Cancer Update #10

January 26, 2016

Dear Friends and Family,

This past Thursday marks one year since I was diagnosed with cancer. As you know, it has been an intense year. A stem cell transplant is a brutal treatment. I am, though, very happy to report that I am now in far better shape, both physically and emotionally than I was pre-diagnosis. In other words, the treatment has worked. After what seemed like a slow recovery, my energy is up and my back pain is down. I am able to walk once more and that is a great gift. I am back to doing dog walks. Having body energy again gives me a renewed sense of hope.

As I get better, it has begun to sink in just how sick I really was before I was diagnosed. Early on one of the doctors did some detective work and found lab results from 2008 when I had some surgery at Women’s College Hospital. These results show that my kidneys were already compromised back then, which means that the cancer was already present. That means that my exhaustion thru graduate school wasn’t just the enormous amount of work they piled on us, it was also because I was ill. How did I write a thesis and produce a body of work? It is very odd to realize I was ill for a few years without knowing it. I just thought it was reality. When did that first white blood cell go rogue and begin its exponential growth? No answer to that question.

I have become very intrigued by what the experience of cancer is, both in our bodies and in our culture. The hospital world has its own reality. I see the attraction of television shows about life inside hospitals. And then there is the pharmaceutical industry. I’m taking maintenance chemo that costs $100,000 a year. One pill (I take 3 a week) costs $270! I’m not paying for it – the Canadian taxpayers are. Who is making all that money? So my art continues to explore these questions. It is very satisfying putting my experience into finding meaning thru visual & written forms.

While it is glorious to have energy again and be able to do more, I’m not cured. The cancer goes on growing, but from an earlier starting point. I go on treating it and suffering various kinds of collateral damage. Other medical issues that were overshadowed by the cancer are making themselves known again. I am living with cancer. This is the last cancer update letter for now, but there will no doubt be new chapters opening up down the road.

Many of you helped Peter and I in the last year in umpteen different ways. Your letters, cards & emails cheered the spirit and made us feel not so alone. Some of you came and gardened for us (& some of you are way better gardeners than me, so the garden is thriving!); others of you drove me to & from that endless river of appointments and some fed and comforted Peter when I was in Princess Margaret Cancer Centre. There were dog walkers and dog sitters. Various people taught me to meditate; others cleaned my studio. Some contributed intimate talk about their own cancer or kidney experiences. Others offered retreats to their warm climate or summer properties. People brought books, flowers, food and emotional connections. The woman in the dosa hut on the corner still gives me food. I have felt very held by all of you – thank you. I did draw the cancer card, but I also drew the loving community card.

Peter, who has given me a bottomless bucket of love and support through this ordeal, is taking me to Belize at the end of February. In the worst moments of last year I thought I’d never travel again. Now we will go snorkelling and stay with an old friend who lives in the Belizean jungle!

I’ll let you all know when I’m having an exhibition of the Cancer Files, my latest body of work.




Cancer Update #9

September 4, 2015

Dear Friends and Family,

I’ve been home from the hospital for 4 days now. It is wonderful to be in my own house with Peter and RuiDog. The garden is lovely to sit it and, although I’m eating very little, it is great to eat real food rather than the sludge they serve in the hospital. I’m feeling rather surprisingly weak and mostly I just want to sleep. I did have a doctor in the hospital tell me my job when I got home was two fold: eat and sleep, so I guess I’m doing alright. Unfortunately I’m also suffering from my bad back – the herniated disk didn’t like the lack of movement.

I was in the hospital for 22 days! That’s a long time. It was a mixed experience like any canoe trip. I was given the big poison shortly after my arrival, followed immediately the next day with my own stem cells which had been carefully stored away. Then followed 5 rather surreal days when nothing much happened. The water was smooth, the sun shone and I had a variety of visitors. The autologous stem cell unit is very interesting. Because infection control is one of their chief tasks, all patients have their own rooms, the nurse to patient ratio is very high and the nursing staff are superb – very knowledgeable, caring and compassionate. All this seemed like overkill in those first few days. Then, right on the schedule, the water got rough and the weather turned bad. I won’t get too graphic here, but suffice to say that that the high dose chemo kills the lining of the GI tract as well as my bone marrow. So both ends of the GI tract were out of control for a few days. Very nasty. I didn’t get mouth sores (fortunately) and I only had a mild dose of difficulty swallowing – something other people get in extremis. I also suffered from very high fever. So those rapids lasted about 5 awful days. Then things got better and I was all set to go home, when I developed another high fever. I had to stay in hospital for another 5 days. Somehow this was the hardest part of the journey. I was dying to get of there by then. Overall, though, I was well looked after in a very well run unit. I also had a nice bonus. Outside my window was a beautiful garden made of huge glass flowers in a variety of colours. Very magical and full of whimsy. I loved watching how they changed as the light moved thru the day.

