Who Could Ask for More? By: James “Moe” Armstrong

The relationship that has taught me the most is Aidee Peternell Olmos.  She and I met in Mexico.  She came to see my life in the United States.  We have been together over sixteen years, ever since.   We had up and downs.  Agreed and disagreed.  Had doubts about our time together,   We resolved everything.  

Aidee saved my life from the cancer treatments.   She taught me how to blend fruits and vegetables in a Vita Mix blender and get my nutrition from micro nutrients.   She got me off the ALL carb diet in the low carb diet.  She taught me how to take care of myself and my home.  She brought me back into prayer and meditation.   She got me to exercise the full amount that I need to survive from the several cancer treatments. 

I almost died.  Aidee pulled me through with diet, quiet, mediation, less activity and more attention to wellness.  She has been practical.  Teaching me how to do less and not get over extended.  We have a small condo in Connecticut.  We love each other.  We have learned to love each other more every year.  I never could have survived the cancer treatments without her knowledge and love.  We love our time together as companions and helping each other through life. 

Who could ask for more?

My Deepest Yearning By: Catharine Cooke

My Deepest Yearning

To wake up in the morning, sip warm coffee made from a French press. This, as I watch little birds’  flit and fly to the feeders I just filled. And hear their songs.

To settle into a painting or drawing until it’s time  to pause.  

Then take a long walk through our trails with the dog and kitty (who tries to act like she’s not following us).  See the long views and breathe deeply.

To write, work on an essay or poem and try to find words that are harder to retrieve now. To learn new ways of writing thoughts. To work unafraid and uninhibited.

Then to sleep the sleep of angels. To sleep deeply and wake up feeling strong and able and not wonder when the other shoe might fall.

To wake up in a world where kindness reigns and cruelty is banished. To a world of warmth and light. And once again sip another warm cup or coffee made from a French press.

It is a lot to ask.  I know.

Catharine Cooke

3/6/25

For Me Aging Is.. By: James “Moe” Armstrong

For me aging is, learning how to live the my physical body deteriorating.   Nobody told me about losing my breath, equilibrium and memory.   Nobody told me about the bone loss and osteoporosis from hell.  Nobody told me about being numb in my hands and feet. Nobody told me about thyroid falling apart and dizziness and stupor.   Nobody even mentioned the fatigue.   And, nobody told me how bad the heart conditions would become.  I now have a pacemaker and more to come.

For me aging, is the need to prepare for the inevitable.  The body and mind deteriorate, significantly.  How am I going to live in the state of aging.  I don’t know.  What I am finding out is that hydrogen molecular therapy slows down and can reverse bad cell growth.  Whole body vibration plates send massage through the body to stop the arthritis and make life livable.   The National Institute of Health says that Whole Body Vibration also restores organ function.   I am taking hydrogen water to keep hydrated.  I blend fruits and vegetables to keep my nutritional levels up and have easy digestion.  Stay away from bread and sugar. Learn to meditate and pray.  Start to reflect on my past and tell my story through video dialogue and writing.  Sing songs about my new life.  Aging is a new life.  I am learning how to live the life of an 80 year old.   I am learning how to take care of myself.  Small walks twice a day.  More reading and no television.  Fresh air and sunshine.  

Fresh fish, turkey and/ or chicken.   No starches or sugar.   Spend more time with people.   Spend more time resting. 

Spend more time in reflection, writing and  storing the memories.   I would like to have a pet someday 

For me aging is …..

Constant Advancements for Car T Cell Infusions

By Dr. Darla Shaw 

When I first was diagnosed with lymphoma at age 79, I asked about stem cell transplants or infusions.    I was told that I was too old to go through this procedure and would have to go the regular chemo and radiation route.

Five years later my lymphoma returned for the third time and  I went back to Sloan Kettering.   I was  now told I was possibly a candidate for a car t cell infusion.    How could this be possible?   I was now five years older and back then I was told I was too old for the procedure.

The possibility for the infusion, however, would be due to my mental and physical state.   Mentally, I was still giving lectures and presentations at age 84.  I was also still walking daily and going to the gym despite my arthritis, neuropathy and lymphedema.   I was affirmed for the infusion.

Before agreeing to the infusion, I was asked to read extensive educational material about the side effects of the procedure, and the harvesting of my own cells.  Everything that I read about the infusion, made me more and more afraid, but I realized that this procedure might be my only chance of adding a few more years to my life.

I did sign off on the procedure and spent an entire day in a hospital bed having the cells harvested.   I then had to wait for five weeks for the cells to be taken to a production facility where antigens were added to the mix.  These antigen receptors would hopefully attack the cancers cells, kill them and increase my capabilities for a longer life.

When my revitalized cells were returned to the hospital, they were inserted back into my body.  This procedure took only 15 minutes and there was no pain involved.    

Since car t cell infusions are fraught with serious side effects, I would now have to be under constant watch in the hospital for at least one week.   The doctors would be looking for signs of an irregular heartbeat, difficulty breathing, tremors, confusion and loss of memory, vomiting, loss of weight, diarrhea, chills, and of course, death.   

