2023 Dartmouth Cancer Center Anthology: Telling Our Stories through Word and Image

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Welcome to the 2023 Anthology: Telling Our Stories through Word and Image. We are honored to present this powerful collection of creative work by patients, loved ones and staff of the Dartmouth Cancer Center. The Anthology contributors are emblematic of those who participate in our visual art, creative writing and music programs: brave, generous, and grateful to find understanding, joy and community in creative expression.

Our creative arts programs are rooted in the understanding that creative expression promotes healing and well-being. As a joint project between Dartmouth Cancer Center and Dartmouth Health Arts and Humanities Program, our multi-disciplinary team of artists provides one-on-one and group activities to people who are affected by cancer and serious illness. All are welcome to participate—no arts experience required—and our services are free of charge.

Please see the Complementary Care Program Guide or email Creative.Arts@Hitchcock.org for more information.

Having a team of artists available to our patients and their families is a rare opportunity, made possible through the support of philanthropy. We thank the Cancer Center Administration, the Friends of Dartmouth Cancer Center and the individual donors who make possible a patient arts program through which so many benefit. In addition, we are grateful to the DH Arts and Humanities Program and Marianne Barthel, whose resourceful vision increases our capacity to reach patients throughout Dartmouth Health.

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We also thank YOU for honoring our artists with your attention. To have one’s artistic expression witnessed, listened to or seen by others is a profound gift. The contributors to this Anthology submitted their work with you in mind—we hope you feel the support of our larger community. You are not alone.

To those who created with us this year: we saw, heard, and were changed for the better by your creative power. Thank you for your willingness to share a part of yourself with all of us; we dedicate this Anthology to you.

With Gratitude,

Andrea, Michelle, Kim, Marjorie and Margaret Andrea Buccellato, Program Manager Michelle B. Davis, Program Specialist Marjorie Gellhorn Sa’adah, Creative Writer Kim Wenger Hall, Visual Artist Margaret Stephens, Therapeutic Harpist

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THE FEASTING TREE Kathryn Adams They gather around the yellow birch her bark perforated in puncture wounds rows and rows around and around the trunk holes punched thru layers of outer bark tan inner bark and cambium connecting to the sap flow traveling up the trunk of the injured tree from roots to green above of lush canopy of oval leaves with saw blade edges and curling points.

The bees, wasps, and flies swarm abuzzing wild with delight thirst quench with sweet water the abundant sugar produced by a struggling tree.

Yellow-bellied sapsuckers complex variegated black white patterns males with prominent blood red crown the mother, more subdued, camouflaging blends with the grey poplar trunk where they hide a nest of eggs inside a carved out cavity.

The duo come to the feasting tree.

Sap mingles with the insects enticed.

Sapsucker grasps with long narrow beak then flies to feed the fledgling.

Guide their young to the tree, position close to the bug bounty.

They demonstrate how to harvest the juvenile mimics the motion cock a head, lift to the right and deep into the sap spout.

Long tail extends and braces against the tree dancing down the trunk looking for fresh insects soaked in sweetened sap.

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Butterflies flitter settle, and suck, flitter again.

A chipmunk competes with the birds and bees scooting up and down for the best spout.

I hear a whir the next vibration of tiny wings whizzing at incredible speed, I look for small, for tiny, for subtle there she is, hovers a foot from the tree trunk long needle beak from sleek pale green head shimmering blur chooses a site darts forward and pauses seemingly motionless and disappears, becomes a dart of memory.

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SHADOW TAG Brian Blanchette “TAG! You’re it!” one child yells to another.

“No suh—you missed,” comes back in response.

“Nope. Got your right sneaker.”

“Never touched me,” comes back again.

“Got your shadow, Brainiac! Playing shadow tag, duh!”

“Oh crap!”

Such carefree shadows in early ages.

Shadow of child, teens, college, working years— The sun’s last rays fade. Night’s shadow reaches out.

Pull the shade—close the day. But wait.

Open windows expose night’s goings on.

Trysts in smoky shadows Beers drunk, dances danced, lips kissed.

Words talked, songs sung, promises made shadows of youth, middle age excesses linger Too many beers, too many words, too many lies Broken heart / broken dreams—all come to light before early morning sun brings the new day.

Time brings us our shadows of old age, of death What a good person, hard worker, great family man, parent.

But our shadow of doubt Was I really a good person?—Family man?—Parent?—Partner?

Shadows, oh the shadows of doubt ride in with age Must reach inside Ask for His help; Let His light burn away such shadows; Let us truly see who we are.

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FOR BRIAN John LeMay I lost a friend I briefly knew, Who wrote the past, and made it new Of childhood games, and church, and school And family meals, and summers by the sea, And sang into the final dark With voice as poignant as a lark’s

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WHAT WE CARRY WITH US Anne Marie Bohn What do we carry with us That we perhaps don’t need, but we hold on to— What worries, what fears, what angst Is in our minds, our hearts, our souls?

These things are a part of us, They contribute to our whole And yet they may bring us down or lock us up And keep us from reaching our goals.

What can we do to find peace of mind To let the worries go, drifting with the clouds Or flowing down the stream of our lives Passing us by so we can move without constraint?

Some can write about it and let it go, While others can draw a picture and let it out Some can create with music and singing, While others may use clay or paint.

When we have a heavy burden That we struggle to carry alone It helps to share it with others Who can ease the load from our body or mind By just being with us or listening to what we say Appreciating our thoughts and feelings Acknowledging the expression of pain or sorrow Simply by being there and being kind.

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BIRDS OF WISDOM Anne Marie Bohn The artist in me Would like to climb a tree And find a nest of birds And listen to them call and sing So happy about everything And put their joy into words I’d put these words in a song That everyone can sing along And take with them everywhere To show the world there’s hope; with family and friends you can cope If you’re with people who care.

