“I’m back”…let me tell you why these two little words mean so much.

We’ve walked the canal together for many years.

Our footsteps have pounded dirt up and down the C & O Canal between Great Falls, on the Maryland side and the new and improved Marsden Bridge.  It’s been our turnaround land mark for as long as I can remember.  We give the dog a long, drink of water on that bridge.  We look for wayward turtles there, and have watched winter pick-up hockey games take place on the frozen canal just a few feet away, in the dead of winter

It’s our ‘go-to’ spot.

But we haven’t been walking to our bridge for many months now because of a breast cancer diagnosis that altered our course back in the Fall of 2016.  My friend Carol had no choice but to slow down and I can tell you that is not an easy assignment for someone as active and physically fit as this woman.

We really never stopped walking, but we shortened our treks and we slowed our pace.  When treatment used up most days on the calendar, I could tell by the time the weekend came around, fatigue had worked its way into Carol’s footsteps, but I never mentioned it.  Instead, we’d walk the path, catch up on current events  and talk some cancer talk too.  She was living in cancer world and I’ve had an address there for years, so it gave her a chance to ask about some things I had in my cancer tool box from long ago.

When treatment ended just a few weeks ago, I could tell she was anxious to reach for the bridge once again, but the body wasn’t quite up to it, yet.  Instead, we got back to our old pace.  We trimmed minutes off our walk.

Then yesterday, with no horns or streamers, just good conversation, we passed our old turnaround spot and kept right on walking.  I recognized that we were heading for the bridge, but never said a word.  Instead, she said it all…

“I’m back”

That bridge never looked so good.

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I had a lucky day.  I met a warrior way to young to be in this fight.

The 13-year old is new to cancer world.  She has already faced brain surgery and is now beginning her radiation treatments.  She brings her best attitude to the radiation oncology unit.  If she’s afraid, she won’t let her cancer see it.  Instead, she approaches her radiation with confidence and HOPE.

Her Dad is so proud of his daughter.  He watches her, amazed at how brave she is, while he is just a breath away from breaking into tears.  He is the fragile one in this duo.

They sit and build puzzles together before it’s time for treatment. She’s just a kid; a teenage trying showing Dad how it’s done.  She finds puzzle pieces that snap together and she laughs and looks up at him with such loving eyes.  It’s almost like she’s sorry to be putting him through this misery.

The nurse comes into the room to say it’s time for treatment. She moves from puzzles to putting on a mesh mask that helps direct the targeted therapy to exactly the spot where those cancer cells have gathered.  A little radiation goes a long way and her treatment is over quickly.

Her Dad, waits patiently for his little girl who has become a grown-up in cancer world almost over night.

The young patient, taking care of the care giver.



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It’s been a busy year of friends going through the stages of cancer.  It seems way too many women I know have come face-to-face with breast cancer.  My thinking is it’s because they are ‘Boomers’ and that age group is the sweet spot for certain cancers in people of a certain age.  I hate it when those stats you hear about actually become a part of reality.

So I’ve gone through the 1) Discovery part, 2) Diagnosis part, 3) Treatment part, 4) Scan part, and now the 5) Hope part.  It’s the last part that’s the long-lasting piece of this disease that bothers me the most.

Hope goes with the doctor’s words “You’re good to go.  See you back here in 6 months, resume your life.”  So slowly my friends have tried to slip back into those ‘normal’ days.  Instead of planning schedules around treatment, they have tried to go back to the old times.  Possible?  Maybe.

As I see them get healthier as the weeks go by because every day without chemo is a day when your body can shed those horrible chemicals that have found a way to be absorbed into the body.  Their eyes get clearer, they walk faster, the color of their skin is back in the pink versus yellow part of the color wheel.  Bottom line, the farther away from treatment they are, chemo or radiation, they act and sound like themselves again.  It’s a wonderful thing to watch.

I know they feel better and they are trying so hard to put those months of ‘cancer care’ behind them.  But every now and then, in conversation they will drop back into their ‘cancer patient mode’ and talk about the possibility of having to return to treatment days.  A new diagnosis; a relapse; a different cancer; a late effect cancer from prior treatment.

It is here, where I jump in with all the HOPE and positive vibes I can muster, and suggest they just don’t go there.  But they can’t help it and I know that because once a cancer patient….


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Can you really prepare for loss?  Is there a way to build a wall around your heart, knowing that metastatic cancer is likely to end in the death of your loved one?  Is there some way to stop it from being one of the most painful experiences in your life?