Thank you for your many many emails and cards full of poems, canoe trip stories, good wishes, encouragement, and love. They helped the journey tremendously. I’m sorry I’m not able to answer you individually. And many of you have written since I returned home asking how I am doing. Please take this letter as your response as I don’t have lots of energy.

If anyone wants off this list, let me know. Meanwhile I love your responses, but don’t expect individual replies back.

So I’m at home healing. I thought it would be hard to go slow, but so far, tiredness and weakness make that easy. I look forward to slowly building myself back up. Meanwhile, sleeping, reading, knitting and sitting in the garden with the dog seem to be the main activities on my To Do list.





Cancer Update #8

August 9, 2015

Dear Friends & Family,

I finally received The Call today from Princess Margaret Cancer hospital. They have a bed for me. Unless the last remnants of the mild cold I have sends me home, I will be checking in later this afternoon. Then I begin The Ordeal – the stem cell transplant for my myeloma cancer. I anticipate being in hospital for 2-3 weeks unless I have a bad infection, in which case it could be longer. I expect to have a slow recovery afterwards.

Please do not come and visit me in the hospital. I gather that there are 5 days or so of this process which are ghastly. I will not be a pretty sight, nor will I have energy for anything except survival. Once I’m home, I might like visitors in very small doses.

I loved getting all your letters after my last update. I fully intended to respond to them, but somehow it never happened. Don’t feel any pressure to write; on the other hand, know that I love feeling a connection with you via your letters. Again, you may or may not hear back from me.

I’ve added a few new people to this list. If you don’t want the letters, let me know & I’ll take you off the list.

How do I feel? Like I’m about to head out on an Outward Bound course minus the beautiful Northern wilderness. But that feel of a journey. I put on that hospital gown and hand my flesh over to them. New people, big rapids, canoe might flip and I hope I have enough safety gear to survive.

Wish me luck.



Cancer Update #7

May 26, 2017

Dear Friends & Family,

This is kind of creepy, so skip the first part if reading about medical procedures is too icky for you.

I’ve finished the first part of my cancer treatment – 16 weeks of Induction Chemo, aka Chemo Lite. Now begins the Stem Cell Transplant. It is divided into 3 parts – harvesting cells (called mobilization (really?!! military language?)), killing the cancerous cells (& the rest of my bone marrow, hair growing cells and the lining of my GI tract) and then replanting the harvested stem cells. Part 1 has begun. Later this week I’ll be given a drug which makes my stem cells leave their happy bone marrow home and head out onto the blood vessel highway. After a few days of this treatment, the blood vessels will be crowded with stem cells and I’ll be attached to a dialysis like machine. This will take my blood out (& put it back!) and separate out the stem cells. They will be frozen and stored until needed. Enough stem cells for 2 transplants will be harvested. Once the harvesting is done, I have a slight break. Peter, Rui & I are off to see Brenda, my 96 year old mother, as well as some old friends. On June 22 I have something called a Hickman line put in. It is a semi-permanent in-out IV port. And on June 23 I begin waiting 2-6 weeks for a hospital bed. Once I’m in hospital, I’ll be given the really high dose chemo, known affectionately in our household as Agent Orange. That’s the horrible stuff (hair falls out on Day 12, sores in mouth, GI tract unhappy, more ghastly excitement yet to be revealed). Then a few days later my stem cells will be replanted. The danger in all this is infection, as I’ll have no infection fighting white blood cells. I’ll also be very weak as the red blood cells take the longest to grow back. I’ll be released from the hospital once my blood counts are at an acceptable level. And then a long slow recovery as the system rebuilds.

