The Happy Little Life Club

The last lesson my mom taught me before she died of stomach cancer was the secret to living life to its fullest.

“How am I going to raise my kids without you?” I asked clenching my hands tightly in my lap. “They’re still babies. I need you. You’re not done yet.”

I shifted in the plastic-backed wooden chair and looked around the kitchen, as if taking it in for the first time, or, perhaps, the last. The mirrored ceiling fan above our heads spun in circles, calm and steady, just like it did for countless meals growing up.

It was hard to look at her; she was different. She smiled at me in a way I’d never seen before.

“You will be fine,” she said. “You’re a good mom.”

She was serene and at peace with her decision, but we were not. She’d already moved on, but we hadn’t.

It was mid-November 2014 and her four grandchildren were playing with their great-aunt, two rooms away. In the kitchen, we could hear their giggles and gleeful screams, along with the popping sound of a push toy and a Disney movie playing in the background. My mother would usually never miss an opportunity to spend time with her grandchildren, but nothing about what we were going through now was usual.

She was serene and at peace with her decision, but we were not. She’d already moved on, but we hadn’t.

The air in the house was heavy this time. Heavy in a way it had never been before. Even during the three previous times where she’d faced cancer, there was hope. This time, all there was was dread, thick and looming.

Yet through all of this, my mother sat across from us, completely content. The morphine had begun to take effect, easing her of the unbearable pain of Stage IV stomach cancer. This time, we all knew, death was going to win, but only my mom seemed at peace with this. Perhaps she felt some peace with the fact that she had chosen to leave on her own terms, by coming home and saying goodbye to friends and family. But part of me wondered if the morphine had transformed her personality.

Clockwise from top-left: my sister, me, and my Dad, saying our final goodbyes to my Mom in November 2014.

A pessimist by nature, my mother was not usually the serene, peaceful woman she was now. As her brother said, she was normally staid. Ask anyone who knew her how she’d face her death, and they’d tell you the same thing:  Yes, she’d have emotions, but not these. She’d be angry. She’d be sad. She’d be jealous of those who were able to watch her grandchildren grow. She wouldn’t smile. She wouldn’t be at peace.

All sitting together at the table, my mom faced me, my sister, and my dad, saying her goodbyes while she was still lucid. I was directly across from her, and her stillness, her peace and her sense of calm as she said goodbye to the three of us flooded me with emotions.

Her stillness, her peace and her sense of calm as she said goodbye to the three of us flooded me with emotions.

She never sat still like this, ever. She was a doer, always a doer. She’d clean the baseboards while we spoke on the phone. She weeded her grass by hand. Weekly. She purchased and planted flowers at her synagogue. She took long walks and bike rides; she exercised daily in front of the TV. She didn’t take the time to sit and enjoy the calm peacefulness of a warm spring morning, dew still on the grass, birds singing and the sun warming the earth. She was moving. Keeping busy at all times. There was always something for her to do.

But now, facing death, she was stiller than I’d ever seen her. And I didn’t know what to think about it. Mom seemed to have no regrets about ending her life, even though she was leaving so much behind.

A few months before, a little over one year into what would be a contentious three-year divorce, I’d taken my children to visit family friends at their beach house. One night, after the children had gone to bed, I asked what my friend’s network name “hllc” stood for.

“It stands for happy little life club,” he told me. He’d taken up that motto after his divorce. It was how he chose to live his life. That was nice, I thought, but definitely not my life. Yet that phrase stuck with me for some reason, never too far from my mind.

As I sat observing my mom watch her family tearfully tell her goodbye, “happy little life” re-entered my mind. Is that what she had, I wondered? Even though she was leaving so soon, abandoning the life she worked so hard to create? Was she really happy? Was she really content leaving her life? Her own “happy little life” that was still in progress?

We each took turns telling my mom how we felt about her, what we’d miss, how sorry we were that this was happening to her. Our eyes were wet, but not hers. The only thing she gave back were smiles and small words of comfort.

The next few weeks would be challenging. Death refused to take my Mom quickly. As we waited for her to pass, I found myself thinking back, over and over again, to our final conversation. The peace from which she spoke—her acceptance of death—impacted me in a way I couldn’t quite understand, but kept coming back to.

In the three years since my mother died, I think I have finally come to understand what my mom communicated to me that day. When we sat down together at that table, my life was full of stress and sadness, but since then, I’ve divorced, returned to my writing career, and worked hard to create a life that I was proud of; a life I could accept leaving with nothing left undone or unsaid at the end of the day.  I’ve challenged myself to do things that bring me joy, knowing that life could end at any moment.

So today, my mother’s final serenity make sense to me. The woman who had moved through life as if it were a to-do list of tasks had finally checked off every last one, and was free to rest. The woman who never sat still finally did.

That woman, my mother, had her happy little life, just in her own way.

And now, I know she was trying to tell me, it was time to make mine.


How Comedy Kept Me Going Through Chemo

Stage IV Non-Hodgkins' lymphoma was the last place I thought I'd find comedy again, but laughing gave me power over my diagnosis.

Growing up, I was that kid. Deigned the official class clown each elementary scholastic year, I soon found myself promoted to in-house comedian midway through junior high — a pope-job I kept through high school and a little beyond. Making other people laugh was addicting. It’s something I’d wake up and look forward to every morning. Then, as I got older, I became more serious, as many people do. I stopped making so many jokes. But a good sense of humor is a gift, and it wasn’t until I rediscovered it during treatment for stage IV non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma that I discovered that gift’s true power.

Cruz Santana.

Because my disease was so advanced by the time of my diagnosis, I ended up spending almost six months shut up in a hospital room, often in terrible pain. Every three weeks, a cocktail of poisons was pumped into me, with the hope of drastically shrinking the malignant tumors housed inside my lymph nodes. I hurt every minute of the day before chemo even began. Once it started, recovering from each session was a living hell. It was the last place I ever thought I’d find comedy again. And it was what I feel helped save me.

A good sense of humor is a gift, and it wasn’t until I rediscovered it during treatment for stage IV non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma that I discovered that gift’s true power.

It was pain that brought me to the doctor in the first place. After eight years of ignoring swollen lymph nodes, I awoke one morning and found my left leg ballooned to twice its normal size. An untold number of scans, biopsies, and follow-up visits later, my oncologist — ever the realist — gave me a detailed mental picture of what I could expect in my next six months.

It wasn’t pretty. Starting on day one, I’d have a series of procedures in preparation for receiving chemotherapy. Among the items on the list: A central line would be surgically inserted through my chest into my subclavian vein leading into my heart. Then they’d pump me with drugs that are so toxic, they have to ship some of them in glass bottles, because they’d eat through the bag. According to my doctors, I would experience nausea, discomfort, and some disorientation.

“Will any of it hurt?” I asked.

He was blunt: “It will. You have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. And you have a lot of it. But we’ll manage the pain — do all we can. It won’t be bad at all.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

All told, on the first day, I had six procedures, including my first ever chemotherapy infusion. When I came to, my chest hurt first: I could feel every bit of whatever form of sorcery had taken place under my skin. Then my leg started aching, thanks to a blood clot they’d discovered. Finally, the rest of me joined in. My skin felt like it’d been covered in bruises. Simply running a hand over my arm sent a bolt through me. Nurses eventually appeared in my doorway armed with syringes of this-and-that, and, oh yeah, pain medications.

Jokes built up beneath the surface. I could hear my mind running through the ways in which being confined to a bed wearing grippy socks and a revealing gown was beyond hilarious. But it didn’t feel like the right time for such a joke, so I held it in.