After that week in the hospital, I would then have to be housed near the hospital for another two or three weeks so that if symptoms did suddenly occur, I could be transferred immediately to the emergency ward within a short distance from where I was staying

After a month, and if all went well, I would be recuperating for a period of eight weeks at home.  I would go through physical therapy at home and then at an outside facility .   I would also have regular lab work done and go for a pet scan three months after the infusion.

Fortunately, due to modified infusion treatments, I had only a slight seizure and just extreme lack of appetite and energy for the period of eight weeks. 

When meeting regularly with P.A.’s on zoom while at home, I asked why I had not been able to speak to someone in my age group (mid eighty’s) that had gone through the car t cell infusion procedure.  I would have liked to communicate with someone who had previously experienced the procedure.

  I was told that there were very few people in my age group that qualified for the procedure or wanted to take the risk.   There was also no one in their medical group that had been trained and agreed to talk to others about what they had experienced. 

I then decided that communication with the elderly about car t cell infusions needed to be established and I went through training to become a mentor.    I now talk to people about my experience and how the pamphlet scare tactics were worse than the procedure.   I make certain that I do not tell them what to do but focus on only my own experience.

Since having the infusion, I have had a gift of life for almost two additional years.   I have been able to see my grandchildren graduate, become involved in community service projects and even teach on a part time basis.  My travel distances are not international, but more local in nature.

If anyone reading this article is considering the option of car t cell infusion, feel free to contact me and I will give you more details on my experience.    Also realize that improvements regarding procedures are being made on almost a daily basis and you need to be aware of these changes to talk to your doctors in a knowledgeable way. 

I was shocked to find that as I got older, I was able to have a procedure that before was not possible for me.    We are all so fortunate to have cancer researchers who dedicate their lives to our well-being.  

Children

Children

By: Amy Sisson

Children are who inspire me. Everyday.

Their innocence and freedom to love has always made my sad soul feel safe.

Have you ever observed the way children interact? 

They don’t know of hate, or bias, or stereotypes, or racism.

They know love.

They know trust in themselves and their source.

They inspire me to remain loving and accepting.

They inspire me to laugh and play.

It’d be with a heavy heart that I admit…

Their love kept me alive during my dark and depressed twenties.

My students were my children and they’ve always given me hope.

They would be my motivation to wake up.

To show up. 

To try…

To try one more time to get through one more day.

And now… well cancer took some of my hope to carry biological children, 

But what inspires me are all the other children of the world. 

And love… knowing the love of children, their love and their simple need to feel loved in return.

And I often feel inspired to try one more time,

And one more day to clear through the hurt, 

And find the reasons to laugh and play…

one more time, and one more day.

I Fear, Yet Still I hope

By Amy Sisson

I fear I will no longer want to dance, but still I hope to hear my favorite song.

I fear another betrayal from the facade of a “trusted” adult, but still I hope for discernment.

I fear more emotional distress, but still I hope for spiritual protection.

I fear my past affecting my future always, but still I hope for it not to.

I fear people will hug me even less this coming year, but I hope I can reach out first.

I fear more shocking, unexpected, and life changing news, but I hope it brings me joy, happiness, and peace.

I fear abandonment, but I hope for longevity in my earthly sacred connections,

I fear the tears will never stop coming, but deep down I really hope that they never do.

I fear I will revert to old ways, but I hope the lessons of new replace those of old.

I fear the exhaustion will never cease, but I hope for a restful sleep.

I fear time will slip away fast, but I hope I am able to slow down.

I fear my heart will turn cold with anger and devastation, but I hope for even more resilience.

I fear being misunderstood, but hope to stand up taller.

I fear I will forget the intensity of this past year, but I also hope I never do.

I fear pessimism, but I hope for optimism.

I fear I will disappoint, but I hope to live unapologetically, still.

I fear I will feel small and unworthy, but still I hope to take up space.

I fear the lessons will fade, but I hope for soft and gentle reminders.

I fear incessant triggers, but hope for healthy coping mechanisms.

I fear I will take life for granted, but I hope for each day to feel like the biggest blessing I’ve ever been given.

I fear my voice will tremble when I continue to speak up and protect myself, but I hope I still do it anyway.

I fear loneliness in a room full of my loved ones, but I hope for the comfort of a kind stranger.

I fear feeling lost, but I hope to still wander with that of a child’s curiosity.

I fear I will want to give up, but I hope I never do.

I fear I will feel weak, but I hope to remember my strength.

I fear death, but I hope it can come peaceful and painless.

This Year

By: Amy Sisson

JANUARY 22, 2024

I will need an open heart; a loving heart.

To be trusting in myself and my God.

To be grateful for the ways in which the secret and suppressed desires of my heart 

will be fulfilled.

I showed myself extraordinary strength and love this past year.

And it confirmed: 

I am well on my way to having healed both the old and new wounds expectant of this life.

Oh, what a blessing this life really is.

I deserve love reciprocated.

I deserve love that is comforting and genuine.

I deserve love that does not reject and punish.

I deserve love that heals and doesn’t hurt.

I deserve the love I have longed for.

I deserve a hand to hold; the comfort of a beloved soul.

I know this to be true, because I gave this to myself this past year,

All that I once thought could only be fulfilled by another.

Oh, what a blessing this life really is.

A Poem By James “Moe” Armstrong

Someone I loved 

Once gave me a box

Of Darkness. 

