Meredith's Musings

Reuniting and Relocating

My husband is here. We’ve been apart for three weeks. This move marks the beginning of our transition — into a new life, post-cancer, post-family responsibilities, post-loss. We’re moving on, moving forward.

I’ve set up our new home, registered the car, became a resident of Florida, found a Pilates instructor, swam a few times in the building’s pool, and mapped out the 20-block radius around us.

We’ve found our spot — a high-rise apartment on the bay in Miami Beach. We nicknamed it High in the Sky. Nineteenth floor, wraparound balcony, endless light. It’s a huge step up from where we’ve been: a 450 sq ft, one-bedroom on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. And since then? The COVID residences — my father’s house in West Hartford. Spacious but isolating. Disconnected from the world and from ourselves.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

We decided to leave NYC because of COVID. Amid the chaos of packing and transition, I went in for my routine pancreatic scan. That’s when they found a tumor.

I faced it alone. My husband wasn’t allowed inside the hospital due to pandemic restrictions. I underwent a distal pancreatectomy and splenectomy — a surgery that removes the tail of the pancreas and the spleen. It was lifesaving.

Recovery in Florida

We packed up — cat, car, and what was left of our resolve — and drove to my father’s winter home in Sarasota. I recovered there, going through 12 rounds of chemotherapy over six months. The house was lovely. The neighbors kind. But still, it was tough.

I worked through treatment. Justin painted and had both hips replaced. Recovery wasn’t just mine — it was ours.

When It Rains, It Pours

Soon, more diagnoses came. Justin was found to have colon cancer — just 18 months after my pancreatic cancer. My stepmother had brain cancer. My mother-in-law faced breast cancer. My father was diagnosed with both oral and kidney cancers.

We moved again, this time to Connecticut, to care for my father and for Justin. We settled into my 1,000 sq ft condo, a place I had been renting out for years. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a roof, and it was ours.

In 2023, my stepmother passed. A year later, my father followed.

A Fresh Start, A Familiar Fear

Now, a year later, we are starting anew. The sunshine in Miami Beach feels like hope. The beach life is gentler than the city. For the first time in a long while, we’re breathing.

But just as the air felt clear, I had my five-year post-cancer scans — a significant milestone for pancreatic cancer survivors. And they found something. A suspicious cyst. My cancer markers are slightly elevated.

I have a biopsy scheduled in eight days. It will be the longest eight days of my life. Followed by a six-day wait for results.

The Weight of Legacy

I’m choosing to write this to document, to give hope, to tell the truth.

I’ll be 54 in two months. This disease has devastated generations of my mother’s family — many of whom passed away around age 55. The implications of that number haunt me.

In my darkest moments, I think: I’m going to die at 55 like the rest of them.

But then, the fog lifts. The fear calms. I remind myself: surgery is terrifying, but cancer is worse. Especially this kind — the silent kind. The cyst has been growing 5mm every six months.

Why I Still Have Hope

I’ve been lucky. I was accepted into the PRECEDE Study, a global research initiative tracking high-risk individuals for early signs of pancreatic cancer. With top-tier surgeons from 26 hospitals worldwide, the program found my first tumor at Stage 1. That’s why I’m still here.

And this time? I believe they’ve caught it early again.

Living With the Beast

At this point, I just want it out. If I need a total pancreatectomy — or even the complex Whipple procedure (a surgery to remove part of the pancreas, small intestine, and other nearby tissue) — so be it.

I’m already insulin-dependent. If I lose the rest of my pancreas, I’ll need to take enzymes every time I eat. It’s doable. I’m already used to injecting insulin before meals. This is just another version of that.

Because I’ll be alive.

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🙋‍♀️ For Those Who Relate

Have you gone through something similar? Have you stood on the edge of your life — holding your breath?

I see you.

You’re not alone.

📚 Resources

• PRECEDE Consortium
• Pancreatic Cancer Action Network
• CancerCare Support Services
• Diabetes Self-Management with Pancreatic Cancer

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This is my story. I’m writing it not just to survive — but to connect.