There was some debate as to whether I’d be in-patient or out-patient for parts 2 & 3. Initially I had thought that out-patient sounded good – loving Peter at my side, nice garden, my own bed, real food and the bouncy Rui dog. But then someone who had been through the whole process described it to me and I realized I wanted to be in the hands of experienced nurses. When I’m vomiting, needing blood transfusions and truly miserable, I want nurses who can tell me that this is all quite normal. And much nicer for Peter not to have the burden of care. However this in-patient, out-patient decision wasn’t up to me. It was looking like out-patient as I live close to the hospital and have lots of support. Fortunately (or unfortunately) my lousy kidney situation qualified me for in-patient. So I’ll be in hospital for 2-3 weeks sometime this summer. The down side of in-patient is the twiddle-my-thumbs wait. I need to have my bag packed ready to arrive at the hospital within 3 hours. Not too many out of town adventures this summer. While hospitals aren’t the best places to get a good night’s sleep, I do find the culture endlessly curious.

So how am I doing with all this ahead of me? Well, I’m afraid. No other way to say that. I feel that there is this vast cavern of darkness and spiders in front of me. Pain, ickyiness and unknowns loom. I console myself with the thought that recently I was very afraid of going off the steroids (as per The Treatment Plan) and having all my debilitating lower body pain return. Some of it has returned, but the great work I’ve been doing learning Mitzvah techniques is paying off. I’m finding new ways to hold my spine – transforming my motion – no mean task at age 61. I’m also learning to meditate – why is this so hard to learn? And most of all the next art series has begun, working title The Cancerous Body. I’m onto some exciting new visuals and madly reading the theory and history of illness. So while I sure wish I hadn’t drawn the cancer card, it’s the one I got. I’m using it to unfold the body and spirit into their next forms – maybe that is all we ever do with the cards we are dealt.

As always, please feel no obligation to reply. If you want off this list, let me know. If you do reply, I may or may not reply to you as my energy is quite limited.





Cancer Update #6

Monday, April 20, 2015

Dear Friends and Colleagues,

The group show at Humber College was a great success with a buzzy opening and lots of people in attendance. For those of you who didn’t see it at the show, I have finally put the new work, Mortal Selfies, up online.I’d love for you to have a look at it:

The files are fairly large, so patience please as they load. In the analogue world, the viewer can move around the objects; here I’ve given you close-ups instead so that you can read the text.

I’ve also used this opportunity to update my website in other places. There are three more new galleries, other than Mortal Selfies. If you have time, have a look at them too:

My MFA thesis work is here:

The ink drawings which led up to Mortal Selfies are here:

And an older project about my neighbourhood which is only now getting itself online:

I’m in Week 12 of my Induction Chemo. Mostly I have no side effects from it. One of the weirdest ones I do have is that my sense of taste is altered. Some days everything tastes like cardboard; other days I can only taste strong acid, sweet and salt. I find myself wanting to add salt to everything and then remembering that it is my taste buds, not the food that is the problem. I realize, sadly, how much pleasure I normally take from good tastes. In general, though, I am in much better shape than I was prior to my diagnosis. I have more energy because I’m not so anemic; my back and legs don’t hurt all the time because of the strong steroids I’m on and I’m no longer in a state of abject terror wondering what on earth is going on with my body. Cancer is scary, but the unknown was even scarier. I am worried about my back (a herniated disc) post steroids. I’m addressing this by doing Mitzvah. It is a body alignment modality akin to Feldenkrais and Alexander Technique. I’m hoping this work will alleviate my back pain.

Meanwhile I’ve joined a cancer support group and connected with a Toronto Myeloma organization. It is great to talk with other people who have gone through cancer treatments. This coming summer I will be having the next phase of my treatment – Stem Cell Transplant. I’m not looking forward to it. I’m trying to learn as much as I can about it now to lessen the mystery. This is when the high dose chemo happens. It sounds as if there is a long recovery period required afterwards. The medical team recommends not going back to work for 3-6 months with many people needing another 6 months after that. With those time lines in mind, I have decided to permanently leave teaching at Humber College. They need to find someone to take the digital courses to the next stage. And I’ve decided it is time to give myself over to my art more fully. I’m sad to leave teaching, but also ready to move on.

I’m about to start the next cancer art series. I can’t say too much about it yet except that I’m excited about getting it going. I’ll keep you posted. Of course I’d love hear what you think of the new art; however I may not give you much of a reply as I’m in Art First mode. Also, for those of you also on Face Book with me, the silence is about to end. I’m about to announce these galleries there, so FB will know about the cancer. Lastly, if you want off this list, let me know and please feel no obligation to reply.