It took me years to understand

This too is gift 

The boxes of darkness

Over the years

Have taken a toll me

The rejections

The angry shouts 

The put downs

The broken marriages 

I was able to pick myself up

After multiple knock downs

One day my body just became 

Too tired

Did my cancers come from a tired body

Did my cancers come from a broken heart 

Learning to pick myself is a gift 

Left to wonder about my life

With no box of darkness 

How would I be living today?

Will never know

Left to live with the life I got 

The person who I am 

Water

By: Marta Maresco

AUGUST 8, 2023 

WATER

I am a creature of water

a life form that emerged from the sea

more than half my substance composed of water.

I see myself crawling out of the primordial ocean

a sea turtle, wearing a protective shell

or floating in on a scallop shell surfboard

upright like willowy Aphrodite

wondering — in what place have I landed?

Perhaps I should return to the deep…

Water holds me,

Lets me float free of gravity’s pull.

Moving rhythmically

on my side, my back,

or prone with breast-stroke, butterfly,

and finding stillness in the dead man’s (woman’s) float

wondering with childlike curiosity

is this how it would feel

to be suspended for eternity

in the waters of the cosmic ocean?

Marta R. Maresco

The Struggle is Real for Patients and Doctors

By: Kim Downey

JULY 21, 2023 

If you are a patient, we all are at some point. Undoubtedly, you have experienced some of the difficulties patients face today in getting approved for and receiving medical care in a timely fashion. From scheduling doctor visits to undergoing tests, procedures, obtaining medications, and even surgeries, the process can be challenging.

It’s easy to be tempted to blame your doctor for the long wait times to schedule an appointment, the extended periods spent in the office, the brief amount of time spent with your physician, or their seemingly distracted interaction with the computer instead of with you. These complaints are frequently voiced in conversations with other patients, on social media platforms, and even through reading online physician reviews. I have also personally experienced many of these problems, having dealt with extensive medical issues for a couple of years.

However, patients may not fully realize the extent to which excessive demands placed on physicians have become an immense burden, leading to high levels of burnout and worse. Many doctors are leaving or planning to leave the medical field in the near future. This exacerbates the challenge for patients in receiving timely treatment from physicians who remain actively engaged.

In the past, doctors had more autonomy and were in charge of their own schedules. They could decide how many patients to see and how much personal time to take. However, now, most physicians have essentially been driven out of private practice, feeling like they are held captive by corporatized medicine and trapped on a spinning wheel.

Physicians face intense pressure to produce, often measured by RVUs (relative value units). They have to see more and more patients to stay financially stable, which goes against the desired focus on the doctor-patient relationship shared by patients and doctors alike.

Administrative tasks consume an excessive amount of physicians’ time. They are required to complete extensive box-checking metrics dictated by the electronic medical record (EMR). They also spend significant time on phone calls with insurance companies, requesting prior authorizations for their patients. Furthermore, once they finally get home, doctors spend additional hours updating patient charts, reviewing lab results, and responding to emails and patient portal communications.

As patient presentations become more complex, doctors are left with fewer resources, both in terms of time and support, to provide the necessary care. The lack of time dedicated to thinking about the patient’s condition is a growing concern.

These are undeniably stressful times for physicians and other health care workers. One meaningful way patients can show support is by expressing gratitude during their visits and sending notes of appreciation. A few kind words from a patient can hold significant meaning for a doctor.

“Nothing beats an unsolicited testimonial from a grateful patient. This is why I do what I do!” shared Dr. Susan Baumgaertel. Other physicians also expressed similar sentiments of appreciation:

“Kind words from a patient make my day. I have taught myself to slow down and really listen to compliments from patients because they can shift the entire trajectory of my day. This is why I chose a career in medicine.” – Dr. Michael Hersh

“These are the fuel that keeps us going! We carry a lot of weight helping others feel better, and it definitely lightens the load.” – Dr. Tea Nguyen

“They’re the absolute best! I wholeheartedly agree. It gives you the warm fuzzies.” – Dr. Dana Corriel

“This is one of the things that make it all worthwhile.” – Dr. Robert Kornfeld

“It’s always nice to know that you’re making a difference and that someone went out of their way to express their gratitude.” – Dr. Amruti Borad

“Nothing better! This is why we all went into medicine in the first place – to take care of patients! It always feels great to get a good review or testimonial!” – Dr. Ambrose Panico

Patients and doctors are currently struggling, and it is crucial for both parties to use their voices and find ways to drive positive change in health care. While doctors understand the challenges patients face when navigating the current system, it’s equally important for patients to comprehend the difficulties doctors encounter on their end.

Kim Downey is a physical therapist.

An Inspiring Tribute to an Exceptional Radiologist Who Made a Lasting Impact

By: Kim Downey

“He had an intuitive gift as a physician in diagnosing and managing breast cancer. His expertise helped countless patients, and he was deeply appreciated by those he cared for. He felt an enormous sense of gratitude to be able to help his patients and be an integral part of their care.”

I didn’t want to have cancer again, and who would? It was December 29, 2021, just over a year since my last surgery. I was at yet another medical appointment for a magnetic clip (mag seed) insertion to prepare for surgery the following morning. I wished to be at home celebrating the holidays with my family.