As the treatment continued, my pain increased in intensity. I was eventually issued my very own PCA pump set to deliver a dose of pain meds every eight minutes with the push of a button. It was enormous. As this Everest of medical-doo-dads wheeled past me, complete with a gigantic LCD screen and looking like the biggest television I’d ever had in my life, my guard went down, and I quipped: “Now, are the dirty channels free on this thing? No? How ‘bout HBO? Still no? Okay, tell ya what… Whose post-coital sandwich do I have to make to make that happen?”

The poor techs about died laughing. I had the room rolling in minutes, and their energy lifted my spirit. With that, strangers became family. Their joy wrapped itself around me, held my ailing body, and loved me through my agony. I can’t even begin to describe how much that helped.

And so it went. Every few weeks for six months, my body was poisoned  The PCA pump took the edge off the painful aftermath, and that’s when I let my guard down, and started cracking jokes to my nurses, doctors, and anyone else in the room who would listen to my twisted sense of humor.

“You should write some of those down, girl,” my nurse suggested during a late-night pow-wow-slash-chemo-sesh.

“Why? They’re not really mine once I they leave me, you know?” I replied. It was my idealistic, self-deprecating side talking. But I started thinking about it. Maybe I should write down my jokes. Maybe they’d help make my kids laugh one day, long after this was over. So I started writing them down, filling composition books with my quips and gags, that went home with me at the end of each stay.

Rediscovering my relationship with humor wouldn’t have happened were it not for my cancer diagnosis

Months later, channeling Fester Addam’s countenance and hairdo, I showed up at a local comedy club for open mic night. Filling out my entry, I hovered over the box labeled “Type of Stand-Up Routine,” and paused, trying to think of something clever. Finally, I gave up and wrote: “The cancer-patient’s kind.” When it was my turn, I was nervous at first as to how my jokes would go over: after all, many people don’t think cancer’s very funny. But my routine killed, and I was even invited back a few times.

A page from Cruz Santana’s journals.

These days, I often revisit those 18 composition books, as if they were a stack of Mad Magazines for the terminally ill. They continue to inspire me: in fact, I recently wrote a speculative pilot script for a dark television comedy based on some of the jokes I wrote down during chemo. And now, as I face a new cycle of chemotherapy sessions, and a bone marrow transplant, I find myself turning to comedy again to help me survive.

Rediscovering my relationship with humor wouldn’t have happened were it not for my cancer diagnosis. Getting sick stripped me of everything–my clothes, my hair, my health–but my sense of humor not only remained, it came back with a vengeance, comforting me and giving me power over a foe I cannot see, but can beat. Especially if I keep laughing at it.


Space, Time, and Turmeric

After survivng cancer, James Beard award-nominee chef Will Goldfarb moved to Bali, and opened a restaurant in paradise.

Bali is a magnet for soul-searchers, yoga and wellness practitioners, and expatriates bent on reinvention. The extremely lush island in Indonesia that transformed Eat Pray Love author Elizabeth Gilbert from a melancholy divorcee to best-selling author and happily married wife worked its healing magic on renowned New York pastry chef Will Goldfarb.

Room4Dessert, the avant-garde dessert and cocktail bar in Soho where he was the chef and partner, opened in 2005, and won him a James Beard Best Pastry Chef in America nomination for his artistry. It closed two years later, despite its popularity, after Goldfarb’s health issues first arose. But who said life has no second acts? The second Room4Dessert opened in 2014 in Ubud, Bali, where his wife always dreamed of going, after his bout with cancer.  Trading the asphalt jungle for the real jungle and kowtowing to no one, and the gritty Type A ethos of the Big Apple for the tranquillity of a place many equate with paradise, Goldfarb found the Hindu island ideal for his needs.

“Bali is the perfect place for recovery,” he said. “Space, time and turmeric.”  Each day he drinks Jamu, the local remedy based on turmeric, tamarind, honey and lime; along with a green juice and a bottle of coconut water.  A far cry from the life of the endless espresso.

“Bali is the perfect place for recovery,” he said. “Space, time and turmeric.”

When he first arrived in Bali, Goldfarb tired easily. Then, he began to recharge, and take charge of his career in a way he had never done before, as Bali’s fabled life-giving qualities seeped into his veins.

“Since moving to Bali, I have been able to focus on all aspects of well-being.  For the first time in my life I have given serious thought to my diet and rest habits, and the results have been surprising,” he added.  The daily routine of subways and traffic jams have been replaced by pilates and frequent steam baths at a local picturesque spa.

Will Goldfarb, plating one of Room4Dessert’s signature dishes.

He began leading the pastry team at Ku De Ta, a popular restaurant in Seminyak, an upscale beach resort area that some call the Beverly Hills of Bali. He worked with Ku De Ta to add a new floor for a second restaurant with a dessert laboratory where he could experiment to his heart’s content with Bali’s exotic bounty of tropical fruits, herbs and spices. Called Mejekawi, it opened in 2013.

His inventions began to flow fast and furiously. Bubbles concocted from torch ginger, a vivid red showy flower. A meringue from palm sugar, the caramelised nectar of the coconut palm. A pandan panna cotta, where the custard-like Italian dessert was flavored with pandan leaves, a tropical plant widely used in Southeast Asian and Indian cooking.

But Room4Dessert always lurked in the back of his mind, as unfinished business he needed to tend.

In Ubud, the cultural capital of Bali, a café closed and Goldfarb decided to open its 2.0 reincarnation with what he cheerily admits was “zero” budget. Home furnishings were needed to fill up the room, nearly five times the original New York’s location in size. Recycled metal was used for the outside door and inside. Local artists, including the restaurant’s original hostess, were asked to contribute art.

Will Goldfarb

His nine-course dessert tasting menus and selection of cocktails and fine wines became a hit among locals and tourists. Whimsical creations, like Caramel Tea Brulee with cardamom and black tea, and playful names danced across the menu, like Ghostface Keller (wood-roasted papaya, apple tatin, doughnut, cocoa nibs and Reblochon cream from the soft raw cow’s milk cheese from France), whose name alludes to both the Wu-Tang Clan, the New York hip-hop group, and Thomas Keller of French Laundry fame in Napa.

The secret garden restaurant features more casual fare, inspired by Goldfarb’s global travels, including his stint at elBulli (the three-Michelin-star restaurant in Spain, now closed), and late nights at L’Hort D’En Minguets in Roses.  Room4Dessert helped develop the booming food scene in Ubud.

Goldfarb has always been determined with a never-say-die attitude. His resilience after hardship or rejection is an inspiration to us all. (It’s no accident he named his line of pastry flavorings and powders WillPowder.)

“I like to think that I have been given a second chance.  There is no way I will let it slip through my fingers.”

“I like to think that I have been given a second chance.  There is no way I will let it slip through my fingers.”

He once joked at a TEDx talk in Ubud in his first job in Paris, he was pushed aside due to his awkwardness, with remarks like, “It’s better if you’re not helping.” While working towards his Le Cordon Bleu diploma, he was warned, “Try something else.”  After several advances to elBulli in Spain, whose chef-owner Ferran Adria was compared to surrealist artist Salvador Dali for his creativity, he persevered, and won an unpaid stage position in its pastry department.

“Hopefully, 2018 will show how some of my hard work is paying off,” Goldfarb said modestly. No kidding: his first cookbook will be published in the spring by Phaidon.  The title: Room for dessert.