Cancer Update #5

March 3, 2015

Dear Friends, Family & Colleagues,

My first series of cancer art works, Mortal Selfies, are almost finished. It has been a very exciting push to get them done. The side effects from the chemo – nausea and tiredness – have been present but not overwhelming. I have felt quite energized by the task of shaping visual pieces that speak to this early experience of cancer. As I move through the treatment stages, I hope to continue finding forms that speak to my journey  I’ve written an artist statement about the work which I’ve pasted into this email. I will be getting the work up online sometime soon…

Meanwhile, I’d like to invite those of you who are nearby to come and see the new work in a faculty group show, RUBRIC,  opening next week at Humber College. I’ve attached the invitation below; however there is an additional opportunity to see the work.


Thursday March 12 – 6:30-8:30pm

Guelph Humber Art Gallery – GH 123

Exhibition Dates

Tuesday March 10 – Wednesday April 1

Monday to Friday 12-5pm

I’ll be at the reception. The gallery will also open on Saturday March 14 from 12-4pm. I will be there and would love to see some of you then.

The Guelph Humber Art Gallery is at Humber’s North campus, off Highway 27 just south of Finch. If you are driving, take Highway 27 to Humber College Blvd. It is a bit north of Rexdale Blvd. I’m attaching a map of the campus where I’ve marked the building with the gallery in red. If you are coming by public transit, go to Kipling Subway station and take the 191Highway 27 Express.



Diana Meredith: Artist’s Statement

We learned that, “The personal is political,” from the feminists of the 1970s and 1980sI count myself among them. My artwork is informed and shaped by using personal experiences, especially of the body, as sources for my artwork. Mortal Selfies is a first investigation of my recent experience of multiple myeloma, bone marrow cancer.

Each image begins with a photo I took of myself – the contemporary ‘selfie’, which is used, in turn, as the photo reference for an ink drawing. The image is then brought into the computer and visually fractured. The fractured image reflects the experience of cancer diagnosis, treatment and identity in a variety of ways. Myeloma is a disease of the blood cells. These are tiny pieces of self that have fractured from the integrated body and have turned on it. Contemporary cancer treatment involves a massive use of pharmaceuticals – those fractured pieces of biochemical science targeted at particular cells. Finally, identity as a cancer patient embraces a multiplicity of fractured identities. Donning the iconic hospital gown and moving through the rituals of medical testing and oncology clinics, as well as ingesting the futuristic drugs of chemotherapy, advance one through a series of constructed identities. At the same time, the high tech of cancer science is counterpoised against the personal sensations of the diseased body and the flood of community support. These different kinds of identities fractured together to construct new facets of identity.

Before I went to graduate school at age 57, I would not have included text in a work of art. My initial art training took place within the framework of Modernism which espoused form over content. The visuals needed to speak for themselves and language was a separate entity that had no place in visual art. The ideas behind Contemporary Art changed my thinking on the use of text.  I realized that text was both a visual element as well as a site of meaning.

The four pieces that make up Mortal Selfies explore different aspects of the personal and public text that surrounds us in contemporary European-American society. Loss looks at the diary – a site of personal reflection and private exploration. Numbers reflects the experience of the modern cancer patient in treatment. Frequently, at times daily, blood tests tell the cancer narrative far more sharply than that out-moded measure, “How do you feel?” Creatinine levels, kappa light chain proteins and hemoglobin are some of the numbers that define my treatment plan. At the same time the numbers of prognosis inevitably raise the spectre of mortality on a profound level. The third piece in the series, Chemo, investigates the pharmaceutical industry. While the miracle of chemotherapy cannot be denied, the high price of cancer drugs does beg the question, “Who is making all that money?” The series ends with Cherish, a homage to the outpouring of love, support and wisdom that has come my way since my diagnosis. I use hand written text to reflect the personal nature of these emails.  Finally, each piece is defaced with that most illicit of public texts – graffiti.

Through text in various forms, fractured ink paintings and the dance between the manipulations of digital processes and the materiality of analog, I have found a visual form to encompass the early stages of cancer diagnosis, treatment and identity in contemporary, urban Canadian society.




Cancer Update #4

Feb 13, 2015

Dear Friends, Family & Colleagues,

I’ve been out of the hospital for 10 days and back in our home for 5. It was sad to leave the rich and generous camaraderie of friends, Amy and Maureen; on the other hand it has been wonderful to be back in our house. Our amazing contractor (happy to share his name, Torontonians) has done a superb job (under budget and in the time allotted). It is like moving into a new house. The kitchen is so well designed, it is a delight to work in – light, airy and easy to move around. We keep not bumping into one another! We’ve been having fun figuring out where things go and how the new systems will work. The old mud room off the kitchen was a rackety-packety mess, so it didn’t matter if the stinky fish grill was beside the dog leash and next to the beer bottles. The new mud room is so ordered and pristine, it is a fun game figuring out where things go.

