Steve Rubin

At just thirty years old, Steve was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a rare and aggressive bone cancer. The journey has taken him through chemotherapy, multiple surgeries, and many different avenues of holistic health. An avid blogger, Steve shares his personal health regimens as well as love of music, movies and sports in his writing. Follow along his quest for wellness as he reacclimates into the world in spite of daunting statistics. You can connect with Steve on Instagram 

After almost a year without travel, cooped up in our one-bedroom Manhattan apartment and warding off COVID-19 like the bubonic plague, my wife, Kori, and I were gifted a massive upgrade in scenery heading into Labor Day weekend.

Everything just sort of fell into place. A friend traveling out of town offered her house in the charming, remote North Fork region of Long Island. Then my parents chipped in, lending us their car. And just like that, we were off and running. Stumbling upon a well needed getaway.

The first night set the tone right away. We’d arrived just in time to sit back on the deck overlooking the bay and catch a magical, breathtaking sunset. “Cheers,” we said, smiling and clinking our wine glasses. Five years of struggling through cancer, we’d damn well earned this moment.

Meanwhile, we hadn’t really seen people since the pandemic. Kori and I have kept ultra conservative, refusing to venture out much because of my health issues. But now, with a larger, more controlled environment to work with, we were able to host family with less risk.

And oh man, did it feel great to reconnect! To finally hang out in person, interacting with actual human life after so much isolation. We caught up, bantered away for hours and took advantage of local wine, produce, and seafood.

Then came the heavier stuff. The heart to hearts, talks of future plans and what not.

You see, things are changing … There’d already been discussion of my parents and sister all relocating, so when the topic came up it wasn’t breaking news, but for a guy who’s gotten used to, and frankly, relied on having family within earshot distance, it’s been a lot to process.

As a cancer fighter, my family has been my anchor; one of few stable forces amid endless chaos. On the other hand, I never want to be their anchor, in the sense of holding them in place.

Generally speaking, I imagine that when you’ve acted as caretaker for someone you love, it’s difficult to leave them; that just the thought might bring on feelings of guilt. That’s what happens when you’re a good person. But we’ve all got to live our own lives and not make decisions for anyone else. And in this case, while any changes will call for an adjustment period, Kori and I are used to taking things one day at a time and figuring out how to best play our cards along the way.

Eventually, the deck just gets reshuffled.

For now, we soaked up the time we had together. Made the memories. Got it all in. There will be new opportunities and experiences unfolding down the line, I’m sure of it. Change is part of the game and adapting is well worth the effort, because if there’s one thing that the COVID-19 pandemic has proven, it’s that life is most fun when you get to share it with others.

Well, that and when a friend unexpectedly gifts you a dream house in the North Fork.

Articles

We arrived in a remote region of Long Island just in time to sit back on the deck overlooking the bay and catch a magical, breathtaking sunset. Five years of struggling through cancer, we’d damn well earned this moment. 

Anchors and Sunsets: A Magical Getaway from Cancer

I usually spend my weekend mornings enjoying a nice, strong cup of coffee while catching up on a television show or my latest book – which is accompanied by some great tunes, of course. Kori, my wife, likes to sleep in and I’ll have the living room to myself, unless Penny Lane, our furry, 10-pound poodle decides to pop out and crash the party.

I’ve always cherished my mornings; the day is full of potential and there’s not yet quite a rush to get to all the responsibilities. It’s only morning, after all.

On a recent weekend, I remember brimming with a sense of delight. The night before, Kori and I rearranged our living room. Clutter had been removed, the overall vibe had been brightened, lightened and minimized. This was a big deal. And oh baby, as the light poured in through our new curtains, the significance of what we’d accomplished, and overall impact struck me like lightening.

My nervous system felt it, and the smile resting happily upon my face represented it. It was one of those moments that sticks with you.

For years, Kori and I have been struggling to keep our heads afloat along my cancer journey. When it comes to survival in this arena, people tend to first think of treatment like chemo, radiation and surgeries. Then there’s the physical and mental/emotional therapists. They all play a role and I’ve found each a necessary cog in the wheel along my own quest for wellness. But what had eluded us, and not without great consequence, was the damage the chronic illness had inflicted upon our very own apartment. Years and years of trauma, PTSD triggers, and bone-chilling memories had snuck in and festered around us like cockroaches.

Whenever Kori would come home from work to see me resting on the couch, she’d be haunted by images of me laying that same way in a neutropenic state. Any time my feet touched the carpet, it reminded me of the bomb once dropped when I’d stood there, learning of my first recurrence. The chair by the computer desk — where I sat receiving bad news regarding scans. The whole living room mess amounted to a combination of our run-down, exhausted mental states manifesting into actual physical clutter, roaming together with the toxic ghosts of emotional baggage.

