F. Linda Cohen, from Baltimore, now lives in Franklin, Michigan. She attended UMBC and attained her Masters’ Degree from Oakland University, Rochester, Michigan. Linda, a retired reading specialist, with a specialty in dyslexia, published a book documenting her parents’ story in February, 2019. Cohen’s book, "Sarinka: A Sephardic Holocaust Journey From Yugoslavia to an Internment Camp in America," is currently in the libraries of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. , Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Israel, the Zekelman Holocaust Memorial Center and other community and school libraries.

Cohen was diagnosed with small lymphocytic lymphoma in 2009. 

Linda Cohen

Linda Cohen is a survivor of small lymphocytic lymphoma and was diagnosed in 2009. Catch up on all of 

It has taken me 16 years, but I’m finally truly coming to grips with the fact that I’m living with a chronic cancer that will be with me for the rest of my life. Even now, when I’m off my medication for a kind of “remission” and feeling superficially cancer-free, I’m reminded again that it’s still part of me.

I see a dermatologist every six months for a full body check because I’ve had basal cell and squamous cell lesions in the past. For last few years, I’ve had some pre-cancer areas that were treated and resolved.

I confidently went for my body check recently, feeling on top of things and walking in with no concerns. Then I heard, “Oh, this definitely looks like a basal cell! See … let me shine this light on it and show you the pearly essence.”

My heart sank a bit hearing this dreaded news — again. The PA said she thought she could remove it all, but, of course, it still had to be biopsied to confirm she was correct.She told me she thought she did, but if not, I might have to come back. I was told it would take a week to 10 days.

After two weeks, I began to assume all was fine. Still, I decided to call and confirm. The nurse told me they did not get it all and I would need to have further excision.

After not hearing anything for so long, I hoped and believed all was fine, but deep down, I knew I needed to confirm it. These are the times I’m reminded that cancer is always part of my life. It will never fully go away. I never know when it will rear its ugly head. Once again, I found myself playing the waiting game, but feeling like I was most likely “safe.”

This is what I mean when I say the scares just never go away. I was quite surprised, but I am ultimately happy that this little spot that I thought was nothing was found early and will be taken care of now. It also reinforces how important it is to keep up with these body checks, even when I feel sure everything is fine.

One time in the past, I said to my Mohs surgeon, “No offense, but I really don’t ever want to see you again!”

He smiled gently and replied, “I’m very sorry, but you most likely will. The prevalence is increased with your kind of lymphoma, unfortunately.” I was quite surprised.

I’ve learned to cope by not letting these scares dominate my daily life. I don’t want to lose all the good moments by constantly worrying about what might come next. I have mentioned before, but I feel it bears repeating that each morning, I give myself about 15 minutes to feel gratitude and give voice to my worries. Then I move on with my day and place those fears on the back burner. This didn’t just happen overnight — it took time, effort and awareness. I had to understand that this was the only way to truly live each day fully, or else precious time would be needlessly lost. For me, it’s a lesson worth repeating. It’s how I keep these scares from taking over my life.

Even after all these years, I’ve accepted that the scares will never completely go away — but neither will my resilience. Every new test, every anxious wait, every small scar reminds me not just of what I’ve faced, but of how far I’ve come. Cancer may always be a part of my story, but it doesn’t get to write the ending. I do — each day I choose to live with gratitude, faith and the quiet courage to keep moving forward.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

Living with chronic cancer involves ongoing vigilance and acceptance of its persistent presence. Regular medical check-ups are crucial, as cancer can resurface unexpectedly, necessitating further treatment. Emotional resilience is vital in managing the psychological burden of living with cancer. The author emphasizes the importance of gratitude and mindfulness in daily life, allowing for a balance between acknowledging fears and embracing life's positive moments. Despite the constant threat of recurrence, the author maintains control over their narrative, choosing to live with courage and gratitude.