The Dark Side of Facebook Support Groups

I joined a Facebook group to help me cope with my husband's cancer diagnosis; instead, I was told to divorce him. Good Facebook groups are out there, but you have to know what to look for.

Last year, a woman who didn’t know me told me to leave my husband. And so did a large handful of her friends. My husband hadn’t done anything wrong to warrant that response, except be sick, and neither did I—all I’d done was ask for help. In a Facebook group specifically designed to help people.

Earlier that month, the two of us sat in a neurosurgeon’s office, watching a team of doctors go through his MRI results and point out anomalies. Roughly translated, their whole spiel added up to this: “You have two brain tumors and we can’t do anything about it. Sorry, pal. Come back in six months for another MRI.”

We spent the rest of the day mostly in silence, trying to process what the doctors said. The next week, I hunted for resources and found a Facebook group dedicated to supporting spouses of people diagnosed with brain tumors.

I was completely pumped to make my first post. I thought the group would be good for me—I’d have a place to chat with people in the know about coping strategies, learn how best to minimize any negative impact on my husband’s health during our daily activities, and have a place to share my frustrations if needed. Full of a perhaps naïve but genuine excitement, I posted, explaining our situation (“My husband was recently diagnosed, and now we’re in a wait-and-see period of MRIs every six months.”) and asking for help (“What can I do to make this easier for him and be sure I’m not triggering any anxiety or depression when we talk about it?”).

And then that woman told me to leave my husband.

I was disgusted that so many wives were advocating for me to abandon my husband, when all I wanted was to both help him.

Her spouse apparently was in a wait-and-see period too. His diagnosis was all he ever thought about, and it was making her life hell, she said, because they never did anything fun anymore and lived in a black hole of brain tumor depression. She wished she had the money to divorce him. Well, I explained, I’m sorry about her issues, but I’m not looking to leave my husband—I just want advice on how to be the best support for him I can be.

She didn’t respond again, but it appeared that her willingness to bring in so much negativity sparked something in the other women in the group. I opened Facebook the next day to a flood of comments agreeing with her. These spouses told me it wasn’t worth it to stay, it’s more work than I could imagine, and don’t I want to move on to something else: that fairytale marriage with no problems that so many people dream of? I’d never get it if I stayed with him.

I was disgusted that so many wives were advocating for me to abandon my husband, when all I wanted was to both help him and find support of my own.

Meanwhile, my husband’s diagnosis expanded to include hyperacusis and tinnitus, which may or may not be caused by the tumors; we still don’t know. Relatively little research has been done on hyperacusis, which causes physical pain at certain sounds, volumes, and wavelengths. This was new territory for both of us. I decided I’d try another Facebook support group, just in case the first one was a weird vortex of negativity.

It wasn’t. I saw the same terrible advice coming from people in the new group.

One said her spouse’s hyperacusis was so bad that she couldn’t do anything but sit quietly on the couch, a virtual prisoner in her own home. She’d started an affair as some sort of warped coping strategy. Others chimed in, saying yes, if you can’t deal, just move on. I stared at the computer, mouth gaping, becoming angrier and angrier by the minute. It’s like a drug, that anger; one person in the group lets it out and it sweeps through everyone regardless of the reason they’re in the group to begin with. These women were angry about their spouses’ conditions, which in turn made me angry at their callousness toward it. It’s a vicious cycle.

These women were angry about their spouses’ conditions, which in turn made me angry at their callousness…

Around the same time, I was in a tiny argument with a friend of mine. Her sister recently became engaged to a wonderful man diagnosed with a terminal disease. My friend told me she would have left him. It was her life too, she said, and she didn’t want to waste her life on something like that.

I told her exactly what I told the women in the brain tumor group: My husband’s diagnosis does not define him. It does not change how I feel about him. What kind of partner would I be if I bailed at the first sign of distress?

Back in the first group, I hoped my response-by-manifesto of sorts would have a positive effect, so I stuck around for a bit to see. It didn’t. All I saw was more women telling people to leave their spouses and get out while they still could. I waited (with decreasing optimism) until I couldn’t take it anymore, and then checked out.

By the time I finally left both groups, I was depressed, deflated, and even more worried. My experience, though, appears to have been a fluke. The reason I signed up for these groups in the first place is because I heard how helpful they can be from friends who belong to their own Facebook support groups. I was shocked enough by what happened that I even floated the ridiculous idea that someone was angry with me and following me into all my groups, just to leave unhelpful comments.

Since my fallout with the spouse support groups, I’ve actually found one that’s beneficial—but it’s one for my own circulation disorder, not one for people married to someone with the disorder. A nonprofit research association runs it and often shares new related studies and breakthroughs. I’ve also learned a few tricks for navigating the Facebook support communities, and making sure you find one that’s in line with what you need.

My husband’s diagnosis does not define him. It does not change how I feel about him.

Look at the posts and comments already there first. That way you can gauge how helpful the responses are and whether the information being shared would be useful to you. Try to find a group organized by a nonprofit association or research committee. Here, you’ll find more fact-based advice and concrete examples of ways to cope, and there’s generally a team behind the management and moderation of the group.

Perhaps my biggest suggestion, though, is to join a group focusing on the condition itself, rather than one focused on supporting others who are connected to someone with the issue. What better way to feel like you can be effective in your coping strategies than getting those strategies from the sufferers themselves?

As far as my husband, his prognosis is still undetermined. We still go back for regular MRIs to be reminded that, yes, that thing there isn’t supposed to be in his brain. But hey, it’s stable, so we should be happy! He still struggles with his hearing issues because no doctor has been able to give us a good solution or even a way to manage it.

I still have no intention of leaving my husband. But the more I look back onto my experience in those groups, the more I start to understand the mindset of the women who did leave. Not because that’s how I feel, but because I know how excruciating it can be to watch a suffering partner, and to know that one day, you’ll probably lose them to the same unseen monster you stare at every day. It’s not something everyone can handle—it’s not something every marriage can handle. And for that reason, I truly wish them all the happiness they can get.


Sick and Tired

Fannie Lou Hamer was one of America's most important civil rights icons. But her health issues show that racism isn't just a social disease, it's a physical one.

Located in Mound Bayou, Mississippi, a town founded by former slaves, the tombstone of Fannie Lou Hamer features an unusual inscription. Bordered on each side by urns overflowing with flowers, the Civil Rights icon’s gravestone doesn’t just include the date of her birth (October 16, 1917), or the date of her death (March 14th, 1977). It also features her most famous quote–“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired”– a phrase she coined during a speech made alongside Malcolm X, before an audience at Williams Institutional CME Church in Harlem on Dec. 20, 1964.

While the quote originally referred to the centuries-long fight for black Americans to be treated with respect and dignity, it could very well have been a literal acknowledgment of her health struggles. Fannie Lou Hamer was sick, and she was tired. At the age of 59, she eventually succumbed to complications of heart disease and breast cancer, but not before helping move race relations in America forward. Her life was a testament to how society, including the healthcare system, have failed black people.

American civil rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer  testifying before the Credentials Committee at Democratic National Convention in Atlantic City,  August 22, 1964.

Hamer is most noted for her valiant fight against Mississippi’s oppressive power structure. In 1962, she joined 17 others at an Indianola courthouse to register to vote.“That happened because I went to a mass meeting one night,” she writes in her autobiography, To Praise Our Bridges. “Until then, I’d never heard of no mass meeting and I didn’t know that a Negro could register and vote.”