You can be the one who cares The one who shares The one who spreads joy to all By singing a happy song Encouraging people to sing along And listening to the birds as they call.

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A MOTHER’S JOB Anne Marie Bohn A Mother’s Job is to take care of her kids No matter how she’s feeling herself She puts their needs in front of her own And puts her own needs up on the top shelf.

A Mother’s Job is always to be happy To show a cheerful, smiling face She makes sure everyone else feels good; For her own worries there is no time or space.

My mother just turned 90 years old She spent two weeks in the hospital gravely ill Now she’s in Hospice Care at a nursing home And taking a back seat to others still.

While her old body is tired and worn And she can barely hold up her head She’s telling my dad and me to have a good day Always thinking of others instead.

So the least I can do is to make her comfortable To help her eat and comb her white hair I can hold her frail hand and kiss her sweet cheek Say “I love you, Mom” and say a favorite prayer.

I can tell her how much I appreciate her And all the care she’s shown for everyone I can tell her she did her job very well And now her job is done.

Dear Mom, you mean so much to me I love you with all my heart!

I want you to be happy and at peace Even if we have to part.

Thank you for being the best mom on earth For putting family first in everything you do You will always be in my heart and soul Dear Mom, sweet Mom, I love you!

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A MOMENT TO SMILE After Robert Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" Anne Marie Bohn Above my head I saw the birds Two birds winging across the sky.

They were small and fast, black and white And pleasing to my eye.

They were pleasing to my eye.

The birds flew like arrows on the wind Swiftly crossing in front of my car.

I wanted so much to follow them But alas they were swiftly gone afar, Alas they were swiftly gone afar.

Just a glimpse of pure delight They made quite an impression in my head At once both beautiful and fast And this is what they said, And this is what they said.

They told me while they flew right by That now is a moment to smile

So as I continued down the road My heart was happy all the while, My heart was happy all the while.

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I WAS ALWAYS A WRITER Caryn A. Brooks I was always a writer. Even before I could write, I yearned towards marks on the page. To my way of thinking, the magic was created right there as the marks were being made. Sui generis. I suppose that now there is an explanation more laden with Latin and Greek terms and the craggy debris left by the ruination of old, protective language or intimidating or otherwise mystifying stuffs. But isn’t the magic made in the intention that hovers before a mark on a page? Try as we might to control it all, we cannot even know what we mean, not really. The language is shared and imprecise and readers are at best unreadable.

I have been loving the poise of hope and possibility in communication since I was first aware of being aware. Writing is one of the blooms of that act of creation.

How could I help myself?

WHEN I WANT Caryn A. Brooks My day got long when I Realized: Relaxation is too many clicks down To be relaxing But the thing canceled itself when I Realized: Relaxation is a how, not a what Ahhh, I am relaxation whenever I want

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OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS’ MOMS SPARKLE Caryn A. Brooks what did she know about argon sapphires

when she performed her secret dance for the lone or lonely neighbor “I am a noble gas fairy! I dance alone!” seriously, with such timely intent on her round-cheeked features I am a chemist; the neighbor beamed, arms folded against the strange welcome scene And this glance like nightlights Sparkling in her purple sateen fairy costume Stitched by the affectionate and baffled other people’s kids’ moms I can love you from here

we dance alone in blue vibration Twirling in unhushed silence shrugging noble ice cream shoulders

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IT’S GIDEON, AGAIN Caryn A. Brooks Sometimes you can see a footprint, A dent in the exact place where absence could count Could be counted Could have been counted He slipped away before roll call You could stand but Everyone evades and argues.

He should have been here

He looked away And absence got easier for him as it will No army galloped up just the smell of dust in a discarded scabbard It’s Gideon, again

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THOSE PAST FOUR FRUIT TREES Caryn A. Brooks In the season called the past four years Is it like a presidential cycle? Like cicadas only sometimes?

Or do I do, like, like, like, like I am stumbling wild in the fruit grove.

Four directions, the winds, one thumbless mitten, I brought Ned stumbling wild in the fruit grove Ned Ned Ned, look at this tree! And all these trees!

These trees are dying, look! At the leaves, a disease!

All of these are, I think, he said gently Kindly! These are Fall, Caryn And I didn’t—haven't yet—stopped my manic laughter And still, all of Those Past Four Fruit Trees are mine Me wee trees, we are home and stumbling wild in the fruit grove.

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PRAYER FOR PRAYERS Suzanne Dyner This is a prayer to feel like praying.

I pray for the cat box: to stop being the way it is.

I pray for my mother's eyes: be healed.

I pray for myself: to survive providers who can't communicate their way out of a wet paper bag.

I pray for my biopsy: be cancelled, or already be done. They looked in the back of the fridge and found that I gave already.

I pray for my mother's refrigerator: stop hiding old vegetables. God doesn't want you to do that. When a zucchini has come unto you and many days have passed, and it is not sufficient unto the LORD, may that zucchini be taken up to sit at the right hand of the Father.

May the refrigerator light work.

May everyone get the money they are supposed to get.

May everyone get the food they are supposed to get.

May the parents walk backwards past the pile of oranges and take one backwards into the hospital where their son comes back to life.

May not everything run backwards, just problems like that.

May golden oranges flow to everyone.

May the golden sun preside over the full field, and the resting fallow fields.

May it be peace, free.

May freedom be.

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CONSTANT CHANGE Renée M. Flint the moon did not become the sun, but it turned the corner and circled around again and again the winter plodded uphill day by day and entered summer when the time came the roadside trickling stream keeps its place yet flows always toward the sea i did not know the way forward, but from these things i learned that i don't have to

COMEBACK FROM CANCER AND GRIEF Renée M. Flint feels… like sunrise and new ducklings on an old river that sparkles in noonday sun like thoughts that aren't yet thought of and unspoken words that search for topsoil and a place to grow like wide open country in the middle of July with endless blue sky that opens and cleans the soul

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A PRAYER Ann Hayashi Oh Being of all that is above, below and far beyond, Whose existence I know to be true For I have felt you in my deepest soul.

