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 

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.

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

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Articles

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.

Standing Up to Cancer with Strength and a Positive Mindset

Writing and reading help me stay grounded and make meaning of my life as I navigate chronic cancer. Over time, they’ve become more than habits — they are essential tools I use to process, reflect, and connect with the world around me. I keep a daily journal to remind myself to do something good and meaningful every day, which is deeply tied to my faith and spiritual outlook. That simple practice helps me stay accountable to living with intention, even during difficult times.

Writing this blog, in particular, gives me a space to be fully honest with myself. When my cancer takes a step forward, I try to take a step right alongside it — to respond thoughtfully and take action. Of course, there are days when it’s tempting to avoid the hard truths. But writing doesn’t let me off the hook. It invites me to face what I’m feeling and name it. That’s often where healing begins.

Storytelling, too, has taken on a new and beautiful role in my life. At the urging of my daughters, I started recording the stories I tell my grandchildren. That became “Stories with Savta” (Hebrew for grandmother), a podcast where I share children’s tales as a reading specialist and proud grandmother. It’s available on Spotify and Apple Podcasts, and it’s completely free — no monetization, just love. What began as a way for my grandkids to hear my voice and remember my stories has grown into something more. It’s joyful, playful, and unexpectedly meaningful. It connects generations and gives me a lasting sense of purpose. I hope it even helps other children fall in love with reading and storytelling.

But not everything I write or speak about is light. One of the subjects I feel most passionately about is the rise of antisemitism in today’s world. As a child of Holocaust survivors, I feel the weight of history repeating itself in unsettling ways. The similarities between my parents’ experiences in 1941 Yugoslavia and what I see now are impossible to ignore. Hatred has crept into our universities, our public discourse, and even our K–12 schools. This isn’t just a Jewish issue — it’s a threat to the values of tolerance and freedom that define our Western society.

To me, antisemitism feels like a kind of societal cancer — one that mutates, spreads, and resurfaces over time. And just like with my own chronic illness, I feel a responsibility to speak out. I share my parents’ story at our local Holocaust Museum, help organize educational programs, and do whatever I can to bring truth and understanding to my community. Sometimes I feel it’s exhausting work, but I feel I can’t stay silent. The silence of the world is deafening, and history has taught us where that silence can lead.

Still, I’m constantly reminded to pace myself — for the sake of my health, my energy, and my spirit. Living with chronic cancer requires balance. I’m learning, slowly, to listen to my limits. That’s when I take time to enjoy daily walks and time with my husband, family, and friends, listen to the birds when I have my morning coffee, and take the time to enjoy my grandchildren. But it’s hard to make time for all, especially when I feel so strongly that my voice — our voices — are needed more than ever.

Reading and writing are not just my escape. They are my foundation. They help me make sense of both the private and the public battles I face. They remind me that even with cancer, my story is still unfolding. Reading and writing are my lifelines. They help ground me and give meaning to a life that is still very much unfolding, even with cancer as my constant companion.

Navigating chronic cancer, writing and reading serve as essential tools for processing and connecting with the world. Journaling fosters intentional living, while storytelling bridges generations and provides purpose. The author also addresses the rise of antisemitism, drawing parallels to historical events and advocating for awareness and education. Balancing activism with personal health is crucial, as living with chronic illness necessitates pacing and self-care. Ultimately, reading and writing are foundational, offering grounding and meaning amidst personal and societal challenges, and affirming that one's story continues to unfold.

Writing and reading help me stay grounded and find meaning while living with chronic cancer, balancing health, family and speaking out against hatred.

Grounded in Words, Fueled by Purpose: Living Fully with Chronic Cancer

I am enjoying this “pause,” but I feel like I’m living between the lines of good health and cancer. My chronic illness — small lymphocytic lymphoma — is currently in a state of temporary remission. I say “temporary” because I’ve been told there is no cure. Still, thanks to the availability of BTK inhibitors like Calquence (acalabrutinib), I have improved significantly.

After almost three years on Calquence, my doctor suggested I consider stopping the medication. I was surprised because originally, I was told I’d likely be on it for life. But there’s no established protocol yet for these newer drugs. I hesitated and finally agreed. It has now been two months since I have been off the medication. I find myself navigating an emotional, physical, and spiritual in-between space — the quiet that lies between illness and health, and I am doing my best to enjoy it.

This remission feels like a pause, not a promise. The only promise is that it will return. We just don’t know when. The medication worked like a miracle, but I knew these drugs were toxic and came with side effects. He believed these were reasons enough to try to go off for however long I could. My doctor reassured me that I would be monitored closely and could restart treatment when needed. By then, there may be even better options.

Still, I carry scars — some visible, some not. I’m currently reading a novel for my book club, unaware until I opened it that it’s about a woman with B-cell lymphoma, the same kind I have. The review I read didn’t mention this. Reading about the character’s PET scan triggered a visceral memory. I was right back in that familiar fear, that moment of waiting. I vividly remember seeing it was the doctor calling before I answered the phone. I knew that whatever words he said would dictate how the rest of my life would go. I do wonder if anyone else in my group will realize how this story might affect me. That in itself will be interesting because I know I won’t mention it.

As of today, I’m dealing with a chronic cough — similar to the one I had before Calquence cleared it up so effectively. I saw my ENT, who told me he’s throwing everything at it: steroids, antibiotics, Pepcid and Allegra. He was optimistic this will help… but then he said something that stopped me cold:

“If it doesn’t get better, you need to go back to your oncologist and get back on your Calquence. If it clears up, you’ll know what you’re dealing with.”

It was a stark contrast to what my oncologist believes — that this cough has nothing to do with being off Calquence. But this approach might prove it one way or another. I’m going with the optimism of my ENT and the opinion of my oncologist for now.

The point is, even while in remission, I’m still living between the lines. There’s no full exhale, no true letting go — just the constant hum of uncertainty, the quiet calculations, the wait-and-see.

Remission, it turns out, isn’t the same as freedom.

I don’t, however, want this to sound negative. On the contrary, I’ve been surprised by how free I feel at times, especially with side effects going away and with no rigid medication schedule to adhere to. I’m deeply aware of how precious this time is. I know it’s temporary, and that’s exactly why I savor it. I feel gratitude every single day. I’m not used to feeling this good without my medication.

I still feel I’m thriving in remission. I’m learning to recognize my triggers and give them the space they need, acknowledging them without letting them control me. I’m human, after all. The key is to let those moments pass and then shift my focus back to the beauty of the life I’m living now.

Most days, that joy wins — and that’s something worth celebrating.

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subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.

Living with small lymphocytic lymphoma in remission presents a complex emotional and physical landscape. The patient experiences a temporary reprieve from illness due to BTK inhibitors like Calquence, but the uncertainty of remission looms. The decision to pause medication, despite its side effects, introduces a new phase of monitoring and potential relapse. Emotional triggers, such as reading about similar conditions, highlight the ongoing psychological impact. Despite the uncertainty, the patient finds moments of freedom and gratitude, learning to navigate life between health and illness with resilience and optimism.

I’m in remission from small lymphocytic lymphoma and off treatment, savoring this break while learning to live with the uncertainty that still lingers.

Linda Cohen

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

Standing Up to Cancer with Strength and a Positive Mindset

Grounded in Words, Fueled by Purpose: Living Fully with Chronic Cancer

Finding Freedom and Uncertainty in My Cancer Remission Pause

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