That meeting, she said, was conducted by leaders of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). When they’d asked for volunteers to register the next day, she raised her hand. Although there were violent efforts in Mississippi at the time to oppress the black vote, Hamer wasn’t afraid. “The only thing they could do was kill me and it seemed like they’d been trying to do that a little bit at a time ever since I could remember,” she wrote.

“The only thing they could do was kill me and it seemed like they’d been trying to do that a little bit at a time ever since I could remember.”

Over the years, Hamer traveled through the state teaching black people to read and write in order to pass dubious literacy tests that prevented them from voting. She was arrested, beaten, and shot at throughout the course of her activist work. In June 1963, she was beaten so badly in a Winona, Mississippi jail that she suffered permanent kidney damage and was nearly blinded.

In the summer of 1964, she spoke to the Credentials Committee of the Democratic National Convention in Atlantic City. There, she represented the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party, a group challenging an all-white delegation from Mississippi  filled with fervent segregationists. Upon telling her story about trying to vote in Mississippi, President Lyndon B. Johnson himself called an impromptu press conference to force her to stop speaking during the televised hearing. The effort backfired spectacularly; Major networks would later play her testimony from the previously-preempted newscast. Hamer could not be silenced.

She spent the rest of her life fighting for voting rights and to close the gap of economic disparity in Mississippi. The political oppression of the time was not the only system Hamer struggled against in her lifetime, though. She was also a victim of the healthcare system.

In 1961, Hamer went to a Sunflower County hospital so doctors could remove a uterine tumor. She left without her reproductive organs. The procedure–which she dubbed a “Mississippi appendectomy”–was part of a concerted effort within the state to reduce the local black population by sterilizing men and women of African descent without their knowledge or consent when the opportunity medically presented itself.

Unable to have children, Hamer was devastated. To be a poor, black woman in the rural south, there wasn’t much outside of the ability to reproduce that she could claim as her own without the threat of having it taken away, according to Chana Kai Lee in For Freedom’s Sake: The Life of Fannie Lou Hamer.

“The impact of this [tragedy] found its way into her political thoughts,” Lee writes. “During the hearings, Hamer raised this issue as if it was an afterthought. However, she may have raised it last because it was something that bothered her most out of all the other horrible experiences that typified her life. Nevertheless it stands out amidst the rest of her testimony, for not everyone in the movement regarded sterilization as a political concern of their work in Mississippi. Clearly Hamer did, and she spoke about it.”

“Just because people are fat, doesn’t mean they are well fed,” Hamer pointed out. “The cheapest foods are the most fattening ones, not the most nourishing.”

Since she grew up in malnourished poverty with no access to preventive health care, Hamer understood that determinants of health— your environment, your social status— would predict health.  She advocated for better health education in local black communities, even arranging for nutritionists to come speak about the best ways to have a balanced diet while living in poverty. “Just because people are fat, doesn’t mean they are well fed,” Hamer pointed out. “The cheapest foods are the most fattening ones, not the most nourishing.”

Fannie Lou Hamer could be fierce, but her years of advocacy took their toll on her health.

She was even an early advocate of what might be considered the precursor to the local food movement, creating the Freedom Farm Cooperative as a way of promoting the value of eating foods raised by people’s own hands. While looking for money to finance the cooperative, she wrote in a 1971 letter to the Field Foundation in New York City: “Freedom Farm Corporation is working. Its purpose of feeding people, on one hand, is the essence of humanitarianism; but at the same time it allows the sick one a chance for healing, the silent ones a chance to speak, the unlearned ones a chance to learn, and the dying ones a chance to live.”

A lifelong civil rights crusader, Hamer’s health woes aren’t an outlier. Many activists before and after her experienced poor health, including heart disease and high blood pressure, exacerbated by the stress of fighting systemic racism in the country.

Following his death in 1968, an autopsy confirmed that Martin Luther King Jr. had a prematurely aged heart. Some close to him attribute an ailing heart to the ongoing stress of the civil rights movement.

Racism isn’t just a social disease. It’s a physical one.

In a PBS documentary, Citizen King, his biographer Taylor Branch proclaimed: “The movement took a huge toll on him. When they did the autopsy, they said he had the heart of a 60-year-old, he’s 39. So yes, it took a big toll on him, and he was constantly fantasizing about getting out of the movement.”

These issues continue today.

Civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr.’s activism might have cost him his life even without his assassination: the stress of fighting racism had prematurely aged his heart.

New York activist Erica Garner, daughter of Eric Garner—who died at the hands of police in 2014, a brutal death that helped kick off the Black Lives Matter movement— died of a heart attack on December 30, 2017. After years protesting the systemic brutality that police routinely deploy against black men like her father, she had an enlarged heart.  In an interview for a web-based show just weeks before her death, she talked about the stress she and others feel while working as an activist. “I’m struggling right now from the stress of everything  because the system, it beats you down,” she said.

Racism isn’t just a social disease. It’s a physical one. Recent studies have shown that perceptions of discrimination cause great harm to the body when its pervasive. The stress of a racist or discriminatory act often yields slower declines in cortisol levels throughout the day. This can lead to obesity, depression, chronic illness, a weakened immune system, and even death.

After a life fighting against racism, Hamer was afflicted with all of the above. The cumulative impact of grief, trauma, and injustice is widely believed to have cut her life short.

In 1972, following continuous activity including a failed state senate race, her body gave out. She collapsed from what was described as “near nervous exhaustion,” according to Kay Mills, author of This Little Light of Mine: the Life of Fannie Lou Hamer.  She never really recovered. In early 1977, she was hospitalized to be treated for breast cancer, diabetes and heart disease.

A friend, Unita Blackwell, noted that the very religious Hamer, knew she was dying. In This Little Light of Mine, she was cited saying, “She called me one day and said ‘girl I’m real sick. I don’t want to die, but I made my peace with God.”

“She called me one day and said ‘girl I’m real sick. I don’t want to die, but I made my peace with God.”

Historians are careful not to depict Hamer as a”strong black woman” —a well-intended but harmful trope which advances the narrative that women like her don’t need help, love and protection.

She did take care of her community, and tried her best to ensure they had a better way of life. It’s a common issue among black women to cater to many, but go without care for themselves. Hamer was a revolutionary but she wasn’t invincible. She needed care, too. Nonetheless, she leaves behind a legacy that shows her pain and suffering were not in vain.

While Hamer’s activism is echoed today, the notion of being “sick and tired” is now addressed with a new buzzword, yet old concept: self-care. As black women honor Hamer and other activists for their courage, they also must heed the warnings of how oppressive systems, stress and chronic illness impedes one’s quality of life. They need to do more than care for their communities. Hamer would also want them to care for themselves.

Health & Fitness

To Beat Cancer, Talk To Your Family

After a cancer diagnosis, families that talk and listen to each other experience better health outcomes than those who don't.

Though medicine has scarcely stressed it, for Dr. Carla Fisher, an assistant professor at the University of Florida’s School of Journalism & Communication, good cancer care is all in the family. Strong familial relationships, she says, are crucial to cancer recovery. To prove it, Fisher has interviewed over 150 patients and family members about their relationships with one another then analyzed health outcomes of her interviewees. “We’ve found that [family] communication patterns can actually impact health outcomes,” she says.

Coping Together, Side By Side by Carla Fisher explores how family relationships can help improve health outcomes after cancer diagnosis.

