MSI Press Blog

  Entry: The Real Gym at Home Today is Independence Day—not just for the USA, but also for my daughter, who surprised us all by being released from the hospital after two long weeks fighting sepsis. My daughter, now 49, moved home almost a year ago. She has spina bifida, including paraplegia. She is strong—and she stays strong. After all, she’s Grandma Ninja’s daughter. The two male nurses who helped with discharge saw that firsthand when it came time to get her from her wheelchair into the car. They struggled until I mentioned I could lift her out of the chair myself (she’s only 125 pounds) and then she could pull herself onto the seat, using the handhold above the window. They looked skeptical, but one of them gave it a try—and sure enough, she could. "She is really strong," he commented. As we navigated her homecoming, I realized how much she contributes to keeping me strong. Sometimes, I do have to lift her. Before we adjusted her bed last summer, I used to volleybal...

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...

  An Open Letter to Cancer Patients: Partnering with Your Caregiver Dear Cancer Patient, Your cancer journey is one of the most challenging paths you'll ever walk. As you navigate this difficult terrain, your caregiver walks beside you, sharing your burden and helping to light the way. Today, I want to talk about how you can work together with your caregiver to create the best possible care environment for both of you. First and foremost, please remember that your caregiver, while dedicated to your wellbeing, is also human. They experience fatigue, stress, and emotional exhaustion. Your kindness and appreciation mean the world to them. A simple "thank you" or acknowledgment of their efforts can replenish their emotional reserves and help prevent burnout. This is especially crucial if your caregiver is your spouse, who needs adequate sleep and rest to maintain their own health and continue providing you with quality care. Communication is the foundation of any caregiving r...

  One of the existential questions that we faced when Carl was diagnosed with terminal cancer in four organs, although it was not evident as a question until after Carl died, was whether we should focus on living (enjoying the life that was left) or staying alive (fighting death). For one reason another, in part waves of crises, we kept being pushed to focus on staying alive. We planned to do something special, even if small, every Monday--an attempt at living, and, darn it, every single Monday for those last five months of Carl's life, he ended up in the ER not because of doing something special but before we could do something special. Five months passed, and as I look back it, we were focused exclusively on staying alive. I wish we could have focused on living.  I was very taken with one young wife, who called herself Widow in Waiting on X, who somehow did manage to focus on living. Her husband was in the hospital more often than not. her posts on X were focused on living....