MSI Press Blog

  Small businesses are often co-owned by spouses. The partnership blends life and work, weaving together shared goals, hopes, and sacrifices. But what happens when one of those partners becomes terminally ill—and not gradually, but suddenly, with a diagnosis that leaves little time to prepare? That was the reality I faced when Carl, my husband of over 51 years, was diagnosed with multiple late-stage cancers. His health declined rapidly, and he pushed hard to close our business—something we had built together—because he could no longer do the work he had always managed. On the surface, his wish was simple: “I’m dying, and I want everything to stop with me.” But for those left behind, nothing stops. Life keeps demanding care, attention, and difficult decisions. I was caring not only for Carl, but also for our disabled son and a daughter who needed support. And the business—our livelihood—still needed running. Carl saw one piece of the picture: his need for full-time care and atten...

  Memorial Day is more than a holiday for me—it’s a deeply personal day of remembrance, reflection, and gratitude. It holds significance for me in three ways, each carrying its own weight of emotion and meaning. First, as a veteran who served during the Vietnam Conflict, I take this day to honor those I knew—those who fought, those who sacrificed, and those whose lives were forever altered by their service. Some of my military friends never returned home, and others carried the burdens of war long after leaving the battlefield. Today, I remember them. Memorial Day, traditionally observed by visiting cemeteries, is an opportunity for all of us to pause and recognize their courage. That brings me to Carl. His grave is another stop I will make today—not for military service, but because he, too, was taken far too soon. Cancer of Unknown Primary was his battle, and although his illness wasn’t linked to war, I can’t help but think of the veterans—especially those who served during Vie...

  Cancer Diary: The Quiet Cancer There’s been a surge of interest lately in prostate cancer, due in part to the news about President Joe Biden’s health. I don’t know much about the specifics of his case, but the topic itself is an important one—and very often a quietly handled one, sometimes too quietly. Years ago, our parish priest confided in me—somewhat accidentally—that he had prostate cancer. What struck me most wasn’t the diagnosis, but the emotion attached to it: he was embarrassed . He didn’t want the congregation to know. I suppose he feared it was too private, too bodily, or too undignified to talk about. But I urged him to tell people. Not only did they have a right to know, they would want to know. They’d want to support him. He ended up doing just that. And I think, in the end, he was glad he did. People came out of the woodwork—not only to offer encouragement, but to share their own stories of prostate cancer and survival. Two parishioners even volunteered to drive h...

There are salt lamps glowing in the bedrooms again. For five long months, their light bulbs burned out one by one, quietly surrendering to the dark as I didn’t have the time — or the clarity — to replace them. There was no time for anything outside the urgent, consuming task of caring for my husband Carl as he moved through the final stage of his life. It started with a fall. A routine day, until it wasn't. Tests led to more tests, and the doctors came back with something I wasn’t prepared for — stage 4 cancers. Not one, but five: liver, lung, skin, bone, and stomach. Cancer of unknown primary. Nothing they could point to. Everything failing at once. He lived five more months. At first, we tried chemotherapy. When it failed, we shifted to palliative care. I say “we,” but it was me who made those shifts, who bore the weight of each medical decision, each adjustment, each indignity he faced. And it was me who stayed awake at night, while others slept, making sure Carl didn’t fall, di...