decades later, people still quote them. She was SNL’s first breakout female star, proving women could be just as wild, weird, and brilliant as any comedian on that stage.

Then her body started hurting. And doctors stopped listening.

On October 11, 1975. A 29-year-old woman from Detroit walked onto a television stage in New York City for the premiere of a show nobody expected to succeed. Within minutes of her first sketch, America fell in love with Gilda Radner.

This was revolutionary. In 1975, women in comedy were expected to play the pretty girlfriend, the confused secretary, the straight-faced setup for a man’s punchline. They were supposed to be attractive and agreeable—never too loud, never too strange, never the actual joke.

Gilda Radner ignored every single one of those rules. She’d trained at Second City in Chicago, where people told her she was “too much”—too physical, too loud, too weird for television. She took that as a compliment and brought all of it to Saturday Night Live. Her characters became instant classics: Emily Litella, the sweet elderly woman who completely misheard news topics and ended every rant with an innocent “Never mind.” Roseanne Roseannadanna, the fearless commentator who turned every subject into a wild, unforgettable story. Lisa Loopner, the awkward teenager with braces and a snorty laugh who made being uncool hilarious.

Gilda threw herself completely into every character. She didn’t try to be pretty or sexy or cool. She tried to be funny. And she was absolutely brilliant at it. In 1978, she won an Emmy Award for her work on SNL.

For five seasons, she was the show’s beating heart. She paved the way for every female comedian who came after.

Off-camera, Gilda struggled with eating disorders and anxiety. But in 1982, while filming the movie Hanky Panky, she met Gene Wilder—the gentle, brilliant actor from Willy Wonka and Young Frankenstein. They fell deeply in love and married in 1984. Life felt joyful. Complete.

Then, on a Sunday in January 1986, everything changed. Gilda and Gene were driving to play tennis when she suddenly said, “I can’t keep my eyes open. I think I’m going to fall asleep.” She described it as a fog rolling in. The fatigue was overwhelming and unlike anything she’d experienced before.

She went to doctors immediately. She knew something was wrong. The first doctor diagnosed her with Epstein-Barr virus and told her to rest. But new symptoms kept appearing: severe bloating, stomach cramps, shooting pain in her legs. She went back. Different doctors examined her and found nothing wrong. They blamed her problems on ovulation. They suggested she was “high-strung” and needed to relax. One implied she was just being dramatic. Month after month, Gilda insisted something was seriously wrong. Month after month, doctors dismissed her.

Ten months. Ten months of being told she was overreacting, being too sensitive, that it was all in her head.

Finally, on October 21, 1986, a doctor did exploratory surgery. They found ovarian cancer. Stage IV. It had spread throughout her abdomen.

When they told her the diagnosis, Gilda cried. Then she turned to Gene and said: “Thank God, finally someone believes me!”

If it had been caught when she first started asking for help—when she first knew something was wrong—she might have had a fighting chance. Early-stage ovarian cancer is treatable. But by the time anyone believed her, it was too late.

Just 36 hours after her diagnosis, doctors operated and removed a grapefruit-sized tumor. The cancer had already metastasized everywhere. The odds of survival were almost zero.
Gilda fought anyway. She went through brutal chemotherapy, surgery, radiation. She lost her beautiful hair. Her body—the one that had tumbled across SNL stages, full of energy and life—became weak and fragile.

But she refused to hide. At a time when celebrities kept cancer diagnoses secret, when illness was considered shameful, Gilda spoke publicly. She gave interviews. She wrote about her experience. She told women everywhere: trust yourself. If something feels wrong in your body, push for tests. Don’t let anyone dismiss your pain.

In early 1989, she published a memoir called “It’s Always Something”—named after one of Roseanne Roseannadanna’s catchphrases. The book was honest, funny, and heartbreaking. She recorded the audiobook just one month before her death.

On May 20, 1989, Gilda Radner died at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. She was 42 years old. Gene Wilder held her hand as she took her last breath.

The world mourned. That night, Steve Martin was preparing to host Saturday Night Live when he heard the news. He abandoned his planned monologue and tearfully introduced a video clip of him and Gilda dancing together in 1978. “Gilda, we miss you,” he said.

But Gene Wilder did something more than mourn. He was angry. He was heartbroken. And he was determined that Gilda’s death would not be meaningless.

Gene testified before Congress about how Gilda’s condition had been misdiagnosed. He revealed that her grandmother, aunt, and cousin had all died of ovarian cancer—a family history that doctors never bothered to ask about. He explained that a simple CA-125 blood test, given when she first reported symptoms instead of ten months later, might have caught the cancer at a treatable stage. “She didn’t have to die,” he told People magazine. “If I knew then what I know now, she could be alive today.”

In 1991, working with Gilda’s cancer psychotherapist Joanna Bull and broadcaster Joel Siegel, Gene co-founded Gilda’s Club—a place with a red door where people facing cancer could find community, support, and dignity. It wasn’t a hospital. It was a place where you could be fully human: scared, sick, angry, hopeful, still you.

The first Gilda’s Club opened in 1995 in New York City. Today, as part of the Cancer Support Community, there are dozens of locations helping hundreds of thousands of people completely free of charge.

Gene also established the Gilda Radner Hereditary Cancer Program at Cedars-Sinai to screen high-risk women and ensure others wouldn’t face Gilda’s fate.

Remember: this was 1986, not ancient history. A famous, intelligent, well-connected woman spent ten months being told her pain was imaginary. If that happened to her, imagine how often it still happens to women without fame or resources.

Gilda Radner’s story is more than comedy legacy. It’s a reminder that women’s pain is still too often dismissed as hysteria or drama.

She made millions laugh. But her real legacy is this: more awareness of ovarian cancer, more women pushing doctors for answers, and welcoming places where people with cancer can find community.
To every woman told her pain is “just stress”: Gilda’s story is for you. Trust yourself. Ask again. Ask louder.

She was 42 years old. She had so much more to give. But because doctors didn’t listen for ten months, she ran out of time.

It’s always something, she used to joke. Because of her, when “something” happens, more people don’t have to face it alone.