Lessons from a Cancer Journey
by Anthony Manousos

November 2009 Issue

When I left my position as editor of Friends Bulletin in July 2008, my wife Kathleen and I had wonderful plans. I had a scholarship to go to Pendle Hill so I could finish my book about Howard and Anna Brinton, and Kathleen was given a sabbatical leave from the Methodist Church so she could study spiritual direction. We sold our house with remarkable speed (and at a good price!) and made arrangements to spend the summer visiting Friends and family and camping. But God had other plans for us.
That same July we learned that Kathleen had lymphoma—a form of cancer that killed her mother twenty years ago when she was Kathleen’s age (56). This was devastating news, but the oncologists were hopeful. Cancer research has made great strides in the past couple of decades, and Kathleen’s oncologist was convinced that her cancer could be knocked out with chemo in six months.

This was the beginning of an amazing spiritual journey. Because Kathleen was a Methodist pastor, and I have been a public Friend for many years, we decided to use this crisis as an opportunity to explore spiritual healing and to witness to our faith. We kept a daily blog in which we recorded our spiritual insights as well  as the progress of our cancer. I use the word “our” cancer because we were facing this challenge together. You can still read our blog at CaringBridge.org (kathleenross). Many found our daily entries helpful, and even inspiring.
Soon after her diagnosis, Kathleen recalled a phrase from the writings of the Quaker peace activist Gene Hoffman: “Live your life as if everything that happens is something you prayed for.” Under the circumstances, this seemed a hard saying. Pray for cancer? Never! But as we went through our cancer journey, we realized the deep truth behind this saying. No one would pray for cancer, but we would pray to be closer to God, to each other, and to our family and friends. Having cancer can help us to reach our deepest spiritual goals, as we learned the hard way.
Kathleen’s cancer shrank significantly after initial treatments, but some bits stubbornly resisted various forms of chemo, so after six months, the doctors recommended a more drastic approach: a bone marrow transplant. This involves harvesting stem cells from a donor and giving the patient a massive dose of chemo to destroy any lingering cancer cells (as well as the patient’s immune system.) The patient is then infused with the stem cells which migrate to the bone marrow and miraculously recreate the immune system.
This, in any case, is how a bone marrow transplant is supposed to work. We were told that there was a 50% cure rate, and a 10-20% risk of mortality. Since there was a 90% risk of mortality without a BMT, we felt the odds were pretty good, especially since Kathleen was relatively young and had responded well to chemo up to that point.
On April 28, 2009, Kathleen was admitted into the City of Hope, one of the premier cancer hospitals in the United States. She was given her transplant several days later. Within a week she had a severe reaction—her lungs began bleeding—and she was taken to ICU.  The doctors did everything humanly possible to save her. Her prayer network was activated, and people from various faith traditions—Methodists, Quakers, Jews, Muslims, Bahais, and Buddhists—began praying for her night and day.
Ten days later it became clear that Kathleen’s condition could not be reversed, so in keeping with her written wishes, and those of her family, I let the doctors remove her from life support. A few minutes later, on Sunday, May 24, she drew her last breath.
It was a devastating experience, the most painful of my life. But it was also a time of joy. I felt incredibly grateful for the outpouring of love that I received from Friends, from the Methodists, and from the interfaith community. In the midst of unbearable grief and floods of tears, I felt surrounded and uplifted by Divine Love too deep for words.
Hundreds of people came to memorial meetings that took place at our Quaker meetinghouse and at a Methodist church. These memorials were an opportunity for people of various faith traditions to express their appreciation for Kathleen and all that was precious to her.

Lessons Learned
I have learned many lessons from this experience, but I want to share just a few here.
Many married couples who have expressed admiration for how Kathleen and I behaved during our cancer journey. Yet everyone who marries, and is faithful, will probably undergo something similar to what we experienced. When you marry, you make a vow to love someone “in sickness and health, till death do us part.” Sooner or later, a married couple will have to decide whether or not to keep that vow. Not everyone does. Some decide to divorce their spouse, or have an affair, or act in other ways that seem to me deplorable.
But if a couple decides to be faithful to that vow, they will have an opportunity to deepen your their love in ways beyond imagining. I enjoyed twenty wonderful years of marriage, and in many ways the last year was the best. When my wife had beautiful long hair, it was easy to love her. When she became bald and had a tube sticking out of her chest, it was still easy to love her. As Shakespeare says, “Love does not alter when it alteration finds.” Despite, or perhaps because of our adversities, our love grew stronger. We drew closer to each other, as well as to our family and friends and to God.
I also learned that our Quaker testimony on community takes on new meaning and importance during a life-threatening illness. It takes a whole community to bring healing and hope to those facing a health crisis or the loss of a loved one. I can’t imagine how anyone could endure such experiences alone, or without some kind of religious faith.
Our spiritual community can also become our spiritual family. From the very beginning, my meeting set up a care committee to meet with Kathleen and me. Over the course of our cancer journey, this committee visited us at home as well as in the hospital. These visits included times of worship as well as sharing and were enormously helpful.
We also received phone calls, cards, and emails that cheered us up and reminded us that we were not alone. Our CaringBridge blog became a way to stay connected with our friends and family on a daily basis.
We took part in a cancer support group at the Wellness Community and become part of the wider cancer community by going to conferences and other events geared towards cancer patients. I came to know in a new way people–some of them old friends–who had survived cancer and had life-changing experiences.