Though such interviews can become emotional, they have allowed her to identify common communication patterns and formulate recommendations for clinicians and patients that encourage more positive and wellness-supporting rapports. Fisher focuses on breast cancer and the mother-daughter relationship (a subject which she tackled in Coping Together, Side by Side: Enriching Mother-Daughter Communication Across the Breast Cancer Journey) but the idea extends to other familial ties as well, she says.

In her field, Fisher is foremost. Along with earning numerous awards, she has collaborated with such medical behemoths as USAID, the National Institute on Aging, the National Cancer Institute, Mayo Clinic and the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. Clinicians, she says, are generally receptive to her ideas. But it will take time to fully incorporate them into a field that has long weighted the biophysical aspect of patient care over the psycho-social. Still, Fisher is in it for the long haul, she says.

We reached out to hear more about how good family dynamics can help fight cancer.

What initially got you into this kind of work?

Probably subconsciously it’s always been driven by my own family narrative. My mom is the youngest of eight and her oldest sister Rose was diagnosed at age 34 with breast cancer. Rose had four daughters, from age two to fifteen. Rose would talk about how the only thing she was concerned about was her daughters. This was during a time when they really didn’t know what they were doing with cancer, in the late sixties. She ended up dying two years later. I grew up hearing about that from my mom. Rose was like a second mom to her. But the family hadn’t let her talk [about her cancer]. My mother always looked back on that as, ‘We should have let her talk.’ She would remember that and tell me that her own mother, my grandmother, was never the same after Rose died. That profound loss was something that was woven through the fabric of my family identity. I hadn’t realized that it is actually a lot of families’ stories until I started this research. I would hear it over and over again.

Why is it important for cancer patients to sustain healthy familial relationships?

You think it would be a no-brainer. But the way things are prioritized in healthcare, you still have to have that evidence-based argument.

One of the things I’ve found is that, for mothers and daughters after a breast cancer diagnosis, if it’s a relationship where they’re communicating more openly about their concerns and needs, you see better health outcomes. On the flipside, if they’re acting more withdrawn from each other, they tend to have more negative physical health outcomes; fatigue, sleep disruption, things like that.

That’s what always informs my research: the clear connection that your interpersonal [family] life is as important to your survival as other physical or biological processes that tend to be prioritized in healthcare.

Your [family] life is as important to your survival as other physical or biological processes that tend to be prioritized in healthcare.

Health isn’t experienced in an individual vacuum. But at the same time, we’re not born with innate communication skills. We might think we’re being supportive or talking about things in a healthy way [with our family], but that’s not always the case. What I really focus on is identifying patterns of communication that promote health. Then I make that argument in healthcare, particularly cancer care, that we need to incorporate family communication and support services for the patient in order to ensure that the patient is maximizing their health and survival.

Carla Fisher

How does age and generation play into this?

What’s healthy for, say, a daughter diagnosed [with cancer] in her thirties coping with a 70-year-old mom, looks a little different if it’s the mom who was diagnosed. That’s partly because the younger generation’s boundaries of privacy are very fluid: we’ve been socialized to be more open. The older generation grew up in a time where you didn’t even say the word cancer: it was highly stigmatized. You certainly didn’t talk openly about the female body in a way that we do today.

The older generation grew up in a time where you didn’t even say the word cancer: it was highly stigmatized.

Older women in their 60s and 70s will talk to me about how their parents didn’t tell them anything. They had no idea what was going on when there was a parent diagnosed with cancer. So they feel that they’re being very open with their adult children by letting them know what’s going on and keeping them in the loop. Then, when you talk to their adult children, especially the daughters, they don’t necessarily feel that mom is being as open as what they would want. For those relationships, it’s really important that daughters respect privacy when it comes to parents. The boundaries of privacy are critical when it comes to their wellbeing. You don’t necessarily need to know everything.

How is it different when it is daughters that have been diagnosed?

Daughters in 20s and 30s are still developing a sense of independence. One daughter said to me, ‘The one thing I like that my mom did was that she left it up to me whether or not I allowed her to be there and be present in treatments or appointments.’ She appreciated that because it provided her control and independence, something that you’re robbed of after a cancer diagnosis. When she finally did say, ‘Mom I need you to help me,’ she said it really struck her how happy her mom was that she had allowed her to be there. ‘I realized that my mom needed to be there. She needed to mother. That was her own way of coping with [my diagnosis],’ she told me.

So I think when you talk to both of them together, they get a better sense of what it is that [the other] needs.

What are some signs of a not-so-healthy mother-daughter relationship?

When moms are diagnosed, they’ll often talk to me about how they want to talk to their daughters about what’s going on. They have this profound sense or need to protect their children from developing the disease themselves in the future. But oftentimes, after a diagnosis, daughters will withdraw from their mothers to avoid talking about cancer. One daughter explained it to me: she could not picture her mom not being there next year, because doing that was just too much for her. So she shut herself away in a box as a way of self-preservation. The problem is, mothers get really worried about this. So even if a daughter doesn’t intend it, this behavior can actually inhibit her mother’s health.

What ended up getting this particular daughter to come out of that box was realizing that she could support her mom in a way she could never do before. And also talking about cancer made it less scary. When not talking about it, your imagination runs wild and it becomes this big scary nebulous thing.

What are some recommendations you make to families dealing with diagnosis?

Humor, listening, affection. That’s listening and validating feelings, not listening and silencing them. So if someone says, ‘I’m having a shitty day’ or ‘I’m worried about recurrence’, you should not say, ‘Don’t worry about that,’ say, ‘Yeah it’s scary, I agree. I’m here for you.’ Listening with silence is good too, though it is hard for all of us. Being more open and showing affection is great. Affection with no words is really, really helpful emotional support for mothers and daughters. Humor, listening, affection.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.


How To Reframe Your Life Goals After Illness

When illness strikes, it can be hard to get your life back on track. Here's some tips on how to embrace the new normal and pursue new, better goals.

When I was younger, I wrote out a 5 Year Plan. You may have done this, too: they’re widely considered a helpful tool to create a productive and workable vision of your future. The objective is to set your life on a course driven by design. I honestly believed my plan would serve as a framework that could guide me towards the theoretical end of my life, in my 80s or even 90s.

And then, suddenly in my mid-30s, I got sick. Seriously sick. Deathly sick, in fact.

In a flash, my whole life changed. Once the shock and awe of the situation came to fore, I realized I would need to re-calibrate the vision of my old, imagined future. I was working with the typical suggestions that most folks live by in 21st Century America: an up-rising career path, a house growing in value, a nice car every few years, a cushy vacation spot.

But none of that mattered anymore. None of it made sense.

Having a life-threatening illness altered everything. The 5 Year Plan immediately turned into something like a 5 Day Plan. Or, more truthfully, some days I could barely stay with a 5 Hour Plan.

Here’s how I changed the way I thought about my life goals–and got my life back on track–after diagnosis.

Accept the New Normal


After my illness, it took me months, even years, to begin the process of crafting a new path for myself. Letting go of my old understanding of life was excruciating at times.

While the concept of what a normal life means feels quaint, we tend to insist on returning to one after we get through challenging health crises. But after a health crisis, it can be impossible to return to ‘normal’, because you have become someone completely different from your past self: your life changed dramatically and unceremoniously in a way you didn’t foresee.

These expectations of returning to normality can hang like lodestones around your neck. Your past expectations of what your life should be are everywhere, haunting you: documents saved on your Google Drive, or scrawled on crumbly sheets of paper at the bottom of your desk drawer. Luckily, there are ways to retrain that silly brain to refocus.

