An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter

BY GUEST BLOGGER | JANUARY 18, 2012

Silence like a cancer grows...and in this light, taking silence to task, Hannah, my 15-year old daughter and I presented an assembly this fall at her school on "The Face of Cancer." It was Hannah's tale to be told. I followed her lead. It was also the first time I really heard her full view of what she experienced during those initial calamitous days.

She has already launched the "Cancer Team" for students whose lives have been affected by cancer or who simply want to become involved in providing resources and support. She organized a walk for breast cancer for Baystate Health Foundation, Rays of Hope, bringing in nearly $4,550 with her classmates. There are now over 50 members and she is thinking of taking such an initiative national. I am sure she will. She was brave and courageous. Standing in the Chapel, before the entire school population of nearly 700 students, faculty and staff, she was proud and radiant.

We recognize that not everyone is comfortable with any of this. None of us really are. Many were moved. Some were a bit shaken. Cancer, or any disease, illness or trauma is a deeply personal, private matter. There are no "rules" for managing this sort of event. But we believe no good comes of silence when you are fighting something so deadly and devastating and if by raising the awareness and consciousness of those around us we can help demystify, encourage understanding and the need for more resources, including research and support, then all the better.

"Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced."
-James Baldwin

November 7, 2011
Hannah Rose Green and Mark Richard Green
Morning Assembly
Nothfield Mount Hermon School, Mass.

Hannah: Good morning NMH. I am here today to introduce you to an amazing person, my dad. He is like me in a lot of ways; he has been my main role model since I can remember. He has a way of making friends with just a single sentence, maybe because he's always smiling, always optimistic, and constantly cracking jokes. He's also extremely active, and has more energy than any other middle aged man I've ever met. But he's not just my role model, he's also my best friend. I could never ask for a better father and friend.

Mark: There are moments in life that are completely out of our control. Some are minor disasters and others are of epic proportions. There is a particularly unstable glass shelf in our medicine cabinet, loaded with various items which from time to time comes loose, sending everything sliding and crashing to the sink below and you find yourself watching helplessly as the whole bathroom falls to pieces.

Hannah: This past summer, on a beautiful August day, the medicine cabinet fell. I came home from the pool to find my dad very sick. His eyes wouldn't focus, his speech was slurred and slow, and he couldn't walk straight. I knew something definitely was wrong when he didn't touch his dinner. He said he was having a migraine, and went to his room to sleep. A few hours later, he came to tell me he had just thrown up and that my step mom was going to take him to the hospital. "He just has heat exhaustion," my step mom assured me. She said that there was no reason for me to come, because they would probably end up waiting in the ER all night for him to get an IV stuck in his arm and sent home. So, I went to my mom's to get some sleep.

But I didn't sleep at all that at night, I was so worried about my dad. I waited all night for a text message from my step mom to tell me that my dad was fine. That message never came.

Mark: Once I arrived at the emergency room, I was given a CT scan and within 20 minutes the doctor delivered the news. I had a golf ball-size tumor and it was serious. What happened next was like riding on an awful carnival ride. The feeling of shock and bewilderment we will never forget. Was the Dr. kidding? Surely he was just kidding...

I was immediately transported by ambulance an hour north to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Hospital. All I recall was the muffled sounds, the darkness, the whir of the tires speeding up the highway.

Hannah: My mom delivered the news the next morning. She told me the doctors believed his illness could be attributed to something inside his head. I almost started laughing. Something in his head? I remembered a time when I was little, when my dad would stick pretzels in his nose to make me and my sister laugh. What'd he do, get pretzels lost in his brain? I thought. "Mom what are you talking about?" I asked.

She answered with a word that changed my life. A word I would hear a million times in the days to come, and a word I still think about every day, and will think about forever: "A tumor."

All I remember after that is uncontrollable crying, for hours, up until we drove up to the hospital to visit my dad, when my mom told me I needed to be strong for him. I was so scared to see him. It meant that the tumor was real and that I was not stuck in some crazy nightmare.

He was heavily medicated, because the tumor was putting pressure on his brain, causing him immense agony. He faded in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he would vomit, cry, and ramble drunkenly about rainbows and unicorns. When he was asleep, he would curl into a crumpled ball, pale and weak.

Mark: I was stuck in a car crash which never seemed to end. I awoke, groggily, to a cacophonous riot of hospital machines, telephones, pagers, and people speaking softly and sometimes loudly, bright lights, a blur of sound and movement, and most painfully, the look of shock, fear and worry washing over my family. All I could do was think of my two daughters. I didn't want to die. Not now. I'm not ready, I thought. The pressure on my brain was expanding. I was told later I had less than a week to live before the tumor, with no room left to expand, would have herniated into my brain stem, killing me instantly.