Bring me peace today, Bring me courage, patience and resilience, And support me as I stand in this place of knowing.

When the night becomes too dark, The path unmarked and treacherous, The critical voices too loud, And the doubts too plentiful.

Help me to realize that I am always filled with grace, That I am filled with brilliance, That I contain the past, present and the future.

And that all is well.

For you are the magic in our worlds Amen.

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SHAPE SHIFTING Ann Hayashi I never considered cancer as a form of shape shifting, but I do know that I am changing as the one-year anniversary of the surgery that altered my life irrevocably approaches, and with it the inevitable imaging and follow-up appointment.

I had been feeling strong and perhaps moving closer to “wellness,” but then symptoms started appearing a few weeks ago: a fiercely burning dry mouth and tongue, extreme difficulty swallowing to the extent that sleep became elusive.

Otolaryngology moved my appointments from April 20th to April 7th.

Do I change shapes as the tension between well and sick pulls me? I believe I change shape and color. When I am feeling well, my being takes a more definitive shape, the colors are more vivid; the world feels brighter. But as symptoms appear, my shape blurs along the edges and the colors become more muted.

Can I learn to live without fear? Because I do believe it is the fear that dims my brightness. Am I afraid as my appointment date draws near? Yes, I am—as much as I try to dwell in this moment and not get ahead of myself, I fear. I am afraid that I will be faced with difficult choices and the possibility of losing my independence and any hope for well-being.

What would my life look like if I did not fear? Would I then be able to maintain my shape, my brilliance even in the dance with cancer? For I do not want to call it a battle. A battle connotes winners and losers and is far too dualistic for me. A dance is learning new steps while maintaining one’s balance, one’s equilibrium. For whatever reason, I am living with cancer. I hope I may learn to live with grace—not fear.

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THE WOUNDED STORYTELLER Ann Hayashi I have long been interested in stories, particularly the stories that went untold. In my earlier years, those stories were about the Internment and my father’s beloved mother for whom I was named.

Speaking came easily to me. For years each night, I told my children another installment of our beloved Max n Toshi stories. I read aloud to them for hours when they were young. And I had no fear of getting up in front of an audience and addressing a group. I had no idea that one day I would literally lose my voice.

Before the surgery, my daughter asked if I would need speech therapy. The doctor replied, “Oh yes, her speech will be garbled.”

Garbled? I had absolutely no speech at all. Fortunately, I was prepared and had packed a portable whiteboard and erasable marker. It became my new best friend and the only way I could communicate. Thank goodness I’d paid attention to Miss Black’s second grade lessons on penmanship. I cannot tell you how many nurses, doctors and technicians exclaimed on my handwriting skills while I was mute.

And I was mute for months. Gradually, I began to speak. I could make sounds, although only my immediate family could translate them. Weeks and weeks of speech therapy helped. Unfortunately, I had to put the sessions on hold while I spent months trekking to Dartmouth for the daily hyperbaric treatments.

Telephone calls became another source of difficulty because who could understand me? Thank goodness my son was on hand to take the calls and speak to doctor’s offices, insurance companies, medical suppliers. It is funny Amazon can get something to me in a couple of days, but medical suppliers cannot send the correct order. Go figure.

My speech has gotten better. Just the other morning, I spoke to my son and noticed that it took absolutely no effort on my part. Tim remarked without any prompting from me, “Mom you sound so clear today, just a bit of a lisp.” I have not been able to replicate that experience, but it gives me hope.

In the meantime, I know that I have found my voice along with my speech. I ask questions; I advocate for myself. Recently, my employer terminated me after ten years of devoted service. I did not accept the first severance offer, but negotiated another deal. Because of the cancer, I am writing again. So in many ways, although I struggle with my speech, I have at last found my voice.

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RAKING Ann Hayashi Last Saturday, I pushed through and did the bulk of the fall clean up. It is a lot for this body of mine, this body that a year and a half ago could barely walk twenty steps.

It was such a golden day, warm, the smell of fallen leaves in the air and so much sunshine. Sunday promised rain, lots of rain, so I knew I had a window to get all these chores done.

I started in the front gardens—gathering seed pods of larkspur and nigella. Then, I spread compost on the beds, taking time to gaze out over the woods and pause.

And rest. I sat on an old gray milk crate while I sorted seed pods into stainless steel bowls.

Then came the mowing. I talk to my lawn mower. I have named him Frank. Every time, I pray Frank will start, and usually he does. I mowed the front, the hillside and the dark, damp back yard. Mowing the grass that had worked its way into the vegetable beds. Next spring, I will need to edge all the beds.

And then, I looked out over the driveway at all the leaves that had fallen since I last raked. I got out the large plastic rake; the metal one wouldn’t do the job. I began to rake even though I was tired and hot. I paused and thought how easy this job would be if I had a leaf blower. Oh, but then, I would miss the sound of the wind through the trees, the caw of the blue jays, the whistle of a hawk. I would miss the smell of the dry leaves. I would miss the crunch of leaves and the swish and scrape of the rake. It is these moments I cherish. These moments of silence so richly filled.

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LET ME SAY THAT I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT Ann Hayashi You want words. You want sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books, poetry and more. More life.

You want to convey the beauty of this world in words that you might first write across the page, then perhaps tap on the keyboard illuminated onto a screen.

You will, of course, depict the pain of living, of dying, but you will write of beauty.