The radiologist I was going to meet that day may have been thinking the same thing. The radiology technician told me, “This should be quick. We’ll have you out of here soon.” She took several mammogram images, exited to confer with the radiologist, returned, took several more, and then several more.

It was not quick.

I leaned in to the right, to the left, and intentionally forward toward the machine on command. She looked at me and smiled, “Trust me; you’re in great hands with this radiologist!”

All I wanted was to go home. I was not thinking about the Herculean task he faced. The 9mm tumor had only been visualized on MRI, and 7mm had already been removed during the biopsy. Unfortunately, the metal clip inserted that day to mark the tumor site was significantly displaced. We did not have an MRI machine on that dark, late winter afternoon.

“We’re going across the hall; he wants to see if he can visualize it by ultrasound.”

That’s when I met my irreplaceable radiologist.

He introduced himself, prepped the area, and moved the transducer around, and around, and around. This way and that. Over, and over, and over again. Finally–“I think I found it!” The radiology tech wheeled in the sterile supplies; he inserted the mag seed and checked placement by mammogram.

We got to talking and discovered we had worked at the same hospital during the same time period over 30 years ago! I was a physical therapist, while he was a radiology resident. He retrieved his business card and offered it to me, commenting that this was the most challenging mag seed placement he had ever performed during his 30 years as a breast radiologist. I thanked him for everything and went home.

A week later, my surgeon entered the exam room with a simultaneous expression of joy and relief, having just received the pathology report. “We got clear margins; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack!”

Only 2mm of residual cancer was present in the pathology specimen. My surgeon shared that the radiologist could never have visualized it; he must have seen the shadow where the tissue was disturbed during the original biopsy several weeks earlier. The surgical success was a credit to my radiologist’s high level of experience, skill, and intuition in getting the mag seed exactly where it needed to be, and a credit to my highly skilled surgeon in sensing just how much tissue he needed to extract. I knew how incredibly fortunate I was to have them both on my team, and I made sure to let them know.

Five months later, like some miserable version of “Groundhog Day,” we met again, my radiologist being tasked with inserting another mag seed in preparation for cancer surgery on the other side. He stood in the doorway, offered an empathetic look, and said my name. “I just don’t want to do all of this again already,” I quietly quivered, with glassy eyes, dreading the radiation to come as much as, or more than the surgery. “You need a hug!” said my irreplaceable radiologist. We shared a warm embrace as the radiology technician looked on with a compassionate smile.

He completed the procedure, then called me over, “You have to see this. This never happens!” After checking a few different angles to be sure, he realized he had gotten the tiny magnetic clip to actually pierce the equally small metal clip. Amazing!

As I prepared to leave the radiology room that day, my radiologist offered, “You need another hug!”

That was the last time I ever saw my irreplaceable radiologist.

After the surgery, my surgeon shared that he was quite impressed with our radiologist, likening the intertwining of the clips to threading a needle when you can’t even see the needle! I sent my surgeon and radiologist a second round of thank you notes, with much gratitude for yet another successful surgery and clear margins. Shortly after that, I was sitting on the beach when my phone rang. My radiologist had just read my card and was calling to thank me. He echoed back a line where I thanked him for continuing to practice, adding that I appreciated him and understood that “the excessive demands placed on physicians these days have become an immense burden,” to which he whispered, “That’s exactly what it feels like!”

“Patients like you are the reason I continue to do this.” “I’m sorry you’re going through all this, but I’m looking forward to seeing you again.” He knew I needed to return for another mammogram and ultrasound in the fall. I told him I was looking forward to seeing him again too.

That was the last time I ever spoke with my irreplaceable radiologist.

I arrived at the imaging facility on the scheduled morning in early October, expecting a routine appointment and a welcomed opportunity to visit my wonderful radiologist. He was not in his reading room when I passed by. I asked the front desk where he was and received a response I never expected.

“He died a month ago.”

I actually asked if she was joking.

“No.”

I could not comprehend it.

I could not stop crying.

They discovered another mass that day, requiring another biopsy. This time it was not cancer.

As a health care professional and three-time cancer survivor, I have experienced firsthand the challenges facing clinicians. I remain devastated by the death of my radiologist. I had already begun to look for ways to promote physician well-being within my local health care system. Now, it has become my life’s purpose.

This is my heartfelt tribute to Dr. Steven Sferlazza, my irreplaceable radiologist. It opens with an excerpt from his beautifully written obituary. It ends with a passage from the back of his funeral card, overlaying an exquisite photograph he had taken of the sun setting over a lake. Photography was just one of his many talents.

“Memory. A nostalgia. The pain of absence. But it isn’t absence that causes sorrow. It is affection and love. Without affection, without love, such absences would cause us no pain. For this reason, even the pain caused by absence is in the end something good and even beautiful. Because it feeds on that which gives meaning to life.”
– Carlo Rovelli, L’ordine del tempo

The Golden Healer

by Kim Downey

My vocal cord appeared to be paralyzed following a total thyroidectomy for thyroid cancer in November 2020. I described my voice afterwards as sounding like a “quiet one-note puppet.” As the weeks wore on, my despair grew. I love music. I couldn’t participate in my church choir, and I couldn’t sing Christmas carols. The single pitch I had remaining was higher than my usual voice. I sounded like one of the muppets and it felt embarrassing. I resisted speaking up in meetings at work and church, and minimized my participation in conversations with family and friends, a total “180” from my previously loquacious, and yes, loud, self.      