Even after all these years with small lymphocytic lymphoma, I’ve accepted that the scares will never completely go away — but neither will my resilience.

Scares Never Seem to Go Away

I once read a book entitled, “This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared,” by Alan Lew. The title was written in all caps which grabbed my attention. Although it wasn’t talking about hearing a scary diagnosis, it perfectly described how I felt when my doctor spoke the dreaded words:

Looking back over my 16 years of living with chronic cancer, I can still feel the support my family and friends wrapped around me from the very beginning. At first, I didn’t even understand what “chronic cancer” meant. All I heard was, “You have cancer.”

But from the very start, there were defining moments of support — moments so vivid that they remain etched in my memory as if they happened yesterday.

My husband could hardly speak. It was as if he’d been punched in the stomach and all his words were tied in a knot he couldn’t untangle. He knew he couldn’t fix this one for me. He was a mess. Neither of us said much on the drive home from the doctor’s office. Later that evening, though, he came over, wrapped me in his arms, and sobbed. In that embrace, I felt the depth of his love and the weight of his helplessness.

My oldest daughter burst into tears the moment I told her. Perhaps I made the mistake of breaking the news over the phone, but I also knew she was with her best friend, who would help her through the initial shock. Within days, she arrived with a binder full of information — diet suggestions, exercise routines, and carefully researched articles about my specific cancer. She had gone into problem-solving mode, her determination written all over her face. Her message to me was clear: “We’ll help you beat this, Mom.”

My middle daughter’s response was quieter, but no less powerful. She simply said, “I’d like to come over and go for a walk with you. Okay?”

I still remember the path we walked and how freely my emotions poured out that day. The rhythm of our footsteps, the comfort of her steady presence — it was as if the simple act of walking side by side helped me release my feelings.

My youngest daughter was in her final year of law school. She called and said softly, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” I could hear her sadness, but I also sensed she was holding back, keeping a part of herself protected so she could stay focused on the demands of school. Even so, she checked in more often than usual, and each call was a reminder of her quiet but unwavering love.

It struck me how differently each of them processed the same news. Each response was unique, shaped by who they were at that moment in their lives. Yet when I think back, their first acts of support rise to the surface immediately, with no effort at retrieval.

As time went on, I shared my diagnosis with friends, and they, too, showed support in different ways when treatment was needed a few years after my diagnosis. Some called frequently to check in. Some asked if they could drop off cake or comforting soups. A few offered to accompany me to treatment, though I preferred having my husband by my side. Still, I knew if I did need them, they would be there. My closest friends found ways to stay present by listening, caring, and showing up without fanfare. My more casual friends often said, “Let me know if you need anything,” and though I appreciated the thought, I came to realize how different those words felt compared to the tangible gestures of my inner circle.

Through these experiences, I learned lessons I carry with me to this day. I learned that real support requires sensitivity — that it means respecting boundaries and never overstepping. I learned that offering specific help is far more meaningful than vague promises. And I learned that sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply show up, quietly, without expectation, and let the person know you’re there.

It often takes being patient to truly understand how best to support others in their time of need. Unfortunately, life has a way of placing us all on one side or the other at some point. When that time comes, I hope to bring forward the lessons etched into my own experience — the defining moments of support that carried me when I needed it most.

Because while I was, indeed, completely unprepared for those words — “You have cancer” — the love and support that surrounded me reminded me that hopefully you won’t have to face the unprepared, real moments of life alone and you will be open to finding and accepting a support system to help you.

Receiving a cancer diagnosis can be an overwhelming experience, leaving individuals feeling unprepared and vulnerable. The support from family and friends plays a crucial role in navigating this challenging journey. Each person's response to the news is unique, reflecting their personality and circumstances. Meaningful support involves sensitivity, respecting boundaries, and offering specific help rather than vague promises. The power of simply being present and showing up without expectations is invaluable. These lessons in support and empathy are essential for both those facing illness and those offering assistance.

