Graphic Cancer

 

Marisa Acocella (Marchetto), breast cancer, comics

I sometimes forget how much drama there is in the trauma of cancer. And it’s nonstop with Marisa Acocella. I’m impressed by how well her graphic comics convey the total experience of going through treatments for breast cancer, all the side thoughts and minor details penciled in along the main thought bubbles that are often left out in a straight forward narrative. 

There is such fullness when they are added in, and there’s power when words are paired with images and facial expressions. Take a look at Maus, the graphic novel about the Holocaust by Art Spiegelman.

In 2004, Marisa noticed that her arm hurt while swimming. A month later, she finally sees a doctor. He diagnoses her breast cancer as Stage 1 (infiltrating ductal adenocarcinoma), and her focus changes from fashion to survival. Mostly. She still wears fashion shoes to her chemo sessions.

Cancer Vixen (her play on the term “cancer victim) is a moving, funny, and sober graphic memoir. But Marisa’s book is not just about her cancer. She talks about all the people involved in her life during the time she was dealing with cancer because life refuses to stop moving around her, or around any of us when we diagnosed.

Her supporting cast includes Silvano, their relationship, engagement after she was diagnosed, and Silvano not abandoning her during the rough times. Instead of shopping for a wedding gown, she now sees herself in a hospital gown. Because he is a celebrity chef in New York City, she worries about him being swept away by the suntanned, thin, and perfectly perky breasts of the women who fawn over him. 

Her mother, who designs women’s fashion shoes, is full of opinions and doesn’t hold much back, but she is always there to support her daughter. Her friends have endless advice. She debates with her negative self, and this back-and-forth happens throughout. Meanwhile, she is busy developing her career as a cartoonist and making introductions to magazine editors at Glamour and The New Yorker.

In 2001, before she had cancer, Marisa cared about being seen, being with “it,” being fashionable, and being connected. She describes herself as a “shoe-crazy, fashion-fanatic, big-city girl cartoonist,” a “self-aware narcissist.” 

The memoir is breezy and hyperbolic at times, not normally my fare, but I like it because when she gets to cancer she speaks honestly about the trauma and her fears.

Her words are illustrated on the pages, often hilariously. For example, Marisa depicts her cancer cells partying, being angry when they’re being aspirated in a biopsy, and eventually being led off in chains. 

Her special pages are delightful and informative: pages of illustrated charts. Two pages for The Cancer Guessing Game board about trying to figure out what caused her cancer. A reprint of the surgical pathology report. Pages of all the questions she has before each next step in treatment, like the side effects of chemo, presented in different sized type. A page with a chemo flow chart. Fact pages – “Women without insurance have a 49% greater risk of dying from breast cancer.” Insertions with notes like, “Needle #7. The chemo IV (#1 of 8 treatments, each three weeks apart),” that serve to keep us up to speed with all that has happened.

She talks about using the Cancer Card, her handy excuse for not doing something she doesn’t want to do like going to a party she doesn’t want to attend. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t go because I’m not feeling well from my cancer treatments.’

At the end of the book, she has a page that tallies the number of needles she got, how much weight she gained, how much all the treatments cost, and a total of the people who helped her: 15 radiation technicians, 11 medical assistants, 9 nurses, 8 doctors, 2 rabbis, and one priest. 

After breast cancer, Marisa developed melanoma that was successfully treated, which illustrates the breast cancer-skin cancer link. She struggles to trust her own body, and she understands that there’s a chance her breast cancer will come back, which is something we all fear. And that’s where the book, published in 2006, ends. It’s an appropriate place because the possibility of cancer doesn’t end when no more cells can be detected. As far as I can tell online, her cancer has not returned.

© 2026 Mark Liebenow