In Their Words: Remembering Those Whose Lives Were Lost to Cancer
Writing through cancer helps heal our wounded spirits, but it cannot cure. One of the most difficult aspects of leading expressive writing groups for men and women with cancer is to experience the loss of someone's life to cancer. Yet it is also an honor, a moment of deep reverence and grace, to witness the courage and grace of those who lose the battle with cancer. On this page, the words of some of our writers from Scripps, UCSD, Stanford and elsewhere, those who have since passed on, are featured. It is the poetry and the stories of these extraordinary individuals, that linger long after death.
Planting Seeds of Hope By Joan M. O’Brien
As time goes on Planting seeds of hope becomes harder Physically and mentally The physical obstruction of bending to the earth Because of swelling The mental obstruction of reality, of knowing Your body is not bouncing back as it should
Look at it a different way What can I pass on to my family Someday – whenever that may be – none of us knows when Words lovingly spoken but also recorded on a page A flower in watercolor painted to the best Of my ability and given to a child A smile and touch to my caregiver husband For my appreciation for all he does for me
Acknowledgement of the care and concern of my sons Rejoicing in the love and nurturing of my daughter Two women who love each other so deeply it almost hurts Nourishing the hope to leave a legacy of beauty and love Nourishing the hope to have a long time Yet to accomplish these goals Not giving up no matter what happens Keeping the fire of hope and adventure within me Accepting whatever may come with grace and dignity
Joan lost her fourteen year battle to cancer September 8, 2009. This was one of the last poems she wrote and offered for this site.) She found her writing to empower and inspire her, and during her last months, she and her daughter, Alyssa, wrote together.
To My Oncologist By Geri Danzig
You looked haggard, weary, world worn when you opened the door to the examining room.I had slipped by your office and saw you at the computer screen, probably checking my PET/CT scan results.Or perhaps you were reviewing in your mind how you would tell me what we already knew.And so you opened the door and I noticed that you had difficulty making eye contact with me, focusing instead on conversation with my daughter, leaving it up to me to broach the subject.
I remember two weeks ago when I saw you and we discussed my probable situation.Through my tears I felt compassion for you and commented on what a tough job it must be to be the bearer of bad news.
So now I’m wondering, Doctor, did you really hold out hope for me from the beginning?Or did you always know that my advanced stage would eventually bring us to that moment when you opened the door and avoided my eyes?You seemed exhausted, and through the scrim of numbness I sensed your discomfort- or maybe sadness.
As you spoke, did you know that I became deaf and your voice slowly diffused into flat sound?
What really hurt me that day, the day I learned of the recurrence of the dreaded disease, is that you were unable to say, “I’m sorry”, or to hug me or show outward compassion.The only way I can mend this rift is to rationalize that years of being an oncologist have taken their toll on you.You have become a master-builder of walls that protect you and are perceived as keeping patients out.
Somehow in the midst of my misery and fear, I forgive you, Doctor, and have compassion for the fact that you do a job that has much heartache.
How I wanted to be one of the lucky ones who made you smile.
Geri lost her battle with metastatic ovarian cancer in June, 2009.
Fear By Carol Seidenwurm
I have metastatic cancer to my bones. What do I fear? I fear that I will suffer and those dear to me will suffer too. I fear that I will choose to die too early or too late. I fear that I won’t have a choice. I fear that I will give up, and I don’t know what giving up looks like. I fear being a burden. I fear that I will sleep the rest of my life away. I fear that I won’t be remembered with love and affection. I fear that I won’t be remembered. I fear that towards the end I won’t love enough. I fear that I’ll turn bitter. I fear that I will push people away. I fear that I will be a coward. I fear that I will be repulsive. I fear that my loved ones will grow to dislike me and wish I would die already. I fear my husband will die before me. I fear my children will be scarred forever. I fear that towards my end, my life will come undone in confusion and mess. I fear my home will be untidy and dirty, with no one to pick up and put away. I fear looking unkempt and unclean. I fear I’ll smell of feces and other escaping body fluids. I fear losing the joy and beauty I now have in my life. I fear that I will let my fear overtake me. But then, I will not know any of this. I’ll be dead and I don’t fear death; at least not yet.
Inspired by Raymond Carver’s poem, “Fear”
Carol died from metastatic cancer in December, 2008. She was one of the Scripps group's most beloved writers.
Faith By Varda Nowack Goldstein God and I always had a special relationship, sealed in ancient Hebrew prayers and stained glass windows.The Shofar blown on Yom Kippur.The Book of Life open for ten days a year, and then my fate sealed.
But our relationship has changed.In asking me to surrender to this illness, God has asked me to let go—to trust—float free.And I have found this to be a most precious time.
My cancer has challenged my faith, and I have found an incredible well I did not know I had.I have found true surrender, enormous peace.
I have come home to God, and we have renewed our friendship.
Varda, a member of my first writing group for women with breast cancer, died in 2003. Fear by Ady Rosenblatt
Fear is not nice. Fear for me is catastrophic expectations. Fear is worry, stomach cramping, body tensions. Fear is hidden, covered over, denied, but always in me like oozing jelly.
My breast prothesis once broke, and the innards oozed out. A fear ran through me-what if people could see this? What if my prothesis was gone and I was out in public for all to see?
I was in my 50's, visiting my brother. My baby brother, three years younger than I Who I protected in elementary school and beat up the bullies who picked on him.
My baby brother who was there for me so many times with his high energy wife.
He came into the room. I showed him the prostheses. I dont think he ever saw one before.
He took it, cleaned away the slimy ooze, and patched it up with band aides. I still have that prosthesis,though I dont use it.
One can cover up the fear with bandages, make it go away, but it is always there to ooze out in another place. I can cover it up and live with it, or throw it away and buy a new one. But the fear is always there, hidden.
Somehow I was able to share my fears with my brother and not be the strong one.
As I grow older, the pain is less, the more I share.
Written in response to a prompt on fear.
Ady passed away on June 4, 2009, having survived breast cancer and being diagnosed with CLL many years later. Her warmth and humor will be missed by all of us.
Scars
By Jean Allington None of us are unscarred. There is childhood, night fears. Parents doing their scary but true best. First love, teenage angst. Marriage, children, divorce separation, death. Loss and scars, scars and loss life and lessons. Then there is cancer. When we think we have seen it all, learned the lessons, wizened by our mistakes, thrilled by our triumphs. We’ve survived life, we think.
Then there’s cancer. Life in a microcosm. All the lessons, all our wisdom, all our youthful scars, all the losses, bundled up in tumor cells, and lymph nodes. Memory meets reality. We start all over again to live beyond the scars.
Jean passed away in early 2004 after a long battle with colo-rectal cancer.