The tears welling up in Hannah's eyes as she looked on with confusion and fear were the most devastating. I thought of Libby, away at camp, not knowing any of this. "What was happening to my dad?" Hannah seemed to be saying without even speaking.

Hannah: In the 10 hours I spent at the hospital that day, I watched my dad decline from bad to worse. He needed more medication every hour, woke up less, and became paler, more delirious, and more uncomfortable. The only part of his body that had any color was his neck, where the bleeding from his brain was pooling. I understood then that if that tumor was not removed as soon as possible, my dad would not be alive much longer. The surgery was moved to the next morning. Saying goodbye was the hardest. I begged to sleep at the hospital, but neither the doctors nor my family would allow it. I was positive that if I left, it would be the last kiss goodnight I would ever share with my father.

Mark: But, I did make it through the night, and at 6 the next morning my skull was opened up, the tumor removed, titanium screws and plates inserted, and sewn back up.

Hannah: His surgery finished with no complications, and I was rushed into the recovery room to visit him. My dad was awake and ready to party. He was cracking jokes to the staff, and to the other patients, trying to make friends and have fun.

I remember this as one of the happiest moments of my life. The trials of the past day were over, and my dad and my life were both almost back to normal. Until, a few hours later, when the doctor returned with the diagnosis of the tumor.

Mark: Stage 3 brain cancer. Anaplastic ependymoma, to be specific. An already rare cancer, it occurs over 95 percent of the time in children. Not much information for the doctors to work with. What the doctors do know is that the cancer is incurable and is a lifelong diagnosis. They said despite all efforts to radiate it, the tumor will eventually grow back, and could be operated on again, but not radiated again. There is no other treatment, save for experimental trials for which I will be eligible when the tumor returns. We didn't know when the tumor will come back. It could be in a year, it could be in 5, 10 years or more.

Hannah: The doctor hadn't even finished explaining before I was gone. I ran from the room, and cried on my mom's shoulder for a very long time. "He'll never see me graduate, never see me get a job, never walk me down the aisle, never meet his grandchildren." She didn't deny it like I wanted her to, but instead told me advice everyone should live by. "You can't live your life worrying about the future." It took me a long time to accept this, but it became easier when my dad returned home a few days later. He recovered quickly, and soon, his illness was almost forgotten.

Mark: Until several weeks later, I had a second brain surgery to remove the remnants of the tumor. At the end of this week, I will complete 33 treatments of radiation therapy to kill what they can of the cancerous tissue which remains. I will have, for the rest of my life, to monitor things with tests and MRI's. It is the emotional mountains which appear to be the steepest. Cancer is a sinister disease and will now always be lurking within.

Hannah: I was already back at NMH when my dad had the second surgery, and I felt enormous guilt for not being at home to support him. But I quickly realized that I was not alone. My story is one in over 11.7 million. The story I just told happens every day to countless families around the globe every day. In the time I've been talking, 4 people have died in US because of Cancer. And I can guarantee that every single person in this room will be affected by cancer at some point in their lifetime. And maybe some of you already have been.

This was my inspiration to start the Cancer Support Team. To support kids on campus who have been affected by cancer, and also to support cancer patients in every way we can. The cancer team has already raised almost $5,000 dollars for cancer, and this past weekend participated in a cancer walk in Greenfield.

There are a number of ways you can get involved in fighting cancer, and helping prevent any more of these stories from happening. Whether you want to commit to joining the 50 of us who are part of the cancer team, or make it a 1-time thing, there is a force in numbers.

This month, we will be selling t-shirts and also holding a haircutting event if you would like to donate your hair to cancer or even shave your head to show your support.

As most of you are aware, this month was breast cancer month. But tomorrow is the first day of November; I would like to bring attention to the most fatal cancer, lung cancer. The lung cancer color is white. Please show your support by participating in an all school white out. Thank you."

"In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life
In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life"
– Awake My Soul, Mumford and Sons

Mark R. Green, 44, lives in the small New England village of Walpole, NH with his two daughters and partner Barb as well as Aiden, the floppy standard poodle, and Molly, the diminutive but fierce Yorkshire Terrier. His sister is an editor for the National Comprehensive Cancer Network.

He was diagnosed last year with stage 3 anaplastic ependymoma brain cancer and underwent two surgeries and completed 33 radiation treatments on 11/11/11.

He counts among his many hobbies a love of music, food, literature, writing, bicycling, skiing, kayaking, fishing, canoeing, hiking and travel. His recent brain surgeries and stage 3 brain cancer diagnosis has given him additional energy to pursue with passion the need to raise awareness of all things brain cancer and cancer in general: from funding needs to helping those with few resources gain the tools they need to cope with what is surely an illness which upsets the balance of life itself. His blog is http://moosevt.wordpress.com.