I reflect on how my family and friends showed love in different ways during the early days of my chronic cancer diagnosis.

The Defining Moments of Support After Hearing ‘You Have Cancer’

I’ve always been one of those people who loves all four seasons. This past spring, I wrote about how much I adore the burst of new life that comes with the arrival of this season. Now, as fall approaches, I am not sad, as some might be as summer comes to an end. Instead, I find it fascinating that before the leaves and flowers fade, something extraordinary happens—the world explodes in color. That brilliant display seeps into my soul and makes me feel alive. I love driving around to take in the glorious reds, oranges, and yellows before everything settles into winter’s stark black-and-white.

I have been told that I handle living with cancer graciously. I’m glad it seems that way, though anyone living with cancer knows it takes work—just as a good marriage takes work. Reframing difficult situations takes effort and creativity. It’s easy to look at autumn and see only the end of the vivid greenery of the landscape and the chill ahead. But I prefer William Cullen Bryant’s words: 

“Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.”

 That quote leaves me with a quiet smile deep inside. Maybe that’s also why I’ve always loved the song 

which I used to sing as a child. Sinatra’s line, 

“But I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall,”

 will always be with me. Fall invites me outdoors—to walk briskly among the changing trees, to breathe in crisp, cool air after humid summer days, or to sip a warm cup of coffee on the porch. Those fall walks leave me feeling healthy even though I have cancer, and they remind me that small choices, like moving my body or breathing in fresh air, can make a big difference in how I feel.

Fall is transitional, and transitions can stir emotions. With my cancer, I welcome meaningful distractions. Autumn brings many: my grandchildren heading back to school, Halloween, and multiple family birthday celebrations, mine, included! It’s also the season of some of the most meaningful Jewish holidays. The Jewish New Year, 5786, is a time of reflection—acknowledging where I fell short, asking forgiveness, and recommitting to do better. It is a season of compassion, when we think of those less fortunate and work toward making the world more just. For me, it’s not a time to dwell on my illness. Instead, I use these days to focus on the richness of life, the love of family, and the traditions that have carried me through even the hardest moments.

Then comes Sukkot (the Feast of Booths) an agricultural festival of thanksgiving for the harvest, and one of my favorite holidays. Each year, my family builds and decorates our sukkah, a foliage-covered hut where we eat our meals for seven days, weather permitting. Sitting inside it, I feel wrapped in God’s embrace, just as He protected the children of Israel in the wilderness when they wandered for forty years, which is the origin of this holiday. For me, it’s both magical and deeply spiritual, a reminder of divine protection as I face the uncertainties of my cancer. 

Though I am currently doing well thanks to treatment I began three years ago, I’ve now been taken off the medication, knowing the cancer will return but with no idea when. I still receive monthly infusions and must be vigilant with my compromised immune system. In winter, I avoid eating indoors, but during Sukkot I delight in every meal I can share outdoors with friends. It is a holiday that reminds me that joy and gratitude can flourish even in temporary shelters.

For all these reasons, when autumn begins, I feel uplifted. It’s a season filled with beauty, meaning, and gratitude. Each season offers its own gifts, and taking time to notice them is a worthwhile exercise. It’s a time to sit in the still of silence and listen in the quiet for what you’re meant to hear when the noise of the world is blocked out. When I pause to welcome and admire the beauty of fall and reflect on its blessings, I’m reminded that gratitude is always within reach—and that even in the midst of uncertainty, there is so much life to embrace.

Autumn is a season of vibrant transformation, offering a rich tapestry of colors and experiences that evoke a sense of gratitude and reflection. The author finds solace and inspiration in the beauty of fall, drawing parallels between the season's transitions and their journey with cancer. Embracing meaningful distractions, such as family celebrations and Jewish holidays, provides comfort and a sense of divine protection. Despite the uncertainties of living with cancer, the author cherishes the joy and gratitude found in autumn's fleeting moments, emphasizing the importance of appreciating life's gifts.