One of the most effective ways for me was to stop myself from expecting tomorrow to be just like yesterday. It was to take a minute to pause, to go deeper into that moment, staying focused on the fact that, here I am! I am alive right now! The old normal might be gone, but the new one is here: no better, no worse, just different. Don’t give up on your dreams, just because things have changed.

Revisit Your Old Goals, And Create New Ones

Post-cancer, some of my old goals needed a serious overhaul. Others needed to be brought back to life.

Originally, I tried to just go back to work. And I did, for a time. But I wasn’t fully there mentally, no matter how I tried. While I knew that my colleagues gave me plenty of help and a wide berth, I never felt like being at the office working at a job I couldn’t focus on. It didn’t fully satisfy my innate strengths, and it made me feel powerless with my new conditions.

Eventually, I realized: maybe the old goal of continuing to advance on the career path I’d been locked into before I got sick wasn’t one that fit into my new reality. I needed to examine which previous goals were worth keeping. The ones worth keeping needed tweaking in a new frame. Some of the goals that lost weight in my world were typical ones. But the ones that were still alive, albeit dormant, were ready to be resuscitated.

I had always wanted to learn how to surf. I dabbled in the sport my whole life, but I never really had the chance to be taught. When I was well enough, I took that old goal, and went o learn how to surf with an incredible organization called Project Koru. The program and the experience empowered me. It changed my life for the better, and gave me fresh perspectives on the old vision of myself.

So seek out your old goals. Reread them from your new vantage point. Consider which of your goals still hold a power, and happiness, and peace that is raw to the touch. At the same time, consider new goals, things you’d always wanted to do, but were too locked into your old way of thinking to explore.

Author Mark Schoneveld surfing after his diagnosis.

Break Your Goals Into Smaller Pieces

Since I don’t live close to the ocean, I can’t go surfing every day. Instead, for daily exercise, I run. I haven’t completed a full run(yet), but they say “marathons are run one step at a time.”

Running keeps me healthy and strong. For me, it’s mostly a mental thing. When I feel like crap, when I don’t feel like doing it, that’s when it’s most potent. Just going outside for a short run makes me able to let go of the stress and fear because my body just says: “Okay, it’s run time. Shut the hell up, brain.”

Post-trauma life goals, like marathons and surfing, are best taken one step, one wave at a time. Illnesses can be so huge, so gargantuan. The war you’re fighting is multi-prong and complex and the only way to beat it is to break down your process into small, incremental steps.

To set up goals, start with the ones that are easy and doable. The ones that aren’t giant monsters. The ones you can say “oh, look at that, I made a small leap forward today!” You’ll feel better. Make it a habit. Nothing fancy or big, just a small thing.

For me, it was running. It became an easy habit. Making good habits both mentally and physically have improved my moods and my overall well being without a doubt. I hope it can do the same for you.

Evolve Your Support Network

Post-trauma health events are made elementally less stressful when you’ve got friends to give you support. Find those people.

When I started to finally get recalibrated, I started to make new friends, many of whom were struggling with their own illnesses. Many of them were folks who shared my diagnosis, and some even shared doctors and hospitals. They became people that I could speak with about what I was going through: people with a far deeper understanding of what it was like to have my condition than many of my existing friends and family members.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t allow yourself to lean on old friends. Many of them don’t know what the hell to do for you, but some of them will. And some of your old friends are the best ones to use as listeners. But some of my old friendships, inevitably, drifted away after my cancer diagnosis. At first, it bothered me, but then I realized: that was okay. Like some of my goals, they were part of the old normal, not the new one.

Remember Goals, Like Life, Should Always Be Changing

Filling out my 5 Year Goals probably a good thing for me to do at the time. It was nice to have them as a starting point, but I am happy that I learned that those goals, any goals, are just a concept… and like all concepts, they shouldn’t be static things. They should change as you do.

I used to get upset with myself about the goals I couldn’t reach. Now, I practice self-compassion, and look at my goals like the waves I surf: they morph and change fluidly with the tides, but no matter what they look like, I ride them just the same.


Team Meleke and the Lung Force

After 15 years of misdiagnoses, Daphne Faitla-Rodriguez's mother Meleke died of stage 4 lung cancer. Her tragedy inspired an international movement seeking standards for better treatment.

Daphne Faitla-Rodriguez and her wife are sitting on an orange kayak in front of Australia’s famed Sydney Opera House, all smiles. Daphne is holding a white t-shirt with teal and black lettering. The shirt reads: Team Meleke, Lung Force, John 4:16. This simple shirt has become part of Daphne’s mission – a mission to use her voice because others can’t. She speaks locally and nationally about what she believes is the lack of education and awareness, even among doctors, when it comes to lung cancer. For Daphne, it’s personal.

Daphne Faitla-Rodriguez and the rest of her family.

When her mother Meleke was finally diagnosed with lung cancer, the 15 years of being misdiagnosed with allergies, sinus infections, or even arthritis were finally over, but it was too late – the cancer had metastasized throughout her entire body.  It was stage four and it was everywhere; cancer had taken over her sternum, liver, spine, thighs, stomach, and back, and it was creeping into her bones. The only place it hadn’t spread was to Meleke’s brain.

Daphe was heartbroken by the fatal diagnosis, and she began to educate herself about lung cancer, questioning why she knew so little. The more she read, the more shocked was by what she learned.

“There is only a two percent chance that anyone with lung cancer will go into remission,” she recalls. “It’s the number one cancer killer in America, and 46 percent of those diagnosed are non-smokers. It’s killing people at very aggressive rates; by the time someone is diagnosed, more than half are gone within the year.”

While she pondered how it was that lung cancer awareness was so lacking, yet information on other cancers flood the news and personal conversations, she had an “aha” moment.

“The strongest advocates are people who advocate for themselves.”

“The strongest advocates are people who advocate for themselves,” Daphne explains. “When you go through something, you understand how terrible it is and you become an advocate. When I looked closely at those numbers, I realized, what time do lung cancer patients have to go out and advocate? We don’t hear about it because it’s killing people so fast. By the time you get diagnosed, it kills you before you get to tell anybody. People with lung cancer don’t have the opportunity to become activists, so unless their friends and family become that voice, nobody will.”

Looking back, what’s frustrating to Daphne is not just the lack of public education and awareness, but the number of times the medical community got it wrong. For years, doctors refused to listen to Meleke’s requests for further testing, insisting that her symptoms were related to common conditions.

Meleke grew up in American Samoa, raising Daphne and her seven siblings on the small island of Aunu’u where they led an active life and ate off the land, growing most of their own produce and consuming fresh fish. Meleke was strong – she played rugby and climbed mango trees, but she always had a persistent cough even though she never smoked a cigarette.

Team Meleke’s Lung Force shirts have become a global phenomenon. Here’s two people posing with one in Russia.

As Meleke went to doctor after doctor and received improper diagnosis after improper diagnosis, her cough got worse and Daphne knew something was wrong. Perhaps, she thought, the doctors on the island weren’t as good as those in the states. So, when Daphne left American Samoa to join the marine corps, she sent her $3,000 signing bonus to her mom so she could travel to Arizona to see a specialist. The diagnosis? Allergies. And then upon a follow-up, bronchitis. Coming from a small island, they thought that all doctors in America were “top of the line,” and they believed the diagnosis. That was 2007. In 2008, Meleke began to travel back and forth to the states to see doctors because her cough was so bad they knew something was wrong, but she was repeatedly told she had pneumonia. In 2010, she moved to Arizona to live with Daphne’s older sister.