[Mark Green with his daughters Hannah (left) and Elizabeth]

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• The cushion of silence
• Cancer apps

The cushion of silence

BY GUEST BLOGGER | JANUARY 17, 2012

Waiting ... more waiting.

The cushion of silence envelops all those waiting in this room marred only by the intrusion of names called, the sound of pens on paper filling out forms, a low buzz from the vending machines. There is solace in the quiet, and as I look around I wonder about all of those who are sharing this room, seeking refuge in months-old magazines and the steady ticking of time; the hushed whisper of communication barely audible. Ronnie is knee deep into a magazine. I check the date. February, 2010. No wonder it looks faded.

What brings the others to this room? My mind wanders. I spend my waiting time trying to guess. For some, there is no question. Others aren't so clear. An older gentleman and his wife. Without the tell-tale bracelet I would have never known which was the patient. They aren't smiling nor are they talking. Is it cancer? Or some other malady? They are called back, and I'll never know. An entire family surrounds a young woman in a wheelchair with a cast that encompasses the length of her leg. Another family enters and breaks the silence. The kids bounce about and there is a fit of coughing. Happily, there is a young mom-to-be with her husband by her side. They are smiling, about to embark on a journey of their own that brings back a flood of joyous memories. Their wait will end and begin with miracles.

The waiting room is difficult for me today. Time is almost standing still. I'm ready to be done with this part of my day and to go home to normal. The normal for my family that is normal to no others and yet so many others. My name is finally called, and I begin to focus on my own reason for being here. Simple enough. Ronnie squeezes my hand. He can sense my mood without sharing a syllable. This has become routine - another normal - in so many ways. We have a balance, and he somehow knows when talking will bring me to tears and silence will provide unspoken comfort. So, true to form, he sits by my side and offers what brings me that peace: a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold and the reassurance of knowing that he's beside me.

A stent replacement is no longer considered a battle. It's just a part of the journey. The list of what ifs that have forced me to sign on the bottom line barely make us blink. There is much more in the balance than what now seems like the improbable possibilities of a procedure like this. But for some reason I'm overly emotional. Will speaking my fears make them come true? Will whispering my hopes convince the world to share my optimism?

Somewhere, someday I'll discover why my mind doesn't always let me talk in a waiting room, even when I know that just writing the words or speaking them aloud won't change anything. Until then I will be thankful for that squeeze of the hand and be content with the quiet comfort of togetherness and the cushion of silence.

Suzanne Lindley has been living with metastatic colorectal cancer since 1998. She is the founder of YES, an organization for individuals living with metastatic liver tumors, and an advocate for C3: Colorectal Cancer Coalition.

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter
• Cancer apps

A very special corgi

BY GUEST BLOGGER | NOVEMBER 21, 2011

Wow. We were in corgi heaven.

When we arrived, there were puppies in the front yard to greet us, and basically just corgis everywhere. The owners brought Cane in the house to meet us and we fell in love instantly. He was 3 years old, beautiful, playful, funny and obsessed with his toy. We passed inspection, and it was agreed that we would be Cane's new forever family. We were so happy. As we started on the long five-hour drive home with Cane in the back of the car all the "what if" thoughts kept creeping into my head and I began questioning our decision. My husband Steve kept telling me everything would be fine.

You see, I was having an imaging scan the next day to see if my breast cancer had returned. I was initially diagnosed in January 2006 and had gone through the standard treatment: bilateral mastectomy, chemo, radiation and tamoxifen. It was discovered in one of my follow-up scans that I had kidney stones, which were thought to be the result of my chemotherapy treatments. They were not causing any problems, and due to their size we decided to just do the watch and wait approach. That meant a kidney CT scan every year, no big deal right? Well, my urologist informed me after my scan in April 2009 that something was showing up on my liver - definitely not what I was expecting to hear.

A few days later we learned everything was not fine and that my breast cancer had metastasized to my liver and numerous lymph nodes. We were shocked, scared, angry and just plain terrified. The first time I had a fear of the treatment more than dying; now I was stage 4 and I most likely will die from breast cancer. Then I started thinking about Cane and wondering if we did the right thing. Were we crazy bringing home a new dog into our home when I was going back into treatment? How would I have time for him? Would it be fair to him?

Well little did we know, but he would end up being the best thing we could have done. Right from the start he was such a comfort to both Steve and me. He was by my side every day and never expected anything from me other than love. He put a smile on my face even when I didn't feel like smiling. He got me up and moving for short walks or just outside to throw the ball for him. He seemed to know when I wasn't feeling well and that sometimes I just needed the comfort of his head resting on my lap.