Autumn lifts my spirit, reminding me to embrace beauty, family, faith, and gratitude even while living with cancer.

As Fall Approaches: A Season of Color, Faith, and Strength

Hearing my doctor’s words, “I’m afraid it’s cancer,” is not only a defining moment, but it’s one that almost immediately elicits fear. How bad is it? Is it terminal? Is there a cure or treatment? What stage? These are just some of the thoughts that ran through my mind in a matter of seconds.

After I had time to process the answers I received, I realized I needed to figure out how I was going to stand up to my diagnosis. I knew I was a fighter, and this was going to be the biggest fight of my life. I tried to focus on the positive: while there was no cure for my chronic cancer, there were treatments available. I could still live with it, as long as i did what was required of me each time the cancer progressed. I interviewed several doctors and chose the one who gave me the most hope because that’s what I needed most.

My doctor assured me I hadn’t done anything to cause this, but I disagreed. I knew I hadn’t been a healthy eater and that I hadn’t practiced much self-care. I had pushed myself for years caring for my husband and three daughters, teaching full-time, and pursuing a Master of Arts degree in Teaching Reading and Language Arts. My goal was to become a reading specialist, and in order to make it happen, I stretched myself thin, working long hours to fit everything in.

Despite my doctor’s reassurance, I felt otherwise. I turned to books for answers, as I often do. While none could prove my theory, what I read reinforced my belief that better nutrition and stress management might have made a difference. I decided to take action. At first, I went overboard with a strict plant-based diet, but I couldn’t sustain it. Someone wisely suggested aiming for 80% instead of perfection, and that advice made it manageable. I now eat much healthier than I once did, and I strive for a more balanced lifestyle. It hasn’t been easy, but my determination to be here for my family gave me the motivation I needed.

Around that time, a friend with the same diagnosis shared advice I’ll never forget. He said, “The first and most important thing is your PMA.” I had no idea what he meant until he explained: Positive Mental Attitude. At the time, I wasn’t there yet, but his words stayed with me. Sixteen years later, I can honestly say my PMA is much stronger and it has made all the difference.

Of course, my family was just as shocked and affected as I was. My daughters were 31, 28, and 24 at the time, none of them married, two still in graduate school, and one just starting her career. The news rocked our entire world. Yet they rallied around me, and their love and support became my foundation. To stand up to cancer, I believe you need a support system, and thankfully, I had that in place. Still, no one feels the weight of the diagnosis like the person living with it. I remember telling my family I had a “cancer alarm” in my head. It was there when I closed my eyes at night and still there when I opened them in the morning. With time, more knowledge from my doctor, and gradual adjustment, that alarm finally began to fade.

I do think you need to develop tough skin to stand up to cancer. You have to decide to think positively, do what treatment is needed, when it is needed, and keep up with your checkups. Try your best to live a healthy lifestyle, which includes trying to walk daily. It’s also important to communicate with your support system and talk about what you’re going through. Connecting with others who have walked a similar path helps as well. It’s not easy to stand up to cancer, but if you put your mind to it and you have reasons you want to live, it certainly helps!

Receiving a cancer diagnosis is a life-altering moment that often triggers fear and uncertainty. The author emphasizes the importance of a positive mental attitude (PMA) and a strong support system in managing the emotional and physical challenges of living with cancer. Personal lifestyle changes, such as improved nutrition and stress management, are highlighted as crucial steps in coping with the disease. The narrative underscores the significance of resilience, proactive health management, and open communication with loved ones and healthcare providers in navigating the cancer journey.

Facing a cancer diagnosis was terrifying, but determination, lifestyle changes, and a strong support system helped me fight and find hope.

Linda Cohen

Scares Never Seem to Go Away

The Defining Moments of Support After Hearing ‘You Have Cancer’

As Fall Approaches: A Season of Color, Faith, and Strength

Standing Up to Cancer with Strength and a Positive Mindset

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