Of the beauty of children laughing in their sleep, of parents’ souls departing as they die and their faces becoming softer and lovelier, of the first wildflower to appear after a long, hard winter and the taste of a sweet tart raspberry just plucked, the gentle look of a lover’s face and the sound of shooting stars and moonlight on the ocean.

You will write of miracles and more.

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TOPPLING FROM THE NEST...

Sammie Linder I think back to the very first time I heard the word "cancerous" in my stead, directed at me. None of us in that room were at all steady, though we all acted like we were.

The GP, who knew me as a young girl, probably didn't know what to make of it, as she had grown close to me and practically knew me inside out. My mother, trying to be strong; salt water threatened to spill out from her eyes right then and there just hearing the word. I, just in utter shock, especially when it was elaborated that, for my age, this type is especially rare.

Then, the toppling, as I held a brave face returning to the car to tell the rest of the close family. So many thoughts, one after the other, almost hitting every single branch of possibility that could ever pass. The big one being my very potentially reduced lifespan. I've always had autistic tendencies, so I barely showed any of this except for the grief that Mom and I shared, holding hands, sort of toppling in different ways yet somehow together.

Once everyone else knew, I could pick myself back up and begin the process of healing my body and spirit. I was ready to begin the big leaps of progress.

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DISHEVELMENT Sammie Linder There's something divine in the act, or rather, the inaction, of being disheveled.

My room is a MESS of creativity: A splatter of tools for clay; papers scattered, eager for graphite markings to appear as silly little doodles or masterpieces that only need the concept fleshed out; acrylics tickling my nose; and paintbrushes placed at random yet with the utmost care.

Plushies thrown asunder on the shelves beckon to be treated kindly, and books that are yet to be read wait patiently in their disorganized way.

And yet, through the mess, I alone am the one who can pick through it all.

The wind is the same in this sense; the trick of letting yourself move with it in chaotic patterns that to everyone else make little sense, enjoying the coolness of the breeze, feeling the fluidity and just going along with it, keeps you balanced despite the wildness and uncertainty of where it'll take you.

Sometimes the wind is a person in my room. Sometimes myself. Sometimes a passerby cleans up more messy parts or passes more tools my way. It all adds to the chaos here that feels like home. All organized, yet all disheveled.

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SILENCE Sammie Linder Silence is itself a language, which comes in forms we may not realize. With your pet, neither can speak the other's language, but silence will cover that with little gestures. For me and my cat, Mia, extending the hand, followed by a head bump is a loving "hello." Time spent together, even if she chooses to nap, is her way of saying, "Your company is valuable to me." And the head pats! They are my favorite form of silent language, because depending on the mood, setting, and time, mean many, many different things. "Have a good night's rest," on pleasant evenings. "It's going to be okay," when someone is overwhelmed or sad. And, perhaps comically, for my mother and me: "I love you, but I am not one who is comfortable with long physical affection (hugs as an example), so… this will do."

Once you are fluent in the language of silence, little things pop up that you may translate immediately. Three squeezes of a hand for more platonic I Love You’s, or letting an animal sniff as, "I want you to trust me," so we let them learn our scent.

Sometimes, even just a handshake, which is usually introductory, has many meanings on its own.

No words are needed to let yourself go with the flow and experience everything for yourself. For it is not just knowing that things exist and are, but perceiving and understanding them silently to let things be the way they are.

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THE LIFEBOAT TO MY DROWNING SOUL Beth S. McLean I sit up from my beach chair.

“C’mon mama!”

I take out my one airpod and shrug off my cover-up. The freckles on my skin reflect oily from the many layers of sunscreen.

“Coming!” I yell back.

I don’t want to go in the water, it’s freezing. And two years ago, I’d have said no. But not today. I hop along the beach—dodging castles and holes where siblings get buried.

I splash into the waves, and it almost takes my breath away—I consider running back to my nice hot beach chair. Then, I see his little ginger head bobbing in the ocean waves. He’s my little Ginger Buoy. My little life raft through this hellacious storm of life. He splashes water at my face—something I’d have scolded him for before. And I laugh and splash back.

Cancer is a relentless goblin that constantly takes and takes. But if you pause and take it all in—you have an opportunity to let it change you for the good. I am a better mom now. And I hope that when I’m gone, he will look back on these memories fondly. I wake with the intent of being the best version of myself. In ways that I never used to.

He takes my hand and we walk back into the surf. We stand, our backs to the sun, and we wait for the waves to rush in—we hold tightly to one another, and we jump high over them. I look down at his face—his hair wet from the water, freckles all over his nose and his big grin. I look back at the beach to all of the parents with their headphones in, reading their books—and I don’t judge them, everyone needs that time too—but I know that years ago I’d have stayed on that beach, reading that book—and I wouldn’t have been out here making memories.

When I’m tired, I do it anyway. When I’m sick, I power through. When I think I can’t go on—I look to that little Ginger Buoy—my beacon of hope—my life raft to my drowning soul—and I push forward, and I embrace this chapter the best way that I can. And I hope that when this chapter closes, he’s learned not to sit his ass in a beach chair, and not to let those waves take him down.

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TELLING OUR STORIES 2023

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HANDCUFFS Beth S. McLean When I started my job out of college, I had no formal training, at least not in the way that you probably should to do what I do. My boss handed me a badge and a pair of handcuffs, a book full of facesheets and the car keys, “Stay on this side of the Connecticut River.” A senior Probation Officer went through the book and X’ed-out the facesheets of people they thought might be too dangerous, too drunk, or too difficult for me to check on by myself, alone at night, my first week.

I climbed into the squad car in my pants suit—the car smelled of stale fast food and distant cigarette smoke. I grabbed the mileage log, putting out of mind the question of what exactly it was that made it sticky—and before I entered my mileage I saw that no one had done this in years—the vehicle was about 20,000 miles off. I sighed—looking around the inside of the baby blue Crown Vic and wondered why I hadn’t stayed an education major.