The Journey Continues
During this past year, my heart has opened up in new ways to people who are struggling with health issues. I started taking elderly people to the hospital, and listening with more care and attention when people told me of their bouts with sickness.
Little by little I came to understand what “pastoral care” means. Quakers do not have paid pastors, but we nonetheless need to provide pastoral care for each other as we go through life’s challenges. It is helpful to be trained for this role—and many Friends who give pastoral care have been trained as psychologists or social workers. But sometimes experience is the best teacher.
For most of my life as a Friend, I have seen myself primarily as a peace activist. But during the past year, and especially now that my wife has passed on, now I also see myself also as a kind of pastor. A pastor is someone who listens compassionately, who cares deeply, and is present for those going through difficult times. This is what I now feel called to do. It is something that I feel many Friends could also do, if we helped them to discern this gift and to develop it.
I learned the value of being a kind of pastor this summer at Pacific Yearly Meeting’s Annual Session.  Last year I had to miss PYM for the first time in twenty years because of our cancer diagnosis. When I showed up at Walker Creek Ranch, I was warmly welcomed by Friends, many of whom knew my story and were surprised and pleased to see me. Throughout the week I felt an outpouring of love and support from many Friends and am grateful to have PYM as my spiritual family.
I became a magnet for Friends who have had close encounters with mortality. I felt as if I had entered a new community, the society of “those who grieve” and are seeking to be blessed and comforted.
One Friend tearfully told me how her baby died several hours after birth, and what a devastating experience this had been for her spiritually and emotionally. A woman shared how her husband died of cancer six months after their wedding, and how painful it was to lose someone during the honeymoon period of their relationship. Another woman told of how agonizing it was to lose her husband after 30 thirty years of marriage and how this loss utterly transformed her life. A gay man told me of the pain he felt when his lover died in 1985—a time when the AIDSs epidemic in San Francisco killed thousands of people—including nearly 300 friends of his friends who died within a couple of years during this time of plague. A mother wept fresh tears recalling the death of her seven-year daughter four years ago due to leukemia. A woman in her fifties confessed that her boyfriend died in a boating accident thirty years ago when she was a college student and she suspected he may have committed suicide.
As people shared their sorrows, and as I listened as compassionately as I could, I realized how much grief people carry and how much they yearn for a blessing. Led to do what I could to help, I organized a “bereavement group” which met the last night of Annual Session. Four people showed up and shared their experiences. We ended our precious time of sharing with a period of worship and a song. I also led them in a quick laughter yoga exercise. We parted feeling relieved and light-hearted.
After this encounter, I thought of the phrase used in Handel’s Messiah to describe Jesus: “A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” I like the phrase “acquainted with grief.” It implies that somehow we can befriend our grief and become intimate with these painful feelings. By doing so, we can experience a deeper communion and friendship with others.
Being led to be more pastoral does not mean I will no longer work for peace. To the contrary, I have devoted myself full-time to peace activism, even if it means working as a volunteer. I know that Kathleen would approve of this decision, and I feel her spirit encouraging me to deepen my connection with the one who was called the Prince of Peace. I have come to see more clearly than ever before that peacemaking is ultimately about relationship-building, and I hope that my activism will be more loving and compassionate. Just as my mentor and friend Gene Hoffman became a more compassionate peace activist after her marriage failed and she had a nervous breakdown, I hope that what has happened this past year will help me to become a more loving Friend. So much love has been bestowed on me during this time of trial it will take a lifetime, or perhaps many lifetimes, to give back what I have been given.
To all who have been part of this journey, I say, “Thank you and God bless you!”

Anthony Manousos is a member of Santa Monica Friends Meeting and currently resides in Culver City, CA. A Quaker peace activist, writer, and teacher, he serves on the board of directors for several interfaith organizations, including the Parliament of the World’s Religions and Interfaith Communities United for Justice and Peace. He can be reached at interfaithquaker at aol dot com. His blog is LAquaker.blogspot.com.