A couple days after Christmas that year, I drove to Ridgefield to go on a short hike and to explore some of the local shops. I had never been to Touch of Sedona, a gift shop selling healing and spiritual items, so I stopped in. I asked the owner, Marge, a question, but she couldn’t hear me while I was wearing a mask. I pointed to my throat while attempting to tell her I recently had surgery, my voice didn’t come back and I couldn’t talk any louder. The only other person in the store was a supplier, Nathan, who was unpacking product. He had observed our interaction and offered me a golden healer crystal. He said it is powerful, but it is not to be bought yourself, someone is supposed to gift it to you, and he wanted to gift it to me. I was very touched, graciously accepted it and thanked him. Marge presented me with a rainbow of sheer organza pouches to select from to hold the crystal. Some people are just so kind!

Around that time, I had been referred to an ENT that specialized in voice disorders, and I was sent to a speech language pathologist in Greenwich specializing in vocal cord pathology.

One morning in January, I answered a question on a Zoom call, and my voice started sounding “quivery,” gradually increasing in both pitch range and volume over the coming weeks. I was so happy! In retrospect, it appears that my vocal cord had been stunned following the surgery, thankfully not paralyzed. 

By the end of the month I sounded largely like my old self and was discharged from speech therapy. The GPS took me through Ridgefield on my way home from Greenwich that day, so I decided to stop back at Touch of Sedona to tell Marge about my voice coming back and to request that she please thank Nathan again for me. I thought he would be happy to know about my voice returning. She told me she would remember to tell him, but she wouldn’t see him for almost a year. I exclaimed, “Almost a year?! Why?” Her response was that he only comes in one day a year for a few hours to deliver product. She said he is very focused on what he is doing, he doesn’t typically interact with customers, and he singled me out that day.

I thought, “Wow, what a coincidence that I happened to show up during the few hours in the whole year that he was there, upon my first visit to the shop!” I believe I was in need of a tangible reminder that I could touch that would give me hope, and it took the form of a golden healer crystal from a kind, thoughtful man named Nathan.  

Look Both Ways Series : My Heart Won

By: Andi Straus

I’ve moved so many times in my life. My dear friend Jill says maybe it’s my Karma to move often, and she might be right, because once again I have moved, this time to a rental apartment that fills me with joy and hope and a measure of disbelief that I can still have something so beautiful in my life when my diagnosis is so grim. I’ve wrestled with the harsh voice in my head that says, “Who do you think you are to undertake something like this? At any moment your cancer could become resistant to your study medication and you could have just months to live. What kind of hubris, chutzpah, is this to challenge fate so directly?”

But something in my heart kept calling to me, pushing me, a voice that would not be silenced: “You need to move, you don’t belong in an independent facility anymore, you can reach for more, you can take the chance, assume the risk, be courageous, go for it.” In the end, my heart won.

Not that I don’t have moments of fear every day; I do. I have felt relatively safe and cared for in the independent living facility, but it came to feel like a cocoon that had grown too tight; it was safe inside but suffocating, confining, stifling. I kept feeling, “I don’t belong here, not anymore.” In fact I never really did, but in the middle of my health crisis last summer when I couldn’t take care of myself without significant assistance, my family and I could think of no alternative to a facility that wouldn’t impose an unreasonable burden on my siblings, children and friends. But despite my feeling, nine months later, that I needed to move out, I was immobilized by fear and what ifs, as well as concern about whether I could manage all the aspects of a move by myself. It’s not as if I’m a well person, by any stretch of the imagination.

My fear gets fueled every time I have a scan. It never gets easier and each one is just like the first one, filled with overwhelming dread, anxiety, sadness, anger, some despair. So far, the news has been as good as can be hoped for. While I still have, and will always have, something called sarcomatosis, where my tumors have disseminated in diffuse seedings and nodules throughout my abdomen, my scans have shown consistent reduction in two areas where measurements are taken, and my oncologist is pleased. I am pleased when he is pleased. And also I am feeling well.

What moved me past the period of immobilizing fear and indecision was the encouragement of my grown children and my friends, and the infinite patience of my Ann’s Place counselor.  My siblings were supportive, but initially I think were fearful for me, in much the same way I was fearful for myself. Starting the process of apartment hunting was helpful as I tried to envision myself living in each place I saw. An agent, who had shown me an apartment that was not of interest, mentioned that he had an apartment in another building I might be interested in. And when I saw it, I cried because I knew it was right and it was home. It is on the 17th floor of a building overlooking the Hudson River. I face west and south. To the west are the river and the Palisades; to the south I can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance and its twinkling lights at night, more Hudson River, parks and playgrounds and buildings and streets. I have big windows that allow in the light and sun, and a balcony to take it all in, both the west and the south views, and lots of space. New York City is at my feet. I can’t believe my good fortune.

I still look both ways: my cancer diagnosis is always present and I face the reality of my mortality every day; but I also look to the future. I signed a two-year lease. My stage four cancer will ultimately get me, but not today, not now.

A Poem By James “Moe” Armstrong

What I appreciate 

Most 

About being this age……

Almost 80

You can see three circles?