So this is all a pleasant backdrop to our ongoing cancer challenges. I’m trying to adjust to the weekly chemo-side effects cycle, if, indeed, there is a consistent cycle. The steroids give a roller coaster ride which alternately lessen my pain (hurrah!), but deprive me of sleep and up my blood sugar (boo!) and then 24 hours later do the opposite. The chemo itself initially had no side effect and then in the 2nd week it hit me with a fatigue the likes of which I’d never had. “Weakness” somehow describes it better for me. A state of no-energy. Chemo day is Thursdays and this state of lassitude didn’t arrive until Sat, which, unfortunately, was the day we were moving home. Fortunately many friends came to help move and unpack. I went to bed. The extreme weak state didn’t lift until the next afternoon. So I don’t know if this is going to be how all 16 weeks of the induction chemo are going to unfold. One day at a time.

My priority right now, other than coping with chemo and going to a million doc appointments is my art. I have the good fortune of a deadline in early March – my Humber colleagues and I are having a faculty show then. I hope to have the first pieces of my cancer series done then. The body has always been my subject – now more than ever. It is a long shot with the chemo-side effects dance in the foreground, but it is a good goal to aim towards. If I can’t make it, so be it. With that in mind, I’m going to sadly put off the many Toronto friends who have offered to come and visit. Art first.

When I saw the oncologist last week, I asked her about the myeloma treatment plan buying me time. “Yes,” she said. “I hope to buy you 10 years.” Ten years. It is strange to have a number attached to the days of ones’ life. Of course we all have a number attached, we just don’t know what it is. Granted, I too, don’t really know what my number is; nonetheless statistics and all that. So what would you do with 10 years? Somehow the important aspects of life immediately become sharper and more in focus. Yes, Peter and I cherish each other more consciously every day. I cherish my circles of community – intimate friends, family, wider circles of friends, former students, new choir friends, colleagues, and old friends in far away places. You make this all much sweeter. More art making. The “one day at a time” mantra demands being more present and that makes me more alive. On the other hand I’m still in the whirlwind of all this and haven’t a clue what it all means.

I love getting all your emails, cards, letters, books, teabags and love; with art & chemo on the table, I may not be able to respond.





Cancer Update #3

Feb 2, 2015

Dear Friends, Family & Colleagues,

I’m finally being discharged from the hospital later this afternoon. I will have been here for 9 days – long enough. I’ve had the opportunity to see our medical system operating up close. I’m pretty wowed by what good care I have received given these days of medical cut backs. The democracy of a big city hospital ward at work is breathtaking – all kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds up close & personal. Two women died  in the room I’m in during the 9 days. Almost what shocked me the most was how I wasn’t shocked. The hospital handled it very discreetly, the bed was washed and the next person was brought in, usually within a few hours. The nurses and other staff, on the floor I’m on anyway, maintained good humour and kindness throughout.

So my treatment plan, as it is called, has begun. I have started chemotherapy, albeit at this point the lite version known as Induction Chemo. I will be doing it once a week for 16 weeks.  At then end of that phase, I begin a drug which makes my stem cells grow madly. They harvest those cells via a dialysis-like process. The cells are frozen and stored. Then I’m tested to see if my body is up for the Big Chemo. If all is well, they hit me with High Dose Chemo. That’s when the big side effects occur. Then they re-seed my body with the stored stem cells. If all went according to plan, the process, thus far, would take me until the end of July. Then a month or 2 of recovery. Depending on the strain of cancer I have, I may get another round of High Dose Chemo and reseeding a year or 2 afterwards. I’ll also probably be on a maintenance dose of chemo thereafter. This cancer is treatable but not curable. This all seems to be about buying time. I think the oddest thing for me is the idea of living for ever more on these powerful drugs. Was I really once a hippie who said I’d never sully my body with legal pharmaceuticals? Sigh.

