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 

“What are these nodules I’m feeling in my neck?” I asked almost 16 years ago. I went to my primary care doctor, who told me they were swollen lymph nodes. The only way to know if they were concerning, he said, was to get a biopsy. He referred me to a surgeon who assured me they were probably nothing but offered to do the biopsy to ease my worries.

A few days later, I got a call from the surgeon’s office. They reminded me to come in for stitch removal—and said they’d go over the results at that time. I knew that wasn’t a good sign. I started to worry. My husband told me I was being pessimistic.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said.

At the appointment, the surgeon told me the biopsy showed small lymphocytic lymphoma (SLL). It was a chronic cancer, he said, but one I could live a long life with — even though there’s no cure.

“You need to make an appointment with an oncologist and go from there,” he added.

I looked at my husband, who looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach. I felt instantly nauseous. Of course, I went home and Googled it. I read that the average survival rate was ten years. I was 57 at the time. All I could think was, 67 is not long enough.

I booked three appointments with different oncologists. The first two were similar — they explained that SLL is an indolent (slow-growing) cancer and recommended a “watch-and-wait” approach if I could manage the anxiety of not starting treatment right away.

“Some people can, and some can’t,” they said.

“You don’t want to use up your treatment options before you really need them.”

I knew I could handle it. Still, I was hoping for something more from my third appointment.

That’s when I met Dr. Lyle Goldman of Newland Medical. From the moment I told him what I had read, he responded differently. He said:

“You are not average. You are not a statistic. You found it early, you’re here already, and we will monitor you closely. I’ll see you every three months. You can live a long life — with treatment along the way as needed. Plus, there are many new drugs on the horizon.”

I turned to my husband, and we both felt it in that moment: This was my doctor.

Dr. Goldman gave me something the others didn’t — hope. He gave me a mindset I could hold onto. And that made all the difference.

Over the years, I did need treatment. I had three different infusion regimens and radiation. Then, about three years ago, I suddenly didn’t feel well. I was losing weight and constantly exhausted, needing daily naps—which wasn’t normal for me. Bloodwork showed my calcium was dangerously high. Dr. Goldman got it under control quickly with an infusion, then ordered a CT and PET scan.

The scans showed my SLL had worsened. My lymph nodes were enlarged throughout my body. Dr. Goldman started me on a BTK inhibitor called Calquence (Acalabrutinib). He explained it was a pill I’d take twice a day, every 12 hours.

“In a week,” he said, “it will melt your lymph nodes.”

It sounded like a miracle — and that’s exactly what it was.

I felt like myself again. SLL was pushed to the background, and life became livable. I continued to see Dr. Goldman every three months, as always.

Recently, I had a specialized test called flow cytometry, part of something called MRD testing (Minimal Residual Disease). It detects even the tiniest amount of cancer cells in the body. My results showed that abnormal B-cells represent 0.01% of my total cells.

That number—tiny as it is—brings up a swirl of emotions: gratitude, anxiety, vigilance. It doesn’t mean recurrence, but it could signal a higher risk of return down the line. The recommendation was to stop Calquence for now. It may be years before I need it again.

As an almost 16-year survivor, I’ve learned this is what long-term life with (and after) cancer looks like. These moments are part of it. They don’t mean panic — they mean pause, listen, and keep showing up for yourself.

This is why I believe in both medicine and mindfulness.

And in continuing to move forward — one strong, informed step at a time.

Dr. Goldman, you were right. I was not just a statistic — and you helped me believe it.

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Articles

I’m here to prove that powerful phrase; after nearly 16 years living with incurable cancer, I know there’s more to my story than the statistics.

You Are Not a Statistic: Facing Cancer With Hope, Not Numbers

Linda Cohen is a survivor of small lymphocytic lymphoma and was diagnosed in 2009. 

When I was first diagnosed with small lymphocytic lymphoma 15 years ago, I was told it was an indolent disease — with no cure. I was 57 years old at the time. First, I had to look up indolent to understand exactly what it meant medically. (Did I mention I was a teacher? I needed the precise definition!) “In a medical context, indolent describes a condition that is slow to develop, inactive, or relatively benign, often associated with little or no pain. It’s commonly used to describe certain types of cancers, such as lymphomas, where the disease progresses slowly. Indolent conditions are characterized by slow growth or development, in contrast to aggressive conditions that progress rapidly.”