I drove to the first house, parked in the driveway and sat staring at the facesheet.

Armed robbery. I wondered what the people that the senior PO had X’ed-out had done.

I got out of the car—stepped my kitten heel into a puddle—and trudged up three flights of stairs. I knocked on the door—WHAT—someone yelled from inside—the door flung open and I was greeted by an unpleasant fellow—average height and below average hygiene. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and I became fixated on the impressive length of the ash.

“Um,” I said, less confidently than I should have, “I’m the new FSU Officer?”

“OH! Come on in!” He graced me into his kitchen—leaving the hall door wide open. We chatted a few minutes, and I said, “Well—ok then, I suppose I’ll go.” I turned to leave and he said, “WAIT. You haven’t checked my fridge for alcohol.”

“Um… do you have alcohol in there?”

“No,” he responded.

“Well, ok then,” I said, continuing to walk toward the hallway.

“Stop!” he hollered. “You can’t just take my word for it—listen—people are going to lie to you. And what’re you doing in those fuckin’ shoes? Did anybody train you?” I felt my face flush, and I briskly opened and closed the fridge door before returning to my get-away vehicle.

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As I became more and more comfortable with my role, I became quite good at it.

I felt that I balanced accountability with support, and I found my niche within the broken system. I have since done hundreds of hours of trainings—use of force trainings, handcuffing, take downs—I’m proficient, I’m confident in what I do. I have handcuffed hundreds of people over the years—but every single time I take my handcuffs out of the pouch, I still get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. No matter how comfortable I have become at it, no matter how many dangerous situations I have managed to navigate out of, or field checks that ranged from bizarre to almost deadly—I have never lost sight of the power that comes from these items.

People think that when you do this job you develop a callousness, and to some degree that’s true. And they’d be right in saying that over time you learn to adapt—I would never wear a pantsuit in the field ever again. But you never get used to the feeling of handcuffing someone. And you shouldn’t. Even when it’s the right thing to do and people have done awful, terrible things—every person should always hold their handcuffs like it’s their first week on the job.

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SOAP Beth S. McLean I have felt an unsettled stirring in my soul for a week now. It happens every year, well—every year since cancer happened. That thought gives me pause—every year since cancer happened, just being able to say that—that is a gift.

I stand with my bare feet in the cold grass. When Jon shoots me a strange look, I shrug and say, “It’s called grounding.” He nods and goes back towards the garage.

He’s probably used to some of my crazy by now.

The other day, I was taking my soaps down from the shelf in the bathroom, smelling them and rearranging them. “What are you doing?” he asked me. “Just rearranging them,” I lied. Well, I only partly lied. I am, in fact, rearranging the soap. But what I’m actually doing is ordering them by favorite smell, so that if I die before I use them all—I use my favorite ones first.

The cool earth below me is a perfect contrast to the warm sunshine on my face. I close my eyes and point my face up at the sky. I love this time of year. The leaves are starting to hint at different colors coming through, and the bite of the fresh air is a reminder that before long our days will be shorter, our nights will be colder, and a new year will begin. But as I stand, saying good bye to another summer, I revisit the conversation I’ve had the past two autumns… Will I get to see this again?

The past several months have been really beautiful—aside from a short stint of radiation, I haven’t had to give a lot of my focus to cancer. But with my impending appointments, I feel sure that’ll start to shift again. We can’t always live in the summer. We need the beautiful bittersweet autumns, and even the dark cold of winter, to remind us of the gift that is summer. All of the best things come before the darkness sets in—autumn, twilight, the calm before the storms of life.

I relish the beautiful fall days—dreading the winter, grieving the summer, and pleading with the Gods for a little bit longer, and at least one more trip around the sun. As if one more would ever truly be enough. My soul will never settle for ‘just one more,’ and no one’s should. I don’t know why we read Dylan Thomas in high school before we ever can truly appreciate what it means to rage against the dying of the light. But rage with me folks—rage.

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I HAVE LESS TO SAY Beth S. McLean I’ve become quieter, annoyed by my own coughing interruptions and violent chest convulsions. A gentle head nod is far more common at this point than a verbal response. People are worried—and I guess to some degree they have cause, but not because I’m quieter. I used to have oceans full of breath, and the words to take it up, and I’d talk anything you ever wanted—I could surf on the abundance of it, drinking it in—gulping it even. Now, I’m in a drought. And words must be saved for important things, like—“I love you.”

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LIONESS AT SOLSTICE Karen Hewitt Randle Lioness prowls hospital halls in moondust slippers.

She springs from the solar calendar to recount her longest day.

Stars foretell her story in constellations Strewn across the Milky Way and upon infusion whiteboards.

If a diagnosis was once your longest day, the Lioness may instruct: At Solstice light candles then speak this: “Life is a streaking meteor.”

“The truth of your fire flashes by.”

“Snowy meadows black at midnight are the same which held your morning gaze.”

The Lioness might yawn: “Pain is a puddle of wax.”

Her infusion chair spins in icy orbit.

Lioness looks about then speaks: “Such a lot of IV tubing and drug bags dripping.

Paw and needle in solidarity, that’s all.”

Wrapped in a furry Solstice night, breathing chilled air, Lioness will speak this: “I am star and planet, An orb in a gorgeous cosmos.”

Lioness lights candles and roars: “I am infant and elder.

I am Mother and Cub. I am candle and wick.”

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ON ANGER Karen Hewitt Randle Anger is the most useless of emotions; I woke up angry today and I can’t shake it.

The toxicity and futility and sheer weight of anger put it ahead of all the ways we injure our hearts—or my heart—I want always to speak for myself.

I am at the Dartmouth Cancer Center 3K Reception waiting area and it is 1:00 pm.