After six months and a good response from my treatments, I was able to switch to a more tolerable treatment and I began feeling better and having more energy. Cane seemed to sense my improvement and with that we also saw a change in him. He was still his lovable, attentive self, but now he seemed to have a whole new attitude and was always raring to go at the drop of a hat. Cane is so amazing and such a joy to have around; he will always have a very special place in my heart.

But there is always more love to go around. We got another corgi in August 2010. Her name is Poppet, and she is the same age as Cane and lived with him in their previous home. She is a sweetie and makes our home complete. I believe both Cane and Poppet have enriched our lives and helped us to cope with the reality of my cancer and that treatments will now probably be a forever thing since I have metastatic cancer.

They are the best therapy I could ask for and I am happy to say that my last scan in July 2011 showed no evidence of disease. We are enjoying life to the fullest, and our corgis are with us every step of the way.

Gail and her two corgis, Poppet and Cane.

Gail Lemberger, 52, from Camarillo, Calif., is a wife and mother with a 27-year-old son. She was first diagnosed with breast cancer in Jan. 2006 and then metastatic breast cancer in June 2009. She is a participant and volunteer at The Wellness Community Valley/Ventura.

Editor's note: Do you have a story of how a pet helped you heal? Submit a photo and brief description and we'll share your story with CURE readers <Submit your photo here>. Also, stay tuned for an upcoming article on how pets help us during and after a cancer diagnosis.

• Make a difference
• For the Cure to a broken heart
• An update on the Cancer Genome Atlas for breast cancer
• Video blog: Test could spare some DCIS patients from radiation
• Video blog: HER2-targeted agents

Do you need a career coach?

BY GUEST BLOGGER | SEPTEMBER 20, 2011

I am often surprised by how few people really understand how a career coach can help. With the recent recession, more and more people are hiring career coaches because they have lost their jobs or have gone through a life-altering situation such as surviving cancer.

First off, it is important to note that a career coach does not find you a job. This means that he or she does not get on the phone and make calls for you to find job openings and usually cannot influence a hiring manager to interview you. In other words, a career coach does not perform the functions of a recruiter or headhunter.

However, there are so many things that a career coach can do to assist you in your job search or, if need be, change careers.

A coach can help you bolster or rebuild your confidence. As a cancer survivor, you have dealt with one of the most serious challenges of all – your health. All of your energy has been focused on your treatment, constant scans and doctors' visits and getting healthy. Because of this, it's likely that you have paid less attention to your career or professional development. This may cause you to feel insecure about your abilities and the value that you can bring to a new employer or even your existing employer after a leave of absence.

Once your career coach learns about you and your work history and achievements, they can remind you of these accomplishments and help you to articulate the value you bring to an employer on paper and in an interview.

Surviving cancer often changes your life priorities dramatically, including deciding what kind of work you choose to do moving forward. A career coach can help you with your overall career strategy as well as your job search planning. Hiring a professional to help you look at the big picture is very useful because you will be introduced to different perspectives that you may not have thought of on your own. It's also possible that you haven't looked for a job in a long time and many aspects of the job search have changed, such as using LinkedIn and the way you write your resume.

A career coach can advise you on some of the most common issues cancer survivors face, such as how to handle questions about time gaps on your resume as well as potentially illegal or inappropriate questions you may be asked during an interview.

Networking with people is the number one method for uncovering job opportunities, yet it can be an awkward skill to learn. A career coach can teach you the elements of effective networking, including how to meet new people and what to say to them, networking etiquette and different ways to cultivate relationships and follow-through to reap results. Your coach can share their contacts with you as well.

Interviewing for a job can be nerve-wracking, and a skilled career coach can actually conduct a mock interview with you while helping you to come up with great responses to tough interview questions such as, "Tell me about yourself" or "What would your last manager say your biggest weaknesses are?"

As you can see, the list of topics that a career coach can give you advice about is endless. Equally as important is the support you receive and an objective sounding board that you have with a career coach.

Julie Jansen is a career coach in the greater New York City area. In addition to private career coaching services (juliejansen.net), she also serves as a pro bono career coach on cancerandcareers.org. Cancer and Careers is a non-profit resource that offers help balancing work and cancer during or after cancer treatment.

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter
• The cushion of silence

Celebrating 13 years of unexpected blessings

BY GUEST BLOGGER | SEPTEMBER 16, 2011

It is surreal to be spending a weekend at the Emmys and on the red carpet. It's also incredible to be a guest at Debbie Durkin's ECO Emmy Celebrity Chateau. It's a special event where I am fortunate to be sharing hope and awareness that it is possible to live with advanced cancer. Today is my 13th cancerversary.

I learned on this day 13 years ago that not only did I have colon cancer at the age of 31, but that it had already spread to my liver. My life and the lives of those around me were forever changed.