Leroy’s cancer did not move quickly.  There were even months when it ran away and hid somewhere, leaving us with the false hope that all those bags filled with poison dripping into his veins had actually been successful killing all those cancer cells.  Or maybe it was the radiation that did the trick?  I remember how happy we were with the results and we certainly were not preparing for his death during that time.  For us, we just more of reason to look ahead, plan for a future without cancer, and get back to living.

So when the cancer returned and his prognosis turned to ‘terminal,’ we were stunned back into a reality that was heartbreaking, but still, there wasn’t any planned preparation that would have lessened the blow of losing him.

I’m not talking about getting his affairs in order.  I’m not talking about wills being checked and power of attorneys being updated.  That all has to be done regardless of prognosis and it’s not a fun thing to do.

I’m talking about preparing for the worst in your mind and in your life.  Some care givers think that can be done.  How?

How do you do that?  When that final breath comes, it’s not to be believed.  You really can’t anticipate it.  It takes your breath away too.

The free fall from this kind of loss doesn’t provide a soft landing. Not in the real world.


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There was a line at the elevators this morning at the cancer center. It seemed we all parked, at the same time and we all met at the elevators, at the same time.

There were the patients with their masks on, dressed in jeans and Baltimore team jerseys.  Clearly they came comfortable, knowing that the morning would stretch into the afternoon.  Treatment is never quick.

There were the visitors carrying the latest magazines and get well cards.  They were dressed to inspire.  When you’re a cancer patient in the hospital, it’s always nice to see family and friends and if they dress in bright Spring colors, the mood in the hospital room is uplifted.  It’s a mental thing.  It might sound crazy, but it works.

And then there were the parents.  And there was the son.  I noticed them in the crowded elevator because the Dad was totally confused about what floor they needed to go to and how to navigate the lobby once they got there.  The Mom had the cancer center tote bag completely packed.  Newspapers, book, cell phone, notepad; she was ready for a day at Hopkins.  The son just walked purposefully to the check in area.  He was on a mission.

Everyone went their separate ways.  A typical day of treatment and outpatient care.

My day moved from meeting to meeting in the building I have come to know so well,  with the occasional flashback of cancer days with Leroy.

The day complete, I turned the corner to get to those same elevators and there was the “Mom” sitting in a lobby chair, reading her book.  I remembered this stranger from the elevator ride because of her bright blue blouse.  I stopped mid-step and turned back to say “Wow, you’ve had a long day?” She smiled, with tears in her eyes, and said “My son, he’s still in surgery.  It will be a few more hours.”

I asked if I could get her anything, she shook her head ‘no’ and I told her I hoped it would all work out.

She said “it will.”

The long days of cancer are exhausting.



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She was leaning-in on him and weeping.

All he could do was put his arms around her and let her cry.

Every few minutes he would whisper something in her ear. Whatever he said,  had enough power to give her the strength to look up, into his eyes, but that magnetic pull lasted only a few seconds.  Her tears were much  more powerful.  They forced her head back into his chest where it must have found his heartbeat.  Her tears and his heartbeat, what better combination to absorb devastating news in a cancer infusion waiting room.

He finally eased her down into her wheelchair where she would catch her breath, hold her head in her hands and wait for the next tsunami of tears.  It didn’t take long for her to stand up, the tears flowing and shaking with fear.

They were frozen in that space.  He clearly felt this was the best place for them to ride out the news.  It wasn’t a private space, but it was far enough away from the world outside that was moving to a different beat.  They stayed, locked together in that pose for a long time.

Bad cancer news and so many tears.


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Any one who has traveled down the ‘cancer path’ knows first hand, you can not do this alone.

From day one, it takes the support of so many members of the ‘TEAM” to get through the struggle.  On the good days when you want to share some positive news, you reach out to be lifted by your pals.  On the bad days, it goes without saying, you need them the most because a bad scan or new tumor can be crushing.

So from a distance, over the weekend, I said good-bye to one of the ‘TEAM.”

There wasn’t a day during Leroy’s battle that this member of our group wasn’t with us.  Every drive up to Baltimore this member was there.  Reliable, strong, always prepared, we knew we were in good hands.

We celebrated the good news by taking our ‘friend’ to our favorite diner off I-95 so many times.  We cried together at the devastating news when the doctor said Leroy’s cancer had moved to parts unreachable.  There was never a more dependable comrade.