I have been here since 7:00 am, and my exhaustion mounts, with three of four appointments behind me. Only an infusion to treat my lung cancer remains until my release into the day.

My scan has been read and there is no evidence of new cancer, as good a report as I can hope for. It is preliminary and though I will wait for the final reading, I am relieved at the status. But I am not filled with gratitude for a clear scan. I am still angry, and I wonder where this is headed.

I can’t seem to meditate my way out of this mood, so I try to deepen it. I want to find out just how much will be extracted from me before I cave completely to “hating,” my other word for “anger.” What is the saying? “When you are falling, dive.” So I try to be as intentional as I possibly can, trying to delve, drill, wrestle with my anger though it is wriggly as a cat.

But now from my infusion chair I can tell you where my anger is: it is gone. I will tell you the reason: my infusion chair mate vomited. A stark and clear signal of human vulnerability among all our observable fragilities. I was seated for only a few minutes; an LNA brought a water and fruit for me, and my infusion nurse told me my drugs were being mixed, as they don’t prepare the medications until you are in the chair. My chair mate was six feet away and began to throw up, so I left the room, hurried to the nurses station and told them that my roommate was vomiting.

Three nurses rushed in to check on him while the situation devolved—with calls for vitals, calls for saline, for the charge nurse, for towels and more support.

I reseated myself and went full tonglen. Tonglen, a meditative method: breathing in difficulty, mine or another’s, followed by the breathing out of the wish for ease, for comfort, for an end to suffering. Breathing in the vomit, the mess on the floor, the sorrowful ashen-faced man, the alarmed nurses, all of it. Breathing out for the unceasing nausea of cancer to stop, for healing the impossible disease of just being human. The breathing in and breathing out of a singular instance of witness and a fervent wish for it not to be so, a deep desire for my chair neighbor to feel well and for all sentient beings to be relieved of suffering.

I was moved into a different room, so I am writing now from a different chair. It is 2:15 pm and my infusion is started. I realize I’ve witnessed a sacred tableau of suffering, as ancient as the modernity of intervention upon it is new.

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I am checked on by many nurses and even the Cancer Center chaplain, Rev. Kris, who was sent to find out if I am ok. We have a good talk about witness, about what is sacred, about what it is to be angry and to be shocked back into love, which is to say, shocked back into life itself.

At 3:00 pm my second infusion is underway, the drugs hoped-for-deterrents of more cancer. But no matter where my cancer takes me, today I’ve received gifts of humility and witness. I will not be cured, but I will be healed.

BREATHING BACKWARD Karen Hewitt Randle Prose inside me no different than cancer A peaceful body obscures narrative until cells Multiplied force breath exhaled backward into the chest Down to my pelvic floor.

Would I feel balm in damaged lungs Would I retrieve lymph nodes from ruin Would I spare my vein port’s intrusion?

Would I explain nothing yet live everything?

Just this…just this…tonglen…giving and sending.

In meditation, in mindful breathing In cries in night blackness Breath forced up breath forced down

In breath, out breath, no breath.

Self strewn about who will collect me?

One word cancer halts the world Life begins with diagnosis.

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OUT OF SYNC Caryl Richardson Fast-moving clouds crossing the sky this morning.

They’re leaving me behind.

My tempo is out of sync with the rest of the world, My brain sluggish, my limbs heavy and achy.

Air is hard to pull into my lungs as if I’m breathing crossways to a high wind, Working hard to pull oxygen from the fast moving stream.

But I feel no wind.

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I LOVE MY LUNG Caryl Richardson My lung collapsed, the right one. A tiny tear let the air escape and she deflated, coming unstuck from the protective embrace of my chest wall, until she hung flaccid and nearly helpless in the cavernous space that had been her home.

Just the smallest flutter of air moving in and out.

They say nature abhors a vacuum, and I believe it to be true, at least where lungs are concerned. The cavern, the void left by my deflated lung, filled with stale air and trapped fluid, until my lung had no hope of reclaiming her space, of pushing past and through until once again she could become her full, glorious self, a zeppelin, a hot-air balloon, powerful life-giving bellows.

Doctors conferred. “Unlikely to…” “Probably won’t…” “Painful procedure.”

Against my will, I cried. This isn’t life, at least not the way I define it. I would risk all, suffer any pain for a chance to breathe more fully, fully enough to walk to the barn without assistance, fully enough to ride my horse.

My pleas were heard. They took the risk. Against expectation, once the viscous soupy mess was removed, my lung filled again with air. She beat the odds, again, when she clung to the safety of my chest cavity and was able to resume her work.

She is a hero, my lung. Battered and scarred, she continues to do her important job, despite the demon tumors that plague her, despite the inflammation caused by cancer treatments, despite having been weakened by all she’s been through.

Every breath, every expansion of my chest sends little tendrils of joy through my whole body. I love her.

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GENEROSITY Caryl Richardson I admire my Dyna as she stands at the far end of the arena, nosing the grassy edge, looking for late fall tidbits of grass.

She is tall so I climb the tallest of the mounting blocks. From my perch, I pat my right hip, and she ambles over to stand next to me. She shifts forward a bit, then back. “Is this the right spot?” I stroke her glossy neck. “Yes, this will work.”

Awkwardly I lift my weak and ravaged leg over her back, straddle her spine as evenly as I can manage and settle myself. She waits as I find my center, aligning my seat bones with her hind legs, my shoulders with hers and find my balance. I reach forward to give her a piece of carrot, a reward for her sweet patience.

Oh, right. Reins. I pick them up loosely.

We breathe together. I feel her ribcage expand, my draped legs moving out and in with each breath. With intention and a breath, we walk forward as one. Her right hind leg moves forward, and my right hip follows. Her left hind leg, and my left hip.

The movement goes up my spine to my shoulders, my arms. Her movement is now my movement. Her legs are now my legs, strong and powerful, moving with ease and fluidity. She lets me share them for a while.