At times it seems like those words came only yesterday. In reality 4,742 days, 113,808 hours, 13 different chemotherapy agents (mixed, matched and revisited), three clinical trials, radiation (external, internal and targeted), Sir-spheres, vertebroplasty and Cyberknife have crossed my path since then. My children have spent more than half of their lives living in the shadow of cancer. Ronnie and I have shared more years with cancer than we have without. So this anniversary is not just mine. It is theirs as well.

Thirteen years with cancer may sound dismal to some. Our lives, however, are rich. We have discovered strength through vulnerability. We have learned to meet and overcome challenges without flinching. Dreams have come to fruition in the midst of chaos and fear; with a diagnosis that means dying is inevitable and living long unlikely. Time together - that wasn't supposed to be - has been forever etched with cherished milestones and treasured memories.

We carefully watched our children grow; their progress joyfully carved into a doorframe. Childhood friends matured with them and we witnessed their progress, too, and cheered the growth. We marveled at their accomplishments. Winters turned to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall, and then the cycle began again. Wonder filled our days. Moonlit rides, camping trips, picnics and fun brought vitality to the gloom of cancer. Growing pains came and went. Empty nest syndrome took over. Then a three-year-old bundle of love refilled the nest and reminded us once again that life is full of surprises!

Friends and a special angel or two touched our lives, many that without cancer we would have never met. Others have been by our side through thick and thin, reaching out like a beacon in the dark. Help also came from organizations such as Colon Cancer Alliance, Fight Colorectal Cancer, American Cancer Society and LiveSTRONG where I met survivors and discovered the importance of self-advocacy. Without the support and guidance of both, I wouldn't be here today.

Still, living with terminal cancer had lonely moments. It became a personal goal to make sure that others in a situation like mine knew that there were options, support and hope – to know that they weren't alone. This prompted me to start YES! Beat Liver Tumors. What began as a small group of friends has blossomed to close a huge void for thousands that are affected by liver tumors. We inspire, encourage and share hope. We celebrate and laugh together, curse and cry together. We have comforted each other through losses and buoyed one another through victories. Together, we have learned how important it is to embrace each moment as it comes.

Every breath is a blessing. My blessings have been abundant... 13 years of precious time. Today we are celebrating my approximately 136,510,200 unexpected blessings of breath!

Suzanne Lindley has been living with metastatic colorectal cancer since 1998. She is the founder of YES, an organization for individuals living with metastatic liver tumors, and an advocate for C3: Colorectal Cancer Coalition.

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter
• The cushion of silence

First day of school

BY GUEST BLOGGER | AUGUST 29, 2011

September 1, 2009
Morning

It is my oldest son's first day of kindergarten, or really his first hour of kindergarten. My husband and I are taking him to be "oriented" to his classroom in anticipation for the real start tomorrow, sans parents. Given there is no separation involved in this orienting hour, I am aghast when tears begin spilling from my eyes, striping my cheeks. "We have made it to kindergarten," I tell myself. I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes.

My son, Harry, and I walk hand in hand down the corridor as kids and parents bustle about, the enthusiasm and excitement palpable. The 1600's brick school house is quintessential New England and quintessential kindergarten. Its large wooden windows are cracked a little, just enough to waif in the nippy fall air. The classroom walls are laden with 5-year-old art, its shelves lined with bottles of Elmer's glue, small red and white milk cartons and colored plastic trays. Memories of kindergarten 35 years ago come flooding back.

"Mom, are you staying with me today?" Harry asks for the third time of the day.

"Yes, honey, Mommy is not going anywhere." I shudder at the irony of the words.

My husband, having arrived by separate car, spots us coming down the hall and notices my tears. He gives me a nod that suggests he understands my typical mother-letting-go-of-son emotions. What I cannot utter, for fear of dissolving in front of my son, husband and a multitude of composed parents, is that my tears are not about letting go of my son as he enters kindergarten, but of complete joy and gratitude for being able to let him go. I had played this very scene over and over again in my mind, praying every day, all day, that I would be blessed to act it out. Here I am. Alive and cancer-free after my lymphoma diagnosis two years ago. Thank you, God.

Evening

I drive 30 miles north to glorious New Castle Island, NH, to pick up my nephews, Brad and Adam, for some back-to-school shopping. Adam is starting his freshman year of college and Brad his junior year. As they approach the car, I am struck by their stature, each over six feet tall.

"Are you registered for all your classes?" I ask Brad as we drive toward the department store.

"Yup," he replies as he checks his email on his BlackBerry.

"Don't forget to go to Health Services to check on your health care coverage, you have a doctor's appointment next week. We need to make sure you are still covered by your school insurance."

