11/05/2025
She made millions laugh every Saturday night. Then she spent two years being told her cancer symptoms were "just stress." By the time they believed her, it was too late.
October 11, 1975. New York City.
A 29-year-old woman from Detroit walked onto a soundstage for the first episode of a new late-night comedy show that nobody thought would last six months.
Her name was Gilda Radner. The show was Saturday Night Live.
Within minutes of her first sketch, America fell in love.
Gilda wasn't supposed to be a star. Women in comedy in 1975 were supposed to be the girlfriend, the secretary, the straight man for male comedians to bounce jokes off of. They weren't supposed to be the funny ones.
Gilda didn't care what she was supposed to be.
She'd trained at Second City in Chicago—one of the few women in a male-dominated improv scene. She'd been told repeatedly that she was "too much," too silly, too physical, too weird.
Perfect.
On SNL, Gilda created characters that became part of American culture. Emily Litella, the sweet old lady who went on rants about misheard news topics ("What's all this fuss about violins on television?"), only to end with a gentle "Never mind" when corrected.
Roseanne Roseannadanna, the brash commentator who turned every topic into a gross, hilarious story about her personal life.
Lisa Loopner, the nerdy teenager with braces and an annoying laugh.
Gilda threw herself into every character completely. She wasn't afraid to be ugly, loud, sweaty, weird. She didn't try to be pretty or sexy or palatable.
She just tried to be funny.
And she was. Brilliantly, fearlessly funny.
For five years, Gilda was the heart of SNL. While male castmates like John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd got bigger, louder sketches, Gilda got the moments that made you feel something. Her characters were absurd, but they were also somehow deeply human.
She showed an entire generation that women could be just as hilarious, weird, and unforgettable as men. That comedy didn't have to be mean or aggressive to be powerful.
Off stage, Gilda struggled. She had eating disorders. Anxiety. The pressure of fame. The exhaustion of always being "on."
But she also found love.
In 1982, while filming a movie called Hanky Panky, Gilda met Gene Wilder—the gentle, brilliant actor known for W***y Wonka and Young Frankenstein. They fell for each other instantly.
Gene later described it as "lightning striking." A love that was creative, playful, safe. They married in 1984, and for a brief time, life was beautiful.
Then Gilda started feeling sick.
It began with fatigue. Stomach pain. Cramping. Nothing specific, nothing alarming.
She went to doctors. They ran tests. Found nothing.
"It's stress," they told her. "You're a comedian. You're high-strung. It's probably IBS. Maybe endometriosis. Try to relax."
Gilda tried to relax. The symptoms got worse.
More doctors. More tests. More dismissals.
"You're a woman in entertainment. Of course you're anxious. Have you considered therapy?"
She had. Therapy didn't stop the pain.
For two years, Gilda Radner went from doctor to doctor, describing her symptoms, being told she was overreacting, being sent home with nothing.
She knew something was wrong. She could feel it.
But doctor after doctor—all men—told her she was imagining it.
Finally, in 1986, a doctor took her seriously enough to do exploratory surgery.
They found ovarian cancer. Stage IV. It had spread throughout her abdomen.
If they'd caught it two years earlier—when she first started complaining—she might have had a chance.
Now, it was too late.
Gilda Radner spent the next three years fighting.
Chemotherapy. Surgery. Radiation. Experimental treatments. She lost her hair. She got violently ill. Her body, which had once danced and tumbled through SNL sketches, became weak and fragile.
But she didn't hide.
Most celebrities in the 1980s kept cancer private. It was shameful, scary, something you dealt with behind closed doors.
Gilda refused.
She wrote about her experience openly. She gave interviews. She talked about the misdiagnoses, the dismissive doctors, the importance of advocating for yourself when you know something's wrong.
She wanted other women to learn from her mistake: trust yourself. If something feels wrong, demand tests. Demand answers. Don't let anyone tell you you're overreacting.
In 1989, she published her memoir, It's Always Something—a phrase Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say. The book was honest, heartbreaking, and still somehow funny.
Gilda was dying, and she was still trying to make people laugh.
On May 20, 1989, Gilda Radner died at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. She was 42 years old.
Gene Wilder was holding her hand.
The world mourned. SNL dedicated episodes to her. Fellow comedians shared stories. Fans sent letters by the thousands.
But Gene Wilder did something more.
In 1995, six years after Gilda's death, Gene—along with Gilda's therapist Joanna Bull and cancer psychotherapist Joel Siegel—opened the first Gilda's Club in New York City.
It wasn't a hospital. It wasn't a treatment center.
It was a place where people with cancer could go to not feel alone. Where they could talk, laugh, cry, eat a meal, attend a workshop, meet others going through the same nightmare.
A place where cancer patients weren't just patients—they were people.
The red door of the first Gilda's Club became a symbol: when you walk through this door, you're not defined by your illness. You're welcomed. You belong.
Today, there are dozens of Gilda's Clubs across North America (now part of the Cancer Support Community network). They've served hundreds of thousands of people—patients, families, caregivers.
Free of charge. No one turned away.
It's the legacy Gilda never got to see but would have loved.
Gilda Radner made millions of people laugh every Saturday night for five years.
But her real legacy isn't the characters she created or the sketches she performed.
It's the lives she saved by speaking up.
Because after Gilda went public with her story, awareness of ovarian cancer increased. Women started recognizing symptoms earlier. They started demanding to be taken seriously by doctors.
And Gilda's Clubs gave cancer patients something medicine can't provide: community. Laughter. A place where you're allowed to be scared and silly and human all at once.
Gilda showed us that you can face the worst thing imaginable and still find moments of joy.
That vulnerability isn't weakness—it's courage.
That sharing your truth, even when it's painful, can become someone else's lifeline.
She made the world laugh.
And when the world didn't listen to her pain, she made sure they would listen to others.
She was 42 when she died. Far too young. Far too soon.
But in those 42 years, Gilda Radner taught us how to live with heart.
How to be fearlessly yourself. How to find humor in darkness. How to turn your tragedy into someone else's hope.
The red door is still open.
And every time someone walks through it and feels less alone, Gilda's legacy lives on.
**I'm proud to regularly provide holistic healing & education for patients, families & their caregivers at the Metro Detroit Gilda's Club locations. If you are someone you know has a cancer diagnosis, please follow for upcoming events.
