When Katie Strumpf was diagnosed with leukemia, there were no online resources or publications to offer guidance to a 10-year-old kid dealing with cancer. She endured chemo, spinal taps, and bone marrow aspirations.
While still going through treatment, Katie told her mom that someday she would write a book for children with cancer, offering encouragement and practical advice from someone who’s put up with doctors and medications and hair loss.
Katie Strumpf-Rackley
Charlie the yellow lab has been human-sitting me this past week. In the process, she’s reminded me of a few important lessons that we humans tend to forget.
All photos: Marlys
There’s a chapter in Gary’s and my story, titled “The Wilderness Years,” that lasted for more than a decade. A windswept, barren, bleak, heart-throbbing trek through financial reversals, and a live-in parent sinking into dementia, and a terminal cancer diagnosis, and the death of a most beloved husband, friend, life partner.
Most of us would edit some chapters of our stories if we could.
Photo by Andrew Measham on Unsplash
Now that I’m perfectly content and happy and have purpose in this season of widowhood, I’m tentatively, cautiously, hesitantly — maybe — considering male companionship. (My children have given their blessing to dating and remarriage, but my son had one stipulation: “As long as he has a yacht.”)
Photo credit: Unsplash
In her book, Bittersweet, author Shauna Niequist wrote that people often say the wrong thing when something bad happens:
But there’s something worse than the things people say. It’s much worse, I think, when people say nothing.
Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash
A kindly palliative care physician stopped by my husband’s hospital room to help him complete a Physicians Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment (POLST) form. “What most concerns you?” he asked my husband.
Gary pointed at me and said, “Leaving her.”
Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash
We were at my husband’s final oncology consultation—the one where he said, No more chemo—at which point the oncologist said he’d like to make a referral to hospice. I was incredulous. Seriously? Does Gary look like he’s on his last legs?!
“Up until this point,” the oncologist said to my husband, “all the care has been focused on you.” He pointed at me: “But who’s taking care of her?” My eyes welled up. I’d never considered that thought.
Photo by Conner Baker on Unsplash
You’ll find me with my knitting posse most Monday evenings at Barnes & Noble. Back when my husband, Gary, was fighting cancer, they were part of my cancer caregiver support network. And now in widowhood, they’ve got my back.
My fellow knitters didn’t sign up for either of these extra assignments. But by virtue of showing up every Monday and bringing their exquisite, fuzzy projects and sharing their stories and asking about my week, they’re a significant addition to my support system.
Someone handed a baby turtle in a small container to me. “Give him a name,” she said. And of course what popped into my head was ‘Gary.’ As in, my deceased husband.
Photo: Campamento Tortugueros Sayulita
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