"Yeah, will do," he replies as his thumbs move quickly across his phone's keyboard. As we enter the department store, we separate. I head for the toddlers and boys section and they head to mens. I watch them go, remembering with a familiar ache when my sister and I would shop for them in toddlers and boys.

We leave the department store, exhausted and hungry, with carts overflowing with bedding, towels, and speakers – all later to be housed in dorm rooms.

"I'm starving," says Adam as he surfs on his iPod.

"How about Flatbreads," suggests Brad.

"Sweet," replies Adam, and I steer the car in the direction of the local pizzeria.

"How did Harry like his first day of kindergarten?" Brad asked as the waitress brings the large chicken and artichoke pizza, small white, and large garden salad. Man, can they eat.

We talk about Harry's teacher, the school bus and his new found ability to run faster in his brand new Nikes. I'm careful not to mention my tears.

"Thanks so much, Kit," Brad says as we finish every last bite of food.

"Yeah, Kit, thank you for everything," echoes Adam.

"Of course," I say as I raise my glass to them. It is hard to believe it is exactly five years ago today that my sister died of breast cancer. "Your mom would be so proud of the two of you starting school. And, I know she'd want us to be together tonight. I love you both so much."

For the second time of the day, my eyes well with tears, as her sons' eyes, no longer scanning their Blackberry and iPod, lock mine. My heart swells with love, loss and deep gratitude for being alive to share in their first day of school, too.

Kit E. Haber, PsyD, is a non-Hodgkin lymphoma survivor and a carrier of the BRAC1 gene. She aspires to share her stories of loss and challenge through writing in order to help others move forward through similar experiences. She resides in Saint Augustine, Fla., with her husband and three young sons. She is a licensed clinical psychologist and executive coach and can be reached at kithaber@gmail.com.

• Make a difference
• For the Cure to a broken heart
• An update on the Cancer Genome Atlas for breast cancer
• Video blog: Test could spare some DCIS patients from radiation
• Video blog: HER2-targeted agents

Tanning cream boasts it “triples the power of the sun”

BY GUEST BLOGGER | AUGUST 19, 2011

Although it hasn't developed a huge following in the United States, Sunny 3, a revolutionary tanning cream that "triples the power of the sun on your skin," has taken Sweden, and most recently the UK, by storm. Due to Sunny 3's unbelievable results, consumers in Sweden have started throwing night tanning parties in order to obtain their unnatural glow--a trend dominated by the nation's youth. Thanks to multiple "night tanning" videos on YouTube and the international grapevine, it wasn't long before residents in the UK flocked to the Sunny 3 website to order their very own "miracle" product.

The only problem is, once your eager--and presumably pale-- finger clicks "Send!" the screen goes blank. And after the processing order pinwheel fades, the screen is flashed with text that reveals, "There is no such thing as Sunny 3."

That's right, the product is a fake. And the motive behind the elaborate scheme is revealed as you continue watching your hijacked screen. After the initial message fades another takes its place: "And there is no such thing as a safe suntan." Fade. "Sunburn leads to skin cancer." This message is then joined by seven graphic images of skin cancer that concludes with the tagline: "7 people die from it every day. To avoid being one of them, please visit www.skcin.org."

The Karen Clifford Skin Cancer Charity (Skcin), one of the masterminds behind the detailed hoax, is the UK's only skin cancer-specific charity, according to its website. Teaming up with McCann Erickson, an international advertising powerhouse, the organization crafted a thorough plot in order to reach the at-risk youth market. From posting dozens of videos on YouTube, most notably a false news report (see below) on the dangers associated with the new evening craze, to setting up fake accounts on social media sites like Twitter and Facebook and creating an intricate website full of smiling, sun-kissed clientele, Skcin did everything it could to lure in its target audience. And although the website was just launched a few weeks ago, more than 14,000 unsuspecting customers have already tried to order the fictitious product.

So after all is spammed and done, Skcin is left hoping that their effort will be effective. What do you think? Would this campaign have worked on you? Would you have fallen for it?

Taylor Walker, a graduate of the magazine journalism program at the University of Missouri-Columbia, is a summer editorial intern with CURE.

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter
• The cushion of silence

Telling your story

BY GUEST BLOGGER | AUGUST 12, 2011

A brain cancer diagnosis is a life-changing experience. Some choose to deal with it by sharing details only with their immediate family. Others choose to share their experience with their closest friends.

I took a different route.

After experiencing my first seizure, I was taken to the hospital where I learned I'd be having brain surgery in three days. Rather than freak out and cry, the first thing I did was send a text message to my 50 "closest" friends.

After sending this mass electronic announcement, I soon realized I put myself in a situation where everyone needed to know my status at all times. Word about my condition spread like wildfire.

Did I owe my friends frequent status updates? No.