But I don’t think I initially processed the part I was told about no cure. Okay, I thought. It could be so much worse. Over the years, I’ve learned to reframe the challenges life throws my way. At least I would have some time with this new life companion — cancer. Thank God it’s not aggressive, and maybe I won’t need treatment right away. Of course, I was shocked. I was trying to process this new reality. It’s much easier to talk about it 15 years later than it was on the day I got the news. At the time, I had just retired from a job I loved — as a reading specialist. I planned to tutor a few hours a week so I could be more available to help care for my aging mother.

With this new normal, I knew I needed to keep tutoring to stay grounded and not dwell too much on the diagnosis. I never shared the news with my mother. She was a Holocaust survivor. My father had passed away. They had been married for 60 years. She simply could not have handled it. So I threw myself into my work — tutoring reading and writing — and into publishing a book about my parents’ survival, titled Sarinka. I also began keeping a 10-year journal. I wanted to document this chapter of my life — not for anyone else, just for myself.

You can see a photo of the journal at the end of this blog. I think you need to physically see it so the idea doesn’t feel overwhelming… even thinking about a 10-year journal!

My family was incredibly supportive. They noticed how completely I poured myself into teaching and writing. I think they understood that those things were keeping me afloat. I became deeply determined to finish and publish Sarinka. I was afraid I might not live to see it in print, and it was a story that needed to be told.

Over the past 15 years, I’ve needed three different infusion treatments, radiation, regular antibody infusions to support my immune system, and now a BTK inhibitor (Acalabrutinib), which I may be coming off of soon. I was told it will come back, but I can go off of it for maybe a few years. But you know what? I’m living a quality life — something I never imagined I’d be able to say when I was first diagnosed.

Teaching, writing and healing have intersected in ways I could never have foreseen. They’ve given me purpose and peace. They’ve helped me stay focused not on illness, but on life. I walk daily with my husband. I laugh, get silly with my grandchildren, whom I’m so lucky to have now, and I remain deeply grateful for this time I’ve been given.

A diagnosis of small lymphocytic lymphoma, an indolent and incurable disease, led a retired teacher to find solace and purpose in teaching, writing, and documenting her journey. Despite the initial shock, she embraced her new reality by focusing on tutoring, writing a book about her parents' survival, and maintaining a journal. Over 15 years, she underwent various treatments, including infusions and a BTK inhibitor, while maintaining a quality life. Her story highlights the importance of finding purpose and gratitude amidst a chronic illness.

Fifteen years after being diagnosed with small lymphocytic lymphoma, I’ve found healing and meaning in the work I love and the life I’m grateful to live.

Teaching, Writing, Healing: The Intersections of My Cancer Journey

When I first entered the infusion room, I looked around and said to myself, “Is this really for me?” I couldn’t believe it. I had cancer, and now I needed treatment. It was a surreal moment — one that didn’t quite feel real. Over time, I underwent treatment on three separate occasions. Thankfully, each course had a clear beginning and, most importantly, a defined end. As tough as those treatments were, I got through them, and they helped me. I am not complaining. I was grateful then, and I still am.

But as time moved on, I began getting sinus infections more and more frequently. I often needed antibiotics just to keep things under control. Eventually, my doctor ran some tests and discovered that my antibody levels were far too low. That’s when he told me I would need something new — regular IVIG infusions, a treatment involving immunoglobulin antibodies to help boost my immune system.

I began entering the infusion room for something different: IVIG. This wasn’t a temporary plan —this was something I was now told I would need every four weeks for the rest of my life. That part was a little harder to swallow. I had to make the decision to accept this new normal, and that took some time. It’s not easy knowing you’ll be tethered to lifelong treatment. It’s certainly not fun having to get poked and prodded every month while nurses search for a “good vein.” That was until I met Angela.

Angela is more than a nurse. In many ways, she’s more like an angel — and fittingly, that word is part of her name. From the moment I met her, she made a lasting impression. Angela always greeted me with a warm smile and a genuine sense of interest. She didn’t just treat me as a patient; she took the time to know me as a person. It was clear from the beginning that she cared about building a relationship. She understood that I’d be returning every four weeks indefinitely, and she chose to invest in me. In return, I wanted to get to know her, too.

One of the many reasons I never had to worry when I found out Angela would be my nurse was because she was simply the best at what she did. She was gentle and confident when starting an IV — no small thing when you’re dealing with frequent infusions. On top of that, she remembered the little things that made a big difference. I’d had a couple of bad reactions to the infusion early on, and we learned that the IVIG was dripping too quickly. Angela remembered. Without me even saying anything, she would reassure me: “Don’t worry, Linda, I know you need it to go in slowly, so you don’t get a reaction.” That attention to detail and commitment to my comfort never went unnoticed.