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HEARTWOOD Caryl Richardson Do I know you, really know you?

I know the hollow place under your shoulder where my head can rest, The arc of your arm as you throw a ball for Tilly to fetch, The goofy references to TV ads from the 50’s and 60’s, Relics from your childhood.

I remember when we rubbed each other raw, Each one rasping and sanding the other to make From the materials at hand The partner we thought we needed.

Then cancer brought power tools— Chainsaws, band saws, drills.

Surprisingly, instead of leaving us flayed and bleeding The heartwood in each of us was revealed.

I do know you, really know you.

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KARKINOS Alice Roberge I am the kitchen, the smelly armpit of the house: grimy drawer bottoms dirt on the walls dust on the air vent above the stove.

Life happens here. I see it all.

She enters and announces, “I’m crabby again,” flinging things out of the refrigerator slamming them on the counter.

He skulks off my camera, Mournful sounds of the cello coming from another room.

She cleaves the meat, scalps the lemons, hacks carrots and potatoes, skewers the lamb.

The box on top of the refrigerator blares music.

She stomps the floor with her feet, swivels her hips, and lets her voice rip.

Her voice is hoarse and raspy.

“Ready!” she tries to shout, but it is more like a whimper.

I hear her pounding on a door as if with a mallet, so loud my ears ring.

They are back. The music is off.

Exhausted now, fury floods from her, sucked up by the air purifier. Its particle light is red.

She sits, depleted as grey.

They give an intimate embrace with their eyes, Wrapped in a shroud of sadness.

She slumps in her chair, picks up a knife and fork.

The giant crab that lives inside her clicks his pincers.

She eats.

And is eaten.

Note: In Greek mythology, Karkinos is a giant crab who was turned into the constellation Cancer. Later, Hippocrates named masses of cancerous cells Karkinos, or cancer.

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THE UNMADE Alice Roberge Grief, like the wind, unmakes us.

My body, so unlike yours on the other side of the world shattered and concussed by falling bombs. Your blood flowing, your hands reaching out, grasping absence.

My body pink and whole on the outside marauding army on the inside.

Here, a friend is wearing denial-colored glasses.

For each, the other out of reach.

You, mourning in Israel You, mourning in Gaza A gale-force of grief, wind-whipped and split, a tattered rag of self.

Do I understand?

Of course not.

But I, too, have felt the wind.

I, too, have had my palm clasp around nothing.

I, too am unmade, the new self without feathers, naked, fallen from the nest, waiting with an open mouth.

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THE TINY PLANE Alice Roberge They said to sit up front next to the pilot, and I crouched to enter the tiny plane.

“Do not touch the steering wheel,” the pilot instructed as he disentangled my purse strap from the controls beneath my feet. The runway appeared before us, long as a lion’s tongue, then we were airborne. Below trees, more trees, a river, and the pilot babbling in some language I could not understand. The plane flew higher until the ground was no longer visible, the plane not of the earth, now floating in space, turning in no atmosphere. The steering wheel I had wanted to hold onto had vanished. All of us sat, the flesh falling off painlessly, puddles disappearing as soon as they reached the floor that was no longer there. When I looked, the pilot was gone. I could understand him perfectly. Ahead, a blue streak, the last runway. We were on our final journey.

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WORSHIP Alice Roberge I am open. I am open here under the two red oaks whose branches Play with touch Whose branches almost Almost touch with leaves

tightly furled in early spring Whose branches reach across the chasm of sky—space Forming an arch Framing emptiness Whose branches play with touch As breeze carries them closer Whose fully emerged green fingers touch barely

Barely touch Framing the empty expanse of sky.

I am here, too, in the emptiness, reveling in the touch Fingers intertwining, A green bow connecting heaven and earth.

Here under the two red oaks I am open I spread my arms thin as an outermost branch I spread my arms like the oaks And I give thanks.

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REST Kathleen Skinner Shulman Day is tucked into night Moon peeks through the trees Rising in the inky sky Glowing silver on the water Loons wail to signal mates Steady movement of water Clouds drift Tendrils reaching for earth Noisy flowers that claim the day fold their petals inward A moon garden glows shades of white My breathing slows I crave rest in silvery shadows, to ready for the hours when sun demands, I must get busy

Note to the reader: As we tune to our body’s rhythms after treatment for cancer, rest becomes a friend.

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RUBELLA Kathleen Skinner Shulman I’ve been numb for over a month Still wearing the quilted navy blue robe with white polka dots and my red slippers Strong colors for a new mom I’m not a pastel person Numbness holds my hand, gently urging me to move one foot then the other Down the green hospital corridors past the bright nursery into the isolation nursery with the bare wooden rocker My blue robe the only padding for my torn body.

I hold my strawberry blond newborn Rock gently through the stiffening of her small body Rock and cry in the dim light Unsure what lies ahead for us Other than a caution to isolate Hoping she knows I love her.

Note to the reader: Before vaccines became available in 1969, the US Rubella epidemic took a heavy toll on prenatal babies.

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DREAMING Kathleen Skinner Shulman My fingers long to write My mind wanders My feet hesitate My heart wobbles The memory of you In your little red boots Powder blue snowsuit Mittens strung through your sleeves Scooping snow from the yard Digging for spring Remembering you at this age Mouthing your name silently I hold you in this moment as my toes dig into the sand Clouds gather Wind swirls Rain stings my cheek I summon your childhood See your children Where you stood long ago Blending into the fabric of memory Sameness and difference in your smiles I linger without hesitation The press of work forgotten

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STILL WATER Kathleen Skinner Shulman Grief guides me Defines the space I travel Holds my hand Grief begs to be known Even when It is not convenient Grief shakes my breath Makes me tremble Grabs hold tightly I seek a guide More gentle than Grief

Today the sky Will need to host My Grief Life’s big arms Hold all my emotions I need hope I stand on the rocky ledge Extend my arms Greet the breeze Whisper a prayer Inhale the deep blue virtues Become still water

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NUMBNESS Rosa Smith It’s been over a month now Since we last met.