Did I want to share my crazy experience with all my friends? Oddly, yes.

To keep the information flowing and make communication easier, I started a public blog where my friends could follow my medical journey.

After a while, I wasn't just blogging for my friends; I was blogging for my own personal gratification. It certainly was satisfying looking back at the end of my first year with cancer and reading old posts from my first and second brain surgeries.

I re-learned how to walk and maintain balance? My, how far I'd come!

It wasn't until a year and half after I started blogging that I realized I wasn't just writing for me and my friends anymore. Due to the wonders of the Internet, my blog was now reaching other people--people I didn't even know, people from across the country and around the world.

At first I thought I was cool. Wow, I must be a great writer!

But then I realized how rare it is for someone with brain cancer to be doing well, going back to "normal" life and moving on--especially during treatment.

People affected by brain cancer--patients, friends, caregivers--are looking for stories from those who make it out alive. Sure, they get opinions and direction from the medical community, but the only people who can provide a glimpse into what life is like are warriors battling it out on the front lines.

The sad reality is that it is rare for people with brain cancer to connect and find others like them.

I live in Sacramento, the state capitol of California, and the number of breast cancer support groups out number brain tumor groups 25 to 1. Notice I wrote "brain tumor" groups. Those with benign and malignant tumors are grouped together because there aren't enough of us to be separated into different groups.

So what do we do about this lack of support?

If only one out of three adults diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor today will be alive in five years, then the opportunity for survivors to share their stories and help others is low.*

Whether we are survivors or are still undergoing treatment, it is our responsibility to tell our stories and let other know we are still alive."

As for my blog, I'm now writing for the person freaking out because they got diagnosed today. I'm writing for the guy who is about to go into brain surgery tomorrow morning.

I'm writing for the mother of two, who's on Temodar and Avastin, and can no longer breastfeed her three-month old.

I'm blogging for people just finishing treatment, going back to a "normal" life, still freaking out the day before their next MRI scan.

I'm blogging for those who take comfort in knowing that there is someone else out there who knows how they feel.

Liz Salmi is a brain cancer blogger, neuro-geek, healthcare sympathizer, design ninja and all around badass. You can read her blog, "The Liz Army" at thelizarmy.com .

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Not as I pictured

BY GUEST BLOGGER | AUGUST 9, 2011

John Kaplan, a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist, shares his journey with non-Hodgkin lymphoma and how producing Not As I Pictured: A Pulitzer Prize-winning Photographer's Journey Through Lymphoma helped him through it.

As a well-known photojournalist, I was used to documenting life's challenges and even the worst that life could offer a human being. In my more than 25-year career, I had covered revolution in the Philippines, the worst tornadoes to hit the U.S. in a century and many other devastating circumstances.

Journalists who cover such real-life drama can fall into an easy trap of believing we are invincible, that the life challenges faced by our subjects will not happen to us. Of course that is not true, but even at age 48, I had never truly faced my own vulnerability.

I had rarely been ill, so when a routine CT scan revealed a kidney tumor and an eventual rare diagnosis of non-Hodgkin lymphoma growing inside me, picking up my cameras was the last thing on my mind. But, initially as a way to cope with my fear, I began photographing and shooting video of myself through the treatment process. It was a distraction from the tough realities I faced. I soon realized that if I was able to go into remission - and I hoped and prayed that I would - I knew our family's story could lend hope and courage to others facing a cancer diagnosis.

The result is Not As I Pictured, a 54-minute feature-length documentary film. Despite the serious topic, Not As I Pictured is easy to watch, and even humorous at times. Universally, cancer patients and their families tell us they feel better after watching it.

I am now happily in remission. As a newly diagnosed patient, I learned that you have to find strength you never knew you had and somehow forge a positive attitude. In my opinion, you need science, of course, but you also need a strong belief system. For many of us, that centers around family and faith.

With today's tremendous advances in cancer research and treatment, you have to believe you can beat it. It's not the statistics that are most important. It's your will, your belief and your attitude. Simple joys suddenly mean everything.

With the goal of giving away 10,000 free copies of Not As I Pictured for personal use to anyone touched by cancer (including medical professionals), I hope to share the message that so many cancers today, including some lymphomas, are beginning to be treated as a chronic illness, rather than a death sentence as in years gone by.

When suddenly faced with a life-threatening illness, I had no idea that so many positive things could come forth from such devastating news. This has been at the core of my motivation to make the film.

Many cancers today are not only treatable, they are beatable. During my treatment, we received so much unexpected help along the way, often from strangers. By giving away Not As I Pictured, I'm determined to give some of that back. The film is for patients, their caregivers and survivors, but importantly, also for the medical community, too.

