MSI Press Blog

Carl and Murjan , at table Carl loved food. Not in the way people love snacks or comfort meals. He loved food like a musician loves sound—deeply, reverently, with curiosity and delight. He grilled with precision, plated with flair, and never met a cuisine he didn’t want to explore. Ethiopian injera, Vietnamese pho, Sicilian caponata—he welcomed them all. Food was his passport, his playground, his poetry. Carl didn’t binge. He didn’t eat to numb or escape. He ate because he loved the taste, the textures, the craftsmanship. He ate like some people chase sunsets or symphonies. It was his feel-good stuff. 🍽️ When Passion Meets Physiology Carl’s appetite was joyful, but it was also relentless. Over time, his body bore the weight of his enthusiasm—literally. He developed health complications, including cancer, and his doctors noted that his size played a role. This isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s a complexity tale. Some people eat to soothe emotions. Others eat to chase flavor. Some ...

  Today, October 17, is a day that brings back memories. Every year.  On October 17, 1989, at 5:04 p.m., the earth beneath Northern California gave a violent shudder. The Loma Prieta earthquake , registering a magnitude of 6.9, struck the Santa Cruz Mountains and rippled outward with devastating force. It collapsed sections of the Bay Bridge, pancaked a freeway in Oakland, and silenced the World Series mid-game. Sixty-three lives were lost, thousands injured, and entire neighborhoods reshaped in seconds. For many, it was a day of tragedy. For my family, it was also our first real “hello” from California. We had just moved west from Arlington, Virginia, where I’d been working for the U.S. Department of State. Our family was scattered across the Monterey Peninsula that afternoon—each of us about to learn what it meant to live on fault lines. I was at the Presidio of Monterey, mid-conversation with a calm, collected Army officer. He would later retire and become a lawyer, but...

  When Carl was diagnosed with cancer of unknown primary (CUP), we didn't know yet what that meant. We had never heard of it before. Even after we learned more, we still clung to hope—because that’s what the doctors appeared to be offering. But their actions told a different story. CUP is brutal. It's rare and aggressive, and statistically, not many people survive it. The median survival rate hovers around 6 to 12 months. Fewer than 20% of patients live longer than a year. And Carl didn’t have just one form of cancer—he had five types present. They still couldn’t tell where the cancer began. Now, looking back, I understand what the oncologist must have seen in those test results. I also understand why they still tried to sound hopeful. The treatment plans were delivered with upbeat tones: targeted therapies, potential clinical trials, aggressive chemo. But there were moments—small, seemingly innocuous moments—when the mask of optimism slipped. One doctor handed Carl an advance ...