When we last met The mock orange Was about to bloom, And now it’s gone.

When we last met My toes tingled & the sky was bleak.

When we last met I was numb.

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WHY ME? Rosa Smith This is a question that I had stopped asking A while ago. I thought it was a waste of time.

There did not seem to be a good answer.

Why me? is a question I may seek to review.

If multiple myeloma can be caused by an agent Be it orange, or purple or some kind of slime Was I too exposed to a toxin?

What about Brian? He was sick but still so alive When he last called into class from the ICU. I couldn’t help but be glad that it wasn’t me.

That sounds so selfish. Let me rephrase And rethink and if I were brave I’d ask This question—Why him and not me?

There lies a question worthy of review.

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HOW DO I INTRODUCE MYSELF IN ADVANCE Rosa Smith Of the unknown? Hello new classmates.

Do I simply invite you to know About the last door I entered?

The one decorated with a garland Of lilacs in bloom? I was commemorating Almost 55 years since I last walked Through the Grécourt Gates And left my college life behind.

Or do I invite you to know That last week I began A third round of chemo. They say I “failed” the first two, the new one Is intended to prevent further growth Of invasive tumors, tangled In my bladder; more weeds to pull Before they take over the garden.

I invite you to know That I plan to live through To my next college reunion And once that milestone has passed I’d like to thrive, pulling weeds until the next Season, and the next and the next Until in due time my turn To step into the unknown arrives.

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DOG DAZE Rosa Smith A is for April B is for Bravery C is for Cancer D is for Diagnosis.

If only I knew The name of his dog I thought as I walked But I didn’t ask the boy

Instead, “Hi,” says I “He’s a Chocolate,” says the boy As if he knew I wanted To know. “Oh yes,” says I. D is for Dog C is for Cancer B is for Good Grade A is for a Good Day.

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SHOULDERING BURDEN Nicole S. Vecchi I have not yet unburdened myself of those I have carried these past few years.

Imagine them, slung over my shoulders and stacked… one body on top of the other like the women in National Geographic who carry those tall, tall, colorful bundles on their heads.

Heads, shoulders, whatever—stacked high and towering over everything.

The current, or most recent on the bottom, first on my shoulders since they’re still heavy—and noisy.

They get lighter and quieter the longer I carry them so those on top are almost like shells and every now and then, someone drifts away with a whisper or shatters from the thinning.

I don’t know how I know that’s what it’s called—and maybe you call it something else but that’s ok... you know what I mean.

And for that reason, I don’t really know who is way up on the top right now.

But the freshest, loudest, the heaviest burdens are right here—closest to me, draped around my neck and shoulders and clinging still.

Close… in my ear.

Still loud and noisy and demanding.

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SWELLS Nicole S. Vecchi Motion sick in my stationary body I know this feeling—in its whole entirety blazing through me.

If only I had a way to keep it at bay.

I know this feeling, always just around the corner if I make a wrong turn—or take a wrong turn.

Today at the store, I reached into the coolness for the butter and found myself hanging onto the door, closing my eyes, willing it away.

Please don’t let there be anyone else in the aisle, I don’t want to have to explain…

There are tells—a blooming…a foreboding heaviness, sometimes a smell that I can almost taste, a pinching above my nose or a dampness in between my fingers.

I know this feeling, even quietly sitting, holding onto my stationary body while poised for the swell.

Carsick on my own couch.

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MORPHINE DRIP Nicole S. Vecchi Steeling myself to see, I cracked an eye—just barely.

Through the haze of my own lashes open enough to see but not enough for someone else to know that I was awake… or alive.

I heard it while wakening or Maybe it woke me The slurping sound from the corner was a busy, noisy, sucking sound and I wondered…

Had some child wandered down the hall and found comfort in the corner of my room slobbering and crunching over the lollipop in a mad rush to get to the paper stick before being discovered by a searching parent.

Instead I saw a troll… the kind that lives under a bridge greedily sucking on a bone.

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TELLING OUR STORIES 2023

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PARTING Beth S. McLean I know that we may not be exactly in line spiritually, but if you could just close your eyes and walk with me…. I’d like for you to feel what I expect to feel. Everywhere I will step will feel like cool dirt on a hot summer day. It smells like Gram’s pumpkin pie and Christmas, and everywhere I go, I have subtle theme music in the background. Every day I’m at the ocean, but I’m also with you guys. I can see you and hear you and follow you, and I get to delight in all of your moments. I get to sit with Gram and hear her stories again. My trusty Kiowa dog will be by my side everywhere I go. I get to catch up with everyone who went before me. And when you guys come along, I get to greet you just like they greeted me. And the longer it’s been, the more loves I collect here than I have left there. The more time I will spend reading and writing and playing music.

And every once in a great while, I get to bend things and pass through. Only briefly and only the ones paying attention will see me there in the blink of an eye.

The more war-torn my body, the more beautiful the thought of a freed soul—to wander around this new place.

My soul will be ok.

And so will you.

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GRATITUDE Kathleen Skinner Shulman Someone is missing when we take a bow All those who supported us in ways we forget Who taught us to hold a pencil Read Form letters Write words Invisible shoulders support us as we poke our heads into creativity We write draft after draft Will our work resonate in the hearts of readers we may never meet?

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Anthology / an-ˈthä-lə-jē /… noun from the Greek anthología meaning a gathering of flowers : a collection of selected literary pieces or passages or works of art “Anthology.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/anthology.

Accessed 13 Nov. 2023.

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