As a professor at the University of Florida, I knew that for oncology professionals to embrace our humanitarian goals for the film, before releasing it, we first needed to do extensive focus group testing with oncologists, medical students, patients, caregivers and survivors. The result has been universal, enthusiastic support. Hospitals, medical practices and survivorship programs across the country are already using Not As I Pictured in professional use to help their patients and clients as well.

For medical humanities education, the film is generating tremendous interest as a teaching tool to impart a concept of growing importance, Humanism in Medicine. The movement seeks to understand the patient as a person, focusing on individual values, goals and preferences with respect to clinical decisions.

We have also had simply amazing support within the music community. Well-known musicians have donated music for the film including Michael Stipe and R.E.M., Chris Martin of Coldplay, David Bowie, will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, Pantera and the Cowboy Junkies.

Having judged more than 200 competitions, including the Pulitzer, I know what a cliché many cancer stories can be. But, when you get cancer, you don't feel like a cliché, you just pray you can beat it. Thus, Not As I Pictured does indeed confront the cliché, and hopefully takes the film to a meaningful level for viewers.

As my oncologist, Dr. James Lynch of Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida says, 'with some cancers you never know.' I don't spend time dwelling on that. I'm just glad I'm here for my family, here for my students and know the Not As I Pictured project will truly help other people face the challenges of a cancer diagnosis.

From the moment I learned it was cancer and had to wrestle with all of the emotions that come with that sinister word, this thought came to me. I repeat it out loud to myself each day:

'Every day is a blessing. Every day is a gift."

Not As I Pictured will be broadcast nationwide on PBS stations this fall. Visit NotAsIPictured.org to view the two-minute film trailer, order a free copy for personal use or inquire about having John to speak at community events. At screening events, community-wide cancer-coping roundtable discussions are often held following the film, featuring oncologists, survivorship experts and survivors. To join the online conversation about the film, visit facebook.com/NotAsIPictured.

• Two new drugs approved, one pulled from the pipeline
• Cancer screening rates low
• A call for more pancreatic cancer research
• An introduction to cancer: From a father and his daughter
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Walking the cancer journey

BY GUEST BLOGGER | JULY 28, 2011

As an intern, I'm up for anything. Except for getting coffee. I don't do coffee. Okay, if you asked, I'd get the coffee, but I wouldn't be happy about it! The point is, I'm eager to please and game for anything. So when I found out that a devoted reader from India would be visiting the CURE office on Tuesday, I leapt at the opportunity to interview them. I expected to meet someone who was just interested in a tour and a quick hello, but what I got was an afternoon of enlightenment from a man who has made walking the cancer journey with others his life's mission.

Niranjan Parikh has never had cancer. In fact, at 74, he says he's never even experienced a headache--a fact he attributes to his healthy lifestyle. Yet he's dedicated the past 17 years to counseling cancer patients at Mumbai's Tata Memorial Hospital, one of the largest cancer centers on the subcontinent. More than 50,000 new cancer patients visit the hospital each year and Niranjan, who volunteers his time, is half of a two-person team that supervises the entire pediatric volunteer and social worker support group. For the past five years, in addition to his work with the pediatric oncology division, he has facilitated Ugam, a group of childhood cancer survivors. You might think that such a heavy patient load would diminish his enthusiasm, but Niranjan spends five days a week providing what he calls "the biggest and most important role" of cancer care: communication.

As many of our readers know, when it comes to cancer, communication is everything. From understanding your disease and treatment options, to passing the information onto family members and loved ones, communication is an essential and daily part of the cancer journey. So in a country where the patient population speaks more than 14 languages, Niranjan and the medical team definitely have their hands full. Niranjan needs to be able to explain to the patients what's happening to them, which is why he says CURE is like a bible to him, due to the educative value found within. He says that he reads every issue and when the opportunity presents itself, he passes the information onto the family in need.

Niranjan, who has traveled to the US every June for the past 10 years or so, spends his time stateside visiting family members and volunteering at prominent cancer organizations to observe how they function and translate that knowledge back to India. It was during his stint at The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society in California that he found his first issue of CURE. He says he was so impressed by the information provided that he was instantly hooked. After attending a live conference back in 2007, he kept in touch with CURE staff, which is how he wound up at our office on Tuesday afternoon.

And although I learned a lot during the short amount of time I spent with Niranjan, the thing I'll take away from our encounter is his passion for what he does. He told me that from childhood, he had no desire for money and material things, however pleasurable, because such pleasures are temporary. Rather, he found lasting joy in serving others.

So no matter where you are in your own cancer journeys, I hope you, like Niranjan, have found your joy.

Taylor Walker, a graduate of the magazine journalism program at the University of Missouri-Columbia, is a summer editorial intern with CURE.

To contact, Niranjan Parikh, please email him at niranjan1937@gmail.com.

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