I Fear, Yet Still I hope

By Amy Sisson

FEBRUARY 20, 2024

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

I fear pessimism, but I hope for optimism.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Golden Healer

by Kim Downey

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

Look Both Ways Series : My Heart Won

By: Andi Straus
I’ve moved so many times in my life. My dear friend Jill says maybe it’s my Karma to move often, and she might be right, because once again I have moved, this time to a rental apartment that fills me with joy and hope and a measure of disbelief that I can still have something so beautiful in my life when my diagnosis is so grim. I’ve wrestled with the harsh voice in my head that says, “Who do you think you are to undertake something like this?

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

By Andi Straus

Some years ago I was afflicted with a benign ear condition which caused severe vertigo. I had rolled onto my side after savasana in a beloved yoga class, as I had done many times before, but this time a terrifying spinning world ensued. It lasted only a few minutes (although it felt like an agonizing eternity) as I lay absolutely still on the floor thinking something really bad was happening. 

On Radiation

Poem and Art By Kim Downey

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

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

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

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

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

On Moving and Home and Belonging

By Andi Straus

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

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

Part Two - Look Both Ways

By Andi Straus

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

When people learn we have cancer…

 I have been thinking a lot over the past few months about the well intentioned things that people say to us when they learn we have cancer, many of which would have been better left unsaid. I have some sympathy for them because I know that in the past I have also felt that I don’t know what to say when someone delivers news that is so sad or frightening or overwhelming that whatever I might say would be wrong, inadequate, or trite.

Look Both Ways

By Andi Straus

I woke up one morning in August, 2020, with a curious pain in my side. More discomfort than pain, really, a little like gas pain but different. I didn’t think much of it, except that off and on I felt this pain over the course of several weeks. Something just wasn’t right. I checked with Dr. Google – maybe it was IBS? Pancreatitis? Gluten sensitivity? I finally made an appointment with my primary doctor who ordered a CT scan. All of a sudden I found myself on a cancer journey, a member of a club I had no desire to be a member of, in an alternate universe to the one I’d always known and had thought would last forever….