MSI Press Blog

  We often confuse the soul with the mind, or the body. But they are not the same. The mind can falter. The body can writhe in pain. And yet the soul may still be present—intact, luminous, enduring. This is one of the great tragedies of being human: when the mind decays or the body suffers long before the soul has left it. When the person we love is still here, but unreachable. When their body remains, but their joy, their clarity, their ease have vanished. Weep. Weep for the cruelty of it. Weep for the long goodbye. Weep for the moments that should have been gentle but were not. But do not despair. Because the soul is not so easily broken. It does not vanish with memory loss or tremble at physical pain. It may be quiet, but it is not gone. It may be hidden, but it is not erased. Sometimes, the soul waits. Sometimes, it endures. Sometimes, it teaches us how to love without answers, without reciprocity, without ease. To love someone whose mind has unraveled or whose bod...

  Sharing information about a great and highly useful book by Barbara Karnes, RN, who has written a unique series of books on death and dying of immense support to those diagnosed with cancer and other life-limiting, life-threatening, and terminal illnesses. Here is what she says about the book: When a person receives the diagnosis of a life-threatening illness, life as they know it ceases. They find themselves in uncharted territory with no script to follow. Too often they withdraw from the world, as if they have already died. All activity becomes centered on their living with disease and its treatment. Fear and uncertainty replaces confidence and self identity. The joys of living are more or less put on hold while living as long as possible is pursued.   A Time to Live  honors whatever life prolonging choices are being made while at the same time suggesting we look at the gifts life offers each day. A Time To Live: Living With Life Limiting Illness - BK Books For other ...

  They weren’t close before. Just two of my neighbors, one downstairs, one in the next lot. Young mothers in their mid-thirties, each with two children, each newly diagnosed—one with uterine cancer, one with lymphoma. Now they spend long evenings together. Drinking. Laughing. Talking about men, though both are married. Not about cancer. Never about cancer. They slip into a kind of fantasy hour—where the diagnoses don’t exist, where their bodies haven’t betrayed them, where they’re still the girls they used to be. Or maybe the girls they never got to be. It’s not denial in the dramatic sense. It’s something softer, sadder. A shared numbness. A counter-life. They get drunk too fast to talk about anything real. And maybe that’s the point. The rest of us—neighbors, friends, watchers—feel the pull. We want to speak. We want to say, Please don’t wait too long. But we also know they won’t hear it. Not now. Not in this fragile world they’ve built together. So we hover in the silence...

  Not everyone wins their battle with cancer. As painful as that is to say—and even harder to write—it's true. For those of us walking this road alongside someone with cancer, we carry hope, strength, and belief for as long as we possibly can. But sometimes, the ending isn't triumphant. Sometimes, it's simply… the end. That was the case with Carl . Carl had Cancer of Unknown Primary ( CUP ), one of the most elusive and aggressive forms of cancer. With no known origin, it hides in plain sight and resists targeted treatment. Fewer than 15% of patients with CUP survive beyond one year, a statistic that, while low, has improved considerably since Carl fought his battle. When Carl knew the miserable odds, he believed he would be one of the rare exceptions. He expected to win. That expectation, though inspiring in the early days, slowly became a barrier. As his body declined rapidly over five short months, the signs were all there: treatment wasn’t working, strength was fading, ...