Dear Family and Friends,

I’m writing this entry from Minnesota. Most of you already know that I was born and raised in the Hopkins/Minnetonka area. I’ve returned for the first time since my diagnosis to visit family and arrived in Minneapolis via Northwest / Delta early Friday evening. The flight itself was very pleasant and uneventful.

I had a window seat and was able to spend nearly two hours reading a book I’ve been looking forward to reading for several weeks. I wanted to take some time this morning to capture my thoughts while they are still fresh in my mind, so pardon if this entry comes across as if I’m not quite able to verbalize what’s rattling around in my head.

Recently the Wall Street Journal published an article on an experimental group therapy program out of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York. The 8-week program, known as meaning-centered psychotherapy, helps patients with Stage 3 or 4 cancers overcome their biggest challenge which the psychiatrist who developed the programs says is to live in the space between their diagnosis and eventual death. The theory behind this therapy is based on the work of Viktor Frankl, an Austrian psychiatrist, who survived Auschwitz and lived to write about his experiences. Dr. Frankl’s conclusion, after surviving Auschwitz and losing several family members including his wife, was that even in the most painful and dehumanized situations, life has potential meaning and therefore even suffering is meaningful.

This article immediately caught my attention because this type of therapy is so similar to the type of ‘treatment’ I practice with my own patients and one we discussed in our book, “ Coping with Cancer.” In our book we ask the reader to think through and if possible “journal” the following:

• “What do I believe to be my life mission?”
• “Why do I value these activities?”
• “What are my most important daily purposes? Why?”
• “What do I need in order to continue or begin to accomplish my activities?”
• “Can I realistically continue to meet these daily activities?”
• “If I could change one thing about my life before my illness, what would it be? Why?”
• “If I could change one thing about my life after my acute illness, what would it be?”

As I rested in my chair last night with the soothing background of white noise around me, I read again Viktor Frankl’s book, “ Man’s Search for Meaning.” He knew of suffering certainly at a level far beyond my own experience but similar to some of you who are in the midst of struggling with an invasive cancer or caring for a family member who just can’t seem to get a break from one bad scan or test after another.

The book said to me – keep talking to patients about their meaning in life in their day to day events. I can’t tell you how often in my work I connect with a young patient who struggles with “mothering” as she traverses treatment after treatment. Some of these young women continue trying to balance work and mothering and are challenged with what has to give as they add cancer treatments to their list of “things to do”. I simply advise each of them that they now need to be the mother they want to be and ask each what does that look like for them. There is so much more I could write on this but not today. I want to write about being with my family for the first time since I too started down the cancer path.

I was greeted at the Minneapolis airport by my sister, Janet, who immediately drove me to meet more family at the hotel. Janet, a sister that is always there for me – believing in me, helping me through the years and now my unending supporter. My family of five sisters and a brother, my mother, nieces, nephews and more haven’t seen me since my breast cancer diagnosis. I look terrible with my short, short hair, no eye lashes, pale skin and my 10-pound weight gain (although now closer to 5 pounds since I started the calorie counter on-line program).

A moment in time struck me as the most heart-wrenching last night when my eldest sister, Barbara, said, “Ronnie, I can’t believe you had to go through this cancer. I don’t understand it. Why? It doesn’t make sense to me. I sometimes just cry about it.”

So, all this time there I was in Michigan living the daily experience of learning about my diagnosis, surgery, going through chemotherapy and its aftermath, walking that long walk into the radiation treatment day after day for 33 days, only to learn that I didn’t cry alone. My sister cried too. Nothing could have been said this weekend that has impacted me in such a way and that meant more to me than mere words can articulate. I will remember it forever.

More time with my family today and then back to Michigan tomorrow.

Thoughts and prayers are with you.

Love,

Veronica