Why didn’t we get to this sooner? It’s a fair question, and one that I’m sure our friends and family grew tired of asking. We knew that our apartment was causing us stress and understood what had to be done, but execution proved difficult with the all-consuming drain cancer takes on seemingly every resource at your disposal.

Whenever the rare, free moments of down time did peak out to greet us, we had nothing left to give. It became a cruel joke.

. Throughout the crippling fear, endless discouragement and overwhelming frustration, you simply must feel around for the dim light flickering inside and stoke the hell out of it. You’ve got to, more than anything else, keep that faint sense of hope alive — it’s your only hope.

And in our case, I’ve recently been blessed to experience encouraging health results. With that came a breath of fresh air that propelled us forward like the perfect wave. The occasion and inner strength finally presented themselves and allowed us to regain control of our lives and trust in a future without constant, lingering danger.

What had eluded my wife and I, and not without great consequence, was the damage cancer had inflicted upon our apartment. Years and years of trauma, PTSD triggers, and bone-chilling memories had snuck in and festered around us like cockroaches.

Coping With Cancer By Busting Clutter

Leading up to scans this week, I experienced the usual buildup of stress and anxiety. Nothing new there, especially for anyone who's faced recurrences. But for the first time, I also felt the faint sense of a different "C" word. Confidence. It may have been a result of how hard I work to earn my health every day, or just an aftereffect of receiving good news the past few scans. But, I had confidence.

I even noticed a burst of excitement at one point, a feeling totally inaccessible around scan times in the past.

On Friday's, my wife, Kori, and her best friend schedule happy hour conversations, and while they're chatting it up all night, I like to kick back and enjoy a movie along with a delicious homemade treat (fortunately for me, she likes cooking while on the phone). But right as I was sorting through movie options and getting ready to enjoy myself, the little voice in my head shut it all down.

Steve, what'd you forget about the bad scans and those disastrous consequences? Now's no time for joy. Who knows what's coming our way in just a few days. You need to stay alert and be ready. We need you gearing up for war!

Fortunately, Kori knocked some sense into me afterwards and reminded me not to torture myself like that.

I asked cancer fighters on Twitter about their coping strategies

, and reading their answers helped calm me down even more. Some even directly mentioned a conscious attempt to not let scans ruin the days leading up to it. And so despite all the PTSD that's built up over the years, I gave it an honest shot by staying loose, diving into books and keeping myself entertained. The night before scans, Kori and I enjoyed a movie, totally engrossed in the moment, keeping fear out of mind. 

Then came the big day, and unlike most occasions where I'm waiting endlessly by my phone afterwards (literally trembling in fear), the hospital called with an update right away. Scans were clear.

It was almost dream-like. And thanks to the new approach, I not only had a better overall experience, I also regained some much needed trust in the universe. Of course I'm well aware that anything can still happen around the corner, and remain as committed as ever to continued healing, but I'm making sure to soak up what happened here, because if there's another lesson I've learned on my cancer journey, it's the importance of celebrating wins along the way.

I asked fellow patients with cancer and survivors on Twitter for advice on coping strategies to combat "Scanxiety" and some suggested making a conscious attempt to not let anxiety ruin the days leading up to your next scan. I gave it a shot, and it worked. 

Don't Let Anxiety Ruin The Days Leading Up to Your Next Scan

Cancer fighters are well acquainted with loneliness, struggle and isolation.

When COVID-19 entered the scene, many of us were used to coping. The difficulty of day-to-day life increased quite a few notches, but we'd already been adapting to battle conditions. There was even a short-lived high while getting to share our tips with others in need. We've been there, folks, and for once, maybe we can help you!

As time went on, the country adjusted to a new normal without distractions. This brought out a few positives: a narrowed, consistent focus on tackling important issues like human rights and police brutality, and reminded us what's truly important. Materialism and superficial matters took a spot at the back of the line in terms of priorities.

Also, while starving for human contact, we relied on video chats and phone calls to maintain sanity. And soon enough, conversations all seemed to play out the same way: "So, what's new with you? Nothing? Me neither!" or "You're feeling bottled up and worn down? Story of my life!" No longer were cancer fighters on another planet. We were right there with you, commiserating through the hardships and sharing the latest entertainment finds to help pass the time.

Now as the country reopens (wear those masks, people!) - with holiday weekends approaching and everyone at their breaking point - I'm noticing that sense of camaraderie slip away. With trips and weekend getaways back on display over social media, and new invites thrown out left and right… people have clearly had enough and are ready to move on.

I suppose that's (hopefully) a sign of forward progress, which is a good thing. And by no means am I attempting to glamorize a world-wide pandemic, but for a short period of time - just a few months there - it sure felt great to be part of the gang again.

It's brought back warm memories of healthier days without the shackles, but more importantly, it's also served as motivation to keep my eyes on the prize and remember why I'm fighting.

No longer were cancer fighters on another planet. We were right there with you, commiserating through the hardships and sharing the latest entertainment finds to help pass the time.

Author | Steve Rubin

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