Two with 8

One with 0

Now, me looking for finding

Meaning

There is no meaning ….only finding 

One time wanted to live

To 100

That is my favorite 

Mavis Staples song 

Got to make it to 100

Don’t know if I will 

Make it to 80

79 is close

My age left me.

Seeing more than 

I thought 

End of segregation 

End of Vietnam War

End of Cold War

End of Legal Hate 

So here I am 

Reaching 80

War, hate and 

Maybe segregation 

All coming back…..

What I learned to 

Appreciate 

Were the small moments

Without hate or 

War

I live in my world

A hopeful world 

Without hate or conflict 

Several close deaths

With cancer 

Made me realize 

I can live with myself 

And with some others 

Reprieve - Part four of the "Looking Both Ways" Series

By Andi Straus

Some years ago I was afflicted with a benign ear condition which caused severe vertigo. I had rolled onto my side after savasana in a beloved yoga class, as I had done many times before, but this time a terrifying spinning world ensued. It lasted only a few minutes (although it felt like an agonizing eternity) as I lay absolutely still on the floor thinking something really bad was happening.  Gradually the world settled down again and I was able to drive home. The episode was later easily diagnosed, and the cause treated in the office of my ENT doctor. But the sensations and image of my world spinning out of control, and of absolute disorientation, have remained vividly alive for me.

This image has come to mind many times in relation to my cancer journey. The shock of diagnosis, learning a whole new vocabulary of medical jargon specific to my cancer, a radical alteration to my identity and my future plans, and most recently the welcome change in my health trajectory as a result of participating in a drug trial, have all upended my world repeatedly and given me that familiar feeling of vertigo.  Only last summer I was sick and grieving all the things I’d never be able to do again. I made a list of them: live on my own, breathe without oxygen, sing, visit my grandchildren in Colorado, vacation with my family, drive, experience the Adirondack mountains, have another birthday. Then the medication in my drug trial took hold, and over the past few months I have miraculously been able to do all of these things. But surprisingly to me, the world shifting beneath my feet once again was not only a wonder and an immense joy, but was also both disorienting and unsettling.  

I met with my oncologist recently for a routine visit as part of my study protocol, and he’s very pleased with how I’m doing, saying to me that I’m in the top 10% of positive responses to this drug, and that it is possible I will live for several years while receiving this treatment. He cautioned me, as he always does, that there are no guarantees. But this is a big change from last summer when we were discussing hospice. More vertigo.

On the one hand I feel so profoundly grateful, relieved, and happy that I get unexpected time, “bonus time” as my spiritual teacher has called it, where I’m feeling relatively well, enjoying my life and have the prospect of good days ahead of me. But at the same time, the newness of it all, the shock of the upended earlier plans and predictions, the future unrelentingly uncertain, all of this sometimes overwhelms me.

I am still in that liminal space, one with both so much promise and so much likely heartache. I am hurtling toward the future, and have decided, after all, to move out of my safe but suffocating space in the independent living facility, and into a rental apartment of my own. I took a two year lease because the payment was advantageous. We’ll see how that works out for me; I don’t generally think in two year intervals these days. But I finally realized that if I am fortunate enough to live for another two years, I will feel infinite regret if I stay in a facility rather than live life fully, in my way, during that time.

My reprieve has opened opportunities for me and given me a sense of the precariousness and preciousness of life. I am now and forever, however long that time may be, balancing common sense and reasonableness with a yearning to strike out and explore and experience the fullness of the life available to me.

On Radiation

By Kim Downey

Drive to the hospital. Give a sigh. Take a right into the lot 

Go to valet parking. Give them your keys. Take a ticket

Walk into the cancer center. Give them your destination. Radiation Oncology. Take your temperature

Turn to the reception desk. Give them your license/destination. Radiation Oncology. Take a sticker 

Proceed to the elevator. Give a masked smile. Take 2 lefts then a right to Radiation Oncology

Pass JC and Sue. Give a greeting. Take 2 rights and enter the changing room

Grab a hospital gown from the shelf. Give a sigh. Take your clothes off on top

Find an empty locker. Give your purse and clothes temporary shelter. Take the key

Sit and wait. Give a nod to another cancer patient. Take a few deep breaths

Proceed to the treatment room. Give up your hospital gown. Take a small towel to cover yourself

About the painting: I recently attended an art class at Ann’s Place; “Creating Intention with Essential Oils and Paint.” We each drew 3 cards from a deck, sight unseen, pairing intentions with essential oils. We wrote our intentions on the canvas, then incorporated the matching essential oils into paint. My intentions include: “I Speak My Truth,” “I Honor My Truth,” “My Heart is Joyful.” My painting illustrates the sometimes overwhelming “messiness” of the past two years of my life; undergoing surgeries and treatments for three separate cancers. There have been some dark days; represented by black and grey, some angry red times, and some bumps in the road (tissue paper).

Yet there is also the return of springtime; with shades of pink and purple, landscape green and blue.

The joy of orange, the sunshine hope of yellow, and unpainted white edges of the canvas, as a nod to the parts of me that remain unchanged. It all belongs."   

Lie down on the treatment table. Give your name and date of birth. Take the towel off the right side

Put your arms overhead. Turn your face. Give a sigh. Take a deep breath and “Hold it..Hold it..Hold it..” 