By 2014, Meleke was much worse, suffering from terrible back pain, and she returned to the doctor again. The newest diagnosis came back as arthritis. Meleke, finally fed up with diagnoses that did not seem to fit her symptoms, demanded a lung x-ray, believing she had lung cancer. Six months and multiple demands later, she received her scan and her diagnosis.

“When the doctor finally learned the true diagnosis, all he could say to my mom was ‘I’m sorry.'”

“For the past who knows how many years, my mom had been taking allergy medicine for lung cancer,” says Daphne. “When the doctor finally learned the true diagnosis, all he could say to my mom was ‘I’m sorry. Not only do you have cancer, but it’s Stage 4 and you have only six months to live.’”

“I was in complete shock. It was everywhere, throughout her entire body, and nobody found it. How crazy is it that the patient demands the scan and they find everywhere, except her head. HE was the doctor! This is what he does for a living; it’s not a hobby. He’s done this for the majority of his life and he had to wait for the patient to tell him what she had?”

“The system is terribly flawed.”

Meleke chose to fight, underwent chemo and radiation, and lived for another two years, beating the odds. During that time, Daphne focused her attention on her mother, and she began to learn everything she could about lung cancer. Before she became too sick to have meaningful conversations with her children, Meleke made a request of Daphne.

“My mom said, ‘I want you to tell people about this,’” Daphne recalls. “‘Go out and tell people. If you can share my story and save just one life, it will make all of my pain and suffering worth it.’”

Now Daphne is doing just that, and she won’t stop until things change. She’s made lung cancer awareness her mission, passionately stating that everyone, including doctors and politicians, need to learn more about this often misdiagnosed and fatal disease.

Shortly after her mom passed away, at the age of 56, Daphne took the first step by signing up for a lung cancer walk, and that fueled her passion. She began to look at the bigger picture, recognizing that it has to come from the top. If the government doesn’t provide the proper funding for research and education, then doctors will not be able to recognize the symptoms and order the proper tests to diagnose early. According to the American Lung Association, only 16 percent of lung cancer cases are diagnosed at an early stage, but if there was more knowledge and awareness, Daphne believes that more patients will survive.

“My mom said, ‘I want you to tell people about this…'”

Daphne has taken her advocacy to the state and national capital. She’s shared her mom’s story with district leaders, state representatives, and the staff of her senators, John McCain and Jeff Flake. Each time she told her mom’s story she became emotional, and they cried with her. For Daphne, that was powerful – she felt she got through to them. She would then voice her concerns that lack of funding and education are killing people unnecessarily.

“How is that our doctors – who are supposed to know everything, who are supposed to be able to detect these things – do not know,” Daphne questions. “Something I’d been taught in the marine corps is that if leaders don’t give their people the tools and resources necessary to do their job, then they are going to be unsuccessful. That is why it was extremely important for me to go to Capitol Hill. When all of these doctors can’t find it, I don’t think it’s their fault at this point. I think it’s the fault of our education system.”

“So, I went to our leaders to tell them that this isn’t just an issue in the state of Arizona, it’s flawed throughout the entire country. You are the leaders and you need to do something. You are the ones that need to provide our doctors around the country with the right tools and resources to fix people because you are the leaders.”

“When I look at it, how do you know something is wrong when you’ve never been taught how to find it? Or, you haven’t been given enough information to know how to find it? And I think that’s the issue with lung cancer right now – doctors just don’t know.”

Team Meleke at Niagra Falls.

When not speaking to politicians and leaders, she’s spreading her message locally, nationally and internationally.

Locally, Daphne is a leader for her security team at Palo Verde, the largest nuclear power plant in the United States. Before each shift begins, the leader will ask their group questions, and hers always focus on lung cancer. They learn important facts, such as lung cancer is the number one cancer killer, and it begins a conversation that she hopes continues in their homes and with their friends. She also serves as the emcee for the local Lung Force walk, kicking off the event and introducing the speakers.

Nationally and internationally, Daphne spreads the word with her Team Meleke t-shirts. The concept was created when she and her wife were kayaking in Sydney, and it went viral. While the goal was to spread awareness about lung cancer, she had no idea just how far it would go. She originally created the shirts to build awareness and then developed the Team Meleke Challenge, encouraging people to take the “coolest picture holding up the t-shirt.” But what happened next, surprised her. She began receiving photos from around the country and world with strangers wearing her shirt in Boston, Washington, on the mountains of Hawaii, Canada and even Russia and Germany. Family, friends and strangers people post pictures of themselves in their shirt to her Instagram account, @rodsquad13, spreading the awareness that Daphne believes is so lacking about this disease. The Team Meleke Challenge has become so popular that she began receiving requests for next year’s shirt before the current year was even close to over.  Daphne decided she will create a new t-shirt style every year so she can track how far and often her message is spread throughout the years.

Daphne is just getting started. In less than two years, her advocacy has been seen in the halls of Congress and on the streets of Europe, plus everywhere in between. As she continues to find new ways to help spread the word and increase education, she keeps her mother’s memory alive, doing what Meleke asked and hoping to save at least one more life.


Reconstructing Dad

After two bouts of cancer and two hit-and-runs, my dad is more active than ever... and teaching me new lessons about what it means to live life to its fullest.

Dad was in his seventies when I finally won a game of tennis against him. The win was bittersweet. In the past, eager for me to take up the sport, Dad let me have points; this time he didn’t, because he couldn’t afford to. His feet were not working like they used to. Neuropathy–a disease affecting the nerves–was slowing him down, and my win was overrun by the realization of how limited our interactions might soon become.

As an adult, Dad was always active. Because he was something of a social misfit, sports like tennis, skiing, and yoga gave him something to do with others that–unlike small talk–made him feel comfortable, and which he could excel at.

Before he became sick, the sport Dad loved best was skiing, but he soon gave it up when his feet started hurting from the cold. For similar reasons, he had to give up tennis shortly after my bittersweet win. Frustrated, he resorted to long swift walks, finding historic trails to explore. At first, I worried about him on these walks, but soon tucked away my fears of his mortality. I decided to take advantage of the time we had left, and do something we enjoyed together. We embarked on a camping trip like we had done when I still in high school.

Because he was something of a social misfit, sports like tennis, skiing, and yoga gave Dad something to do with others that–unlike small talk–made him feel comfortable.

When I was sixteen, Dad took me to the border between Minnesota and Canada to a string of lakes that he had camped at as a kid. There, I saw firsthand his love for canoeing, sleeping in a tent, and eating food cooked over a fire he had built himself. I remember, specifically, him telling me once about winning a canoeing award at summer camp when he was ten years old. As he told me the story, I could imagine my awkward, friendless father feeling like a champion with his paddle.  I’d never seen him seem so proud.

On that trip, Dad imparted to me the many ways in which camping can be empowering. My father seemed superhuman as he portaged over rocky hikes from lake to lake. We sung in the rain and laughed at our sore muscles while we lived in continuous motion, paddling, walking, setting up a tent, or making our food.

Our second camping trip, when he was seventy-five years old, felt different. I panicked each time he lifted the canoe, or took a moment to catch his breath. Instead of enjoying the gorgeous scenery as we glided along, my mind was working out the details of what I would do if he had a heart attack in the woods. I calmed down each time I spotted a road or a house on the horizon where I could run for help in case of emergency. I found the experience so stressful that, after it was over, I vowed that the only way we would ever go camping again was if I had a boyfriend who could go with us. (That hasn’t worked out yet.)