At least three people on this list are currently going through cancer treatments and many others of you have family and friends who have done so recently. You all know much more about this than I do. What has struck me in this early phase is how when I first hear the word ‘cancer’, I really hear ‘death sentence’. Yet almost immediately I see that, like almost everything else in life, this is not so simple, not so black and white. Really I have embarked on a journey and it is everything to do with how I live that journey. Just like the rest of life. So here I am, very suddenly, on a new phase of my life. The experienced nurses here keep telling me the mantra is ‘one day at a time.”

Your supportive letters continue to come and I so appreciate them. Back today to our temporary home in the warm welcoming basement of Amy and Maureen and then later this week we move back to our renovated house.

& finally a little bit of showing off – Humber College made a video about a number of their faculty this past fall – I’m one of them: scroll down to find “Diana Meredith’s Story”

Lastly, although I’m being quite open about all this – feel free to pass the news along to others – I would like to keep any references to it all off  FaceBook.



Cancer Update #2

Jan 26, 2015

Dear Friends, Family & Colleagues,

Thank you so much for all your warm and loving letters. Even though I’m not able to answer them all, please know that they hit the heart strings where they should. I feel very loved and supported. Many of you have asked for updates so I’ve put you on this list. If it is all too creepy and you don’t want these, please let me know. Some of you already know what is in this letter…

Well events are unfolding much more rapidly than I could have imagined. Fortunately my excellent colleagues at Humber stepped up to the plate very quickly to find a teaching replacement for me. It was good they moved so quickly because on Friday at 5:30 PM I received a call from my nephrologist saying that because of some dramatic test results, I needed to proceed immediately to Toronto General Hospital and be admitted. There was fear that the massive dumps of protein that the cancerous white blood cells are producing would further damage the kidneys and move me towards dialysis. They wanted to start me ASAP on steroids. So an hour and a half later I was sitting at the hospital waiting to be admitted.

It is now expected that I will be in hospital until the end of the week. Today I get passed from the nephrologists to the haematology team, as myeloma is a disease of the blood. They will do a bone marrow test soon to ascertain what flavour of myeloma I have. Then chemo will probably begin. Thus far the steroids have had the wonderful effect of diminishing the terrible bone pain I have been suffering in my foot, legs, hips and back. It is a great relief to be free of this pain, if only temporarily. Peter and others tell me that they can see the positive change in my face.

The challenges ahead are frightening, but I’m told that the particular hospitals I’m connected with in Toronto are very highly regarded for their myeloma research. Mostly, though I continue to feel held by all the love, support and clementines I have been receiving. I only wish they would let our dog, Rui, come to visit. Peter told me that twice Rui has jumped on the bed, moved the carefully placed dog cover and burrowed his head under my pillow. I feel missed!

As I said, things are unfolding rapidly – doctors, procedures and medications – as well as trying to understand how it all works. With all this going on, I don’t want more visitors right now. Peter and I have just had a huge renovation done on our house. We hope to be moving back in next week or so. Depending on how I feel, maybe I’ll be ready to receive more visitors once we are settled in at home. I’m also hoping to continue working on my current art project which looks now as if it is reshaping itself to encompass the cancer. I suppose this will also depend on how I am feeling once chemo starts.

Love (that most important of ingredients),


Cancer Update #1

Jan 21, 2015

Dear Friends and Family,

I think many of you know that I have been waiting to see a nephrologist as I’ve had some tests which point to kidney disease. Today I saw the nephrologist and my bad news just got a lot worse. It looks as though I am dealing with bone marrow cancer – myeloma. While I am about to embark on many tests to confirm this, the nephrologist said he was 90% sure that this is what we were looking at. I figure a specialist doesn’t sit in an office and say 90% bone marrow cancer unless that’s the story.

Bone marrow cancer is often caught first by nephrologists as kidney problems are one of the first places it is seen. Another major symptom is back pain and another is anemia. Those of you who see me here in Toronto know that I have started using a cane because my back pain has me almost immobile. I have also been suffering from extreme exhaustion.

The specialist has advised me to take a leave from my job effective immediately as I will be going through many medical tests and quite probably chemo. He is referring me to a haematologist as this is a cancer of the blood.

Peter was with me at the appointment today, and I feel held up and buoyed by his loving support through all of this. I’m guessing that many of you will write me  supportive letters for which I am glad; forgive me if I don’t get back to you right away. I’m so lucky to have such a loving and supportive community.

I have included many people on this list who didn’t even know about the kidney problem. A lot of this has happened very quickly. I’m so sorry that this is how you are learning about my health troubles, but I need you to know what is going on.