Stand up. Give a thank you and “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Take the hospital gown again

Fetch your clothes. Give up the gown and key. Take your purse

Return to valet parking. Give them the ticket. Take your car back home

Drive to the hospital. Five days a week. For a month

Give a look at your skin turning dark brown and patchy. Take some smelly ointment and rub it all over

Your last day! Give thanks. Take the completion certificate. Hope you never have to come back

A month later. Another MRI. Give your name and date of birth. Take a deep breath and hold it…

Cancer again. Surgery again. Radiation again

Lie down on the treatment table. Give your name and date of birth. Take the towel off the left side…

Put your arms overhead. Turn your face.  Give thanks

On Moving and Home and Belonging

By Andi Straus

Maybe I need to move. Sometimes I want to move, feel driven to move. But I dread moving, the disruption, the expense, the uncertainty, the commitment. I want to feel at home.

I have been living in a senior residence since July of last year, first in the assisted living section, and then since September in the independent living part of the facility. I moved out of my condo in Fishkill last summer when I was so sick I couldn’t care for myself, but although it was a wrenching transition, I had never felt entirely at home there anyway. It was convenient and affordable when I was working, but I did not live among like-minded people, and my feeling of not belonging there was pervasive.

Even before I got sick, I had planned to move when I retired, but as I mentioned in my last post, my plan was to move to Colorado. The sale of my condo is now finally complete and the senior residence is my only home. But I don’t feel like I belong here either. I am both sicker and in better shape than the residents here, and I am surrounded by a forest of walkers and scooters outside the dining room every evening, in the elevators, the common areas, and by others who can’t care for themselves at home. This depresses me. And yet everyone here is very kind, I feel safe and well cared for, and I am settled in my apartment.

I am finding that decisions, any major decisions, are difficult when living with a terminal cancer diagnosis. I don’t know how long I’ll be alive, and I ask myself if this is the right time to make changes that involve a time commitment. I bought a new cell phone back in November, and it comes with a three-year contract, and I thought to myself, someone else is probably going to have to deal with this, ultimately. It felt as if I was pulling one over on the salesman in some way.

There are countless incidents like this – do I get the two-year subscription to an app when it’s cheaper than the one year? Do I buy plane tickets for a vacation next winter? Regarding a possible move, my wise therapist at Ann’s Place observes that it takes about six months to find and settle into a new place, and asks in his gentle way if this is this how I want to spend my time. I said an immediate, “No, I have so many other things I want to be doing.” And yet, only a few weeks after he asked that question, I am again beset by restlessness, troubled by the thought that I am the only person of my friends and acquaintance circle living in a senior residence, and that I am settling for a diminished life.

If I knew I had several years to live, spending six months on moving wouldn’t seem significant. But if I only have a year or two, and 25-50% of my time alive would be spent moving, does it make sense to undergo this kind of disruption only to have to move again when I get sick? People say to live one day at a time, to live fully now, because the present is all we have, but is moving, when I am facing so much uncertainty, a responsible and reasonable thing to do? Is being reasonable and responsible in my best interest?

I so want to be normal, live a normal retirement. But nothing about my situation fits my definition of normal. I am arriving at the understanding that for now I need to grieve the loss of the dreams I had for where I will live – a friend of mine here says that we were not only building castles in the air, we were furnishing them! It made me laugh but it is true – I imagined I would have a screened-in porch one day. I won’t. I will have to find a way to spend summer days sitting on someone else’s porch.

In fact, I am home now. Maybe this isn’t the home I would have chosen for myself at this stage of my life, but home nonetheless. And although I feel I don’t fully belong here, shouldn’t have to belong here, I have found a small group of friends (we call ourselves “The Old But Not Dead Yet Club”) and we share happy hours together, plan outings and take walks. I refer, without irony, to my apartment as home, and I can accept that, at least for now, I am not moving.

I welcome your comments and thoughts about what I’ve written, your feelings about home, belonging, and making decisions while in our liminal space.

Mysterious Life Force

Poem and Art By Marta Redniss Maresco

Mysterious life force

you dance through me

when my arms reach skyward

my feet are rooted and grounded

and I am awakened

Mysterious life force

your current carries me 

into the heart of this vital moment

You resonate through my body

startle my mind

spark my spirit

to embrace all creation

circulating light

color

energy

Mysterious life force

your music resounds

throughout the silent

infinite universe

Dreaming in Liminal Space

 Poem By Marta R Maresco

an unfamiliar place

vaulted ceilings

thick white stucco walls and archways

I see rooms beyond rooms beyond rooms

arched thresholds open from one to the next

floors of smooth gleaming clay-tone tiles

there is a wood door, dark

against the farthest wall

its top is curved above

an ornate iron knob and hinges

I walk through vaulted spaces

reach the door

knowing I must go through

turn the knob

push the door wide open

stars and whirling galaxies

dazzle in black immensity

my “self” poised to leap

into unfathomable darkness and light

Part Two - Look Both Ways

By Andi Straus

Dear Friends,

Due to some technology issues, I have been unable to respond to your lovely comments on my first blog post, but please know I read all of them, and am so touched by the honesty and vulnerability of what you shared, and how what I wrote resonated with so many of you. Thank you.