A couple of years after that trip, my Dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer. Since my parents were in Florida at the time, I called the hospital before he went into surgery in case it was the last time we would connect. Dad’s voice was filled with gravel and salt. He didn’t want to talk much, but I told him that I loved him and he had always been my hero. He perked up and wanted to hear more about that. I talked about the time he took to drive me to school, the ski hill, or out to California. I told him how he had given me a love of books, a memory for numbers, taken me sailing, and made sure I could swim. He soon got tired and I thought that goodbye might be the final one.

But Dad recovered, almost like new. He didn’t go swimming anymore, because he now had a urostomy bag, but he stayed active. One of my following visits, I asked if we could rent bikes. Mom joined in, and we had a terrific time roaming the quiet streets in the small Florida town where they’d settled. Shortly after, Dad took up biking as his main form of exercise and fun. He joined a bike group and started racing in local events. I felt proud of Dad’s resilience and silly that I had put his age and ailments in a box marked doom. Dad was thriving, happy as ever, and still living a physical life after not one but two diseases had almost put him in the ground.

I felt proud of Dad’s resilience and silly that I had put his age and ailments in a box marked doom.

Then I got a call.

“Dad had an accident,” my mother told me over the phone.

A car hit my father while he was running an errand on his bike; the driver fled the scene. I couldn’t imagine who would leave an eighty-year-old guy lying on the ground, but somehow, Dad got to the hospital. He was lucky: aside from bruises, he escaped with only a few broken bones in his arms.

The accident couldn’t deter him from getting back on his bike once he was healed. Even after his hit-and-run he’d bike as much as 20 miles a day, and seemed to enjoy pushing himself. His resilience inspired me. I, too, took up biking in the city again, and decided that if my Dad wasn’t going to let preconceived notions of what he was capable of get in the way of doing bike races as a cancer survivor at age 86, I shouldn’t be afraid to go back to school as an older student.

As I get older myself, Dad’s taught me that aging isn’t anything to be scared of.

It was around this time that I started to feel like I really understood my father. Before, I had always viewed my father as the quiet, loner type. Now, I realized that for Dad, staying active was a path to empowerment. He always said that he only wanted to stay alive if he was active and healthy: he never wanted to feel confined. His illness and accident showed me how he was more of a hero than I had imagined. Nothing–not neuropathy, not cancer, not even a hit-and-run–could slow him down.

And nothing did. Shortly after his first hit-and-run, there was a second cancer: a slow-growing multiple myeloma–a cancer of the white blood cells. He went on pills for it, and got back to his hobbies. Then, unbelievably, there was the second hit-and-run. This time, Dad was just standing at a newsstand: a truck somehow backed into him, then fled the area. This time, Dad didn’t even bother going to the hospital. He just drove to Wal-Mart, picked up a couple of canes, and in a couple of weeks, was back to his 20-mile bike.

I feel stronger, knowing this is my father. Sometimes, when I think about all I have learned about him in the last few years, I feel awed: far from being the awkward outcast I mistakenly believed him to be most of my life, he’s a living example of not allowing age, or illness, or anything else define you. True, a part of me worries about him, and wants to wrap him in an anti-aging cloak and keep him here forever. But as I get older myself, Dad’s taught me that aging isn’t anything to be scared of. In fact, it doesn’t have to mean anything at all… unless you let it. No matter how old or how sick, you become, the world will always be full of moments to enjoy, and challenges to take pleasure in overcoming.


Out of Body

Getting breast cancer felt like being cheated on: even after it was over, as with many infidelities, it took me a while to learn to love my body again.

Until I was diagnosed with Stage IV inflammatory breast cancer, I didn’t think much about my body. I relied on it, of course, and I took care of it (exercise, green leafy vegetables, triple chocolate brownies). And it took care of me, until it didn’t. Most of us operate that way, I think. It’s almost an automatic response. Wake up, brush teeth, put one foot in front of the other, make breakfast. Until you can’t. Until one day your eyes open and your body doesn’t cooperate. Until you can barely sit up in bed, much less get to the toothbrush or the kitchen.

Laura at her son Roman’s second birthday party, taken during treatment.

And that was the biggest shock of all. When I heard the word cancer, I thought of chemo, bald heads, vomit, and exhaustion. I didn’t think I would lose my physical being—the part of me that loved to dance, play tennis, jump into a swimming pool, hold hands. I hugged with abandoned.

But as I started treatment, I retreated. It started with the PICC line, making sure no one got near my right arm. And when I got a chest port put in, any form of hug became incomprehensible. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. Everything hurt. A nod, a hand squeeze, a wink became my preferred way of communication. As the chemo drugs did their thing, my mouth and my eyes and even my balance were foreign to me. Sometimes even talking was just too exhausting. I became fearful of my body, of what it was doing to me and what people were doing to it.

It’s not just the treatment itself that seizes your physical body; it is the lack of movement from being in treatment. I woke up every day feeling like a stranger. Where was the strong body that had carried two babies and delivered them without a hitch? Where was the body that had run through the hills, walked thousands of miles in cities around the world, and that had breathed in and out without me even thinking about it?

I would sit on a park bench and just watch people move: walk a dog, throw a Frisbee, catch a ball. I ached for my old body.

Suddenly I could barely walk. The trek through the hospital halls to the parking lot felt like a marathon. Traveling for treatment I relied on wheelchairs in the airport to get me to the boarding gate. My soul resisted these changes. I yearned for the ability to move my body in ways that were joyous and positive. I would sit on a park bench and just watch people move: walk a dog, throw a Frisbee, catch a ball. I ached for my old body. I wanted to sink in a pool of water and float for hours. I wanted to sit in a swing with the kids and spin until we were dizzy. But instead I sat in my bed, stuck in a cycle of vertigo and nausea; I swam in visions of darkness and death. I watched the rain drip from the leaves outside, or the sun create shadows on the house next door, listened to a dog bark down the street. I was motionless. My physical being was gone, lost in a swirl of IV lines, medication bottles, needles.

So while I was trapped in stillness, I decided to watch the physicality of others. My mom bought two tickets to a Cirque du Soleil performance. I hobbled into the theater, my mom holding my arm, and we settled into our seats. The performance began and I sat still, staring at the performers. Their ease in movement, in flight, in motion, and bodies that did what they told them to do—it left me breathless. What must it feel like to wake up in a body that moves so easily. I wanted to touch the acrobats, to feel their muscles, to feel the blood running through their veins, to feel and absorb the life I saw in them. I wanted a body that reacted to touch, that craved sensation. My body had become a pincushion, a way in for medication, a thing to be healed. A body that other people talked about in front of as if I weren’t even there.

I cherish my body, this body that put up the best fight against cancer.

But seeing that performance sparked something in me. Something that made me move a little more, made me forgive my body a bit, too. I walked a little more each day, to the mailbox and beyond it. After the first surgery I made it up and down the wide hospital hallway on the second day, clutching my IV pole. Then more walks: past the marsh with my sister; down a city street with the kids to get ice cream; with my friends to see the ocean. Slowly, slowly, the energy returned. My being returned: I remember the first time I danced (a tango class with my husband for Valentine’s Day), and my first hike up a hill.

The contrast of the before and after is profound. I cherish my body, this body that put up the best fight against cancer. This body that came back to me, a little worse for wear but still here.  I move it every day in countless ways, and even dance in my sleep, sometimes. Finally, the physical me matches the mental me. I am whole again.

Creative Commons photo by Louish Pixel.