Angela made every visit brighter. When I saw her walking toward me, my face would light up — I honestly felt like I’d won the lottery that day. There’s just something special about her. She never made me feel like her “work.” She treated me with dignity, compassion, and joy. Her kindness was evident in everything she did — from making sure I was warm enough, to asking if I needed a snack, to offering help getting to the restroom.

It takes a very special kind of person to become a nurse. But it takes an extraordinary one to make you feel seen, safe, and valued, even during some of your most vulnerable moments. Angela, thank you. Your support is the kind that stays with a person forever.

A patient's journey through cancer treatment evolves into a lifelong regimen of IVIG infusions due to low antibody levels. Initially challenging, the transition is eased by the compassionate care of a nurse named Angela, who provides not only medical expertise but also emotional support. Angela's attention to detail, kindness, and ability to build a personal connection transform the infusion experience, making the patient feel valued and understood. This narrative highlights the profound impact healthcare professionals can have on patients' lives beyond their clinical duties.

After cancer, lifelong infusions were tough — until nurse Angela’s care and kindness reminded me that true support can last long after treatment ends.

A Thank You to Nurses and the Support That Lasts Beyond Cancer Care

Ahhh… the end of winter — that long, quiet season that gently holds nature in pause. And then, without fail, comes the burst of spring. The Earth awakens in color and fragrance, buds open like promises kept, and shoots rise from the cold ground like small miracles. In that same spirit, I too, feel myself coming more alive.

Spring brings more than flowers. It brings connection — shared laughter with dear friends, having meals enjoyed under open skies and the joy of simply being outside with my grandchildren, breathing in life. It’s a season that reminds me I am here. I am alive to witness the world blooming again. And when each spring draws to a close, I find myself praying — not with fear, but with hope — that I’ll be blessed to greet another. Walking outside every day fills my heart with gratitude. I walk past all the trees and observe new buds emerging. This might sound strange to you, but I sometimes think what a miracle it is that each year we are guaranteed spring will come, but we are certainly not guaranteed that we will be here to experience it. Each spring is such a gift to me.

In May, I will meet with my doctor to hopefully stop my medication, Calquence (acalabrutinib), a targeted cancer treatment that I have been on for two and a half years. This is a feeling of rebirth for me, just like the rebirth of spring after winter. At first, I was scared to even think about stopping it, but now I have reframed it. I look forward to enjoying the freedom of letting it go. The feeling of not worrying about what time I will have to take my medication, and if I will have at least eight ounces of water with me to take it. I will focus on how freeing it will be. Yes, my doctor has reminded me: The cancer will likely return, and with it, the need for treatment. But rather than live in fear of that moment, I choose to embrace the now and celebrate the life I’m living today.

Instead of worrying when that day will come, I’m choosing to savor the days I have now, days filled with a quality life. I don’t take for granted the physical ability to go for walks and hikes, so I can enjoy the spring as it continues to emerge. I will take time to smell the roses (as they say) more than ever. I will play with my grandchildren outside and watch the birds that are now congregating at our birdfeeder. I will take the time to notice every blossom, every breeze, every blessing.

The longer days with more sunshine also contribute to a more positive and energetic feeling that short, cold winter days just can’t match. Some people seem jaded as they rush through life, so caught up in going from one place to the next that they fail to notice the everyday miracles, like the rebirth of nature. I think after a cancer diagnosis, many of us gain a deeper appreciation for the small moments we once overlooked.

So, here’s to spring — not just a season, but a reminder that life is always offering us a fresh start. Renewal. Hope. Joy. No one is promised another year, another bloom, another morning. But today, I am here. And that is everything. Here’s to spring! Here’s to life! Beautiful. Fragile. And so worth savoring.

Spring symbolizes renewal and hope, mirroring the author's personal journey with cancer treatment. The season's arrival brings a sense of connection, gratitude, and appreciation for life's small moments. The author anticipates stopping their cancer medication, Calquence, viewing it as a rebirth akin to spring's emergence. Embracing the present, they focus on enjoying life, cherishing time with family, and appreciating nature's beauty. The narrative underscores the importance of savoring life, recognizing its fragility, and finding joy in everyday miracles, especially after a cancer diagnosis.

As spring arrives, I embrace the season’s renewal, reflecting on my journey with cancer and the freedom I’ll feel when I stop my treatment. Life is a gift.

Linda Cohen

You Are Not a Statistic: Facing Cancer With Hope, Not Numbers

Teaching, Writing, Healing: The Intersections of My Cancer Journey

A Thank You to Nurses and the Support That Lasts Beyond Cancer Care

The Burst of Spring: Reflection for Those Living with Cancer

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