 When people learn we have cancer…

 I have been thinking a lot over the past few months about the well intentioned things that people say to us when they learn we have cancer, many of which would have been better left unsaid. I have some sympathy for them because I know that in the past I have also felt that I don’t know what to say when someone delivers news that is so sad or frightening or overwhelming that whatever I might say would be wrong, inadequate, or trite. It can be really hard to know how to comfort someone, to want desperately to say just the right thing. However, now that I’m on the other side, the cancer side, I’ve put together a list of some of the comments and recommendations that have been particularly hard for me to hear.

Everyone I’ve spoken to who has a cancer diagnosis has a version of this list, and at times it is a source of humor for us to compare notes and shake our heads together and ask ourselves, “What could they have been thinking?” In my experience I’ve found that humor helps cushion the potential injury of some of these comments, helps me not to take myself so seriously.

I have followed my list of unhelpful comments below with a few of the things that have been really helpful to me and to others traveling this path with me. Please feel free to add your own, both the negative and the positive.

Here is my list of the top 10 things (along with some editorializing) that I wish people had not said to me or to others like me (in no particular order):

1)      “At least… you don’t have the cancer that my mother/grandfather or other friend had,” and other variations of this, such as, “at least you don’t need radiation, a specific chemotherapy, or your hair isn’t falling out.”

Any sentence that begins with “at least” is a non-starter. I don’t know why people think this kind of thing is comforting. Maybe it’s because they want to show us that they understand what we’re going through because they’ve been through something similar with someone else, but all it does for me is make me feel diminished and unseen.

2)      “Everything happens for a reason.”

This one is just so immensely tone deaf. What could possibly be a good reason for anyone to have a terminal illness?

3)      “Just ask me if there’s anything I can do to help.” (see helpful version of this below)

4)      “My Aunt Mary had that and she died/was sick/had a terrible time.” 

Hearing that someone did poorly with our kind of cancer is depressing. Very depressing.

5)      “You must try this essential oil/unproven treatment/dietary regimen, or this hospital/oncologist/surgeon.”

I can assure you that my oncology team is familiar with all the current research as well as  Google, and if there were a cutting edge treatment or cure out there, I know my team would be aware of it. Also, when someone tells me I must see a particular doctor or go to a particular hospital, it undermines my feelings of competence in finding appropriate and skilled care for myself. Not helpful, unless of course we ask for a recommendation.

6)       “None of us knows when we’re going to die.”

This is said along with the phrase,“I could get hit by a bus anytime.”

This may be true, but someone equating my terminal cancer diagnosis with a general platitude about fate is just not helpful.

7)      “A positive attitude is essential to your conquering your cancer.”

I find this one particularly harmful because it implies that if I don’t have a positive attitude, I am hastening my own death. This is in line with so much of the toxic positivity that is around these days where any expression of honest grief or pain is frowned upon. With that said, some people are able to stay remarkably positive during diagnosis and treatment, and this is great, but it is hurtful to blame a patient’s health on their attitude or suggest that everyone should be any particular way.

8)      All war references

This is not a war where the construct is about winners and losers. The concept of being at war with our own bodies is so destructive. It’s not about winning or losing. At all. We are in partnership with our providers, our friends and families, our communities, and places like Ann’s Place, in an effort to heal.

9)      “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”

Mercifully, this has not been said to me, but I know countless others who are so pained at the thought that God would be engaged in testing our capacity to suffer.

10)  “I know just how you feel.”

No. No. You really don’t. But do ask me how I feel if you’d like to know.

And here are some of the things that have helped me and others:

“Can I shop for you/cook you dinner/visit/take your garbage out/drive you someplace/take the kids for a couple of hours?” I found concrete suggestions and actions immensely useful, because sometimes it’s hard to know what to ask for. My sister reminded me that a friend of hers showed up at her house with a toilet brush and cleaned her bathrooms. I can’t think of anything more concrete or helpful. In addition, once something was suggested to me, I was even able to ask for something else if I didn’t need what was offered. It was so useful to have a jumping off point and to know the offer was genuine. I also appreciated people who offered to help more than once . I found most things needed to be done over and over again, and it was hard, when I was feeling sick, to keep asking for help. Sometimes it was hard to ask for help altogether.

I also appreciated calls from people who said, “I’m here to listen if you feel like talking,” and didn’t wait for me to reach out to them.

However, the flip side of this is that sometimes I was not up to responding to everyone, or to answering the same inquiries over and over again. A resource I have found helpful throughout my journey, that addresses this challenge, is an online website called CaringBridge, a site that allows friends, family, and anyone you would like to include, to be informed about what is happening with you, and to connect and share information in one virtual place. On this and similar caregiving sites, you can designate administrators, or even yourself, to add people who will receive the updates and to manage the exchanges. You can write journal entries and comment on what people are saying without having to respond to each message individually and, best of all, it is free of charge and user friendly. It’s also a good way for people who are connected by caring for you to connect with one another. Here’s the link if you want to check it out: https://www.caringbridge.org/.

I hope that readers of this blog who have experienced cancer, as well as caregivers, will feel free to add their thoughts and comments here about what is helpful and what is not helpful. I know we can all learn from one another and respond to one another’s pain and suffering in more sensitive, creative and supportive ways.