A few years after Leroy died, I parted company with the JEEP, but it stayed in the family.  My nephew would drive it, and take care of it, because he knew the history that came with those four wheels.  But when he recently broke the news that he’d purchased a new car, the writing was on the wall.

So instead of selling the call to some new driver who would have no heart in the deal, we decided the best thing to do would be to donate the car to a needy military group. It was the perfect solution, considering Leroy’s history of covering war zones and his close attachment to the military.

Support, in a small way,  going to a group who supported him for many years.

It’s hard to say “good-bye” to such a trusted member of the team.






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It’s always the same.  This weekend of Easter Parades and Easter Bunnies and Easter Eggs.  The memories are vivid.  The basket is full of See’s Easter chocolates.  The truffle eggs are nestled in the cellophane grass.

It was such a tradition and never a surprise after so many years, but Leroy would still act surprised when he’d find this colorful basket at his bedside on Easter morning.

I keep this memory at the ready because it makes me smile on this particular Sunday morning on the April calendar.

My wishes for all of you is to have a Happy Holiday.  Enjoy it the way you do for years to come:

A basket full of memories.



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The door to the exam room opens and in walks your nurse to sit with you and go over some questions that will prepare the doctor for your exam.  “How have you been feeling?”  “Any side effects to the treatment?”  “Stomach pains, headaches, fevers?”  All questions you’ve come to know and anticipate.  Your nurse takes your blood pressure, she guides you to the scale and takes your weight: standard procedure on exam day at the cancer center.

When your doctor arrives, he/she has looked over your chart and your exam is underway.  All in a day of cancer care and hopefully you leave there ‘status quo,’ if not better.

Do you ever stop to wonder what led your doctor or nurse to oncology?  It’s got to be one of the hardest practices in medicine.  The news is rarely good.  The treatment’s work only some of the time and giving bad news is a constant in cancer world.  It is one, tough, daily grind.

Last night I was in the audience at a symposium titled “Improving Minority Health and Achieving Health Equity.”  How the medical world can better treat ALL of us.

The panel was filled with extraordinary men and women of science and they shared interesting perspectives on the topic of the evening but it was prior to the topic discussion that made an impact on me.  The moderator asked each panelist what made them go into their particular medical field?

I think we sometimes forget that the very people we look toward for medical guidance, have lived through medical crisis just like we have.  They have lost loved ones too.   Disease and illness does not skip the health care professionals wearing the white coats.

A favorite Aunt suffered terribly during her kidney disease and that led to one panelist becoming a leading Nephrologist.  Another went through the heart ache of watching her sister suffer through a deadly childhood Leukemia.  She now leads a team of medical professionals who reach out to the community to introduce the importance of clinical trials for various cancers.  And another who witnessed first-hand from her village in Liberia, what poor health care can mean for socially at-risk groups;she has become a leader in ‘Health Care Equity,”  She takes policy and translates it into practice; improving lives and health care throughout the Baltimore, Maryland region.

This was a wake-up call.  We take for granted, the people we lean on to help us through our hard times. They have experienced their own heartaches.  Maybe that’s what makes them so special.  They ‘get it.’

We need to remember those white coats might be hiding a broken heart too.

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Conversations with other widows (still a term I have trouble saying or writing) always leads me to long talks with myself.  I know that sounds odd, but last night I got into a conversation with a woman who talked about her life with her husband and her life without him…now.

She said she’s so different now, compared to the things they used to do together as a couple.  She talked about how she used to cook so much.  Meals were well balanced and planned out and they would eat together because that was part of being a couple.  She hardly steps into the kitchen now.  She certainly doesn’t cook except to do fun things with her grandkids.  She tries to eat well, but admits to falling into bad habits and then self-corrects and ‘gets healthy’ again. But it’s a struggle because meals that were once fun and anticipated and made for quality time with a guy she was happy to hang around, just wasn’t there anymore.

So of course that got me to thinking about how over the past almost 9 years now, my kitchen habits have changed too.  I don’t make the things that were a part of ‘our menu’ over the years.  Every once in a while, I’ll remember something I used to make and prepare it, but then I have this one dish staring at me from the refrigerator for the entire week and I wonder why I bothered to make it?  I never had that problem with Leroy in the house.  He appreciated the cook and the cooking.

Now, I’m basically a salad girl or a simple one pot, one portion cook.

Do I miss cooking?  Sometimes.

I miss who I used to cook for, the most.

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