Letters

In 1964, my mother died at age 44 from ovarian cancer. The cancer initially overcame one ovary, which was removed. Two years later, the cancer overtook the other ovary and killed her. Medical methods improved, and, 10 years later, a surgeon said that she could have been saved.

Last year, on July 12, I woke up to see the sun rise. I was in Manhattan, on the 16th floor. There were grand views of the East River, Queens and Brooklyn. I arose in a solo bedroom — at NYU Langone Hospital, where, after the operation, I would be closed from seeing outside.

At 6 a.m., I was taken to the operating room and put to sleep. What followed was 90 minutes of preparing me, and then 7½ hours of surgery to remove glioblastoma — simply, brain cancer.

The neurosurgeon Dr. Dimitris Placantonakis let me know that there is no known way to eliminate the cancer, but also there is no known date when the cancer will return.

After medical talk, I moved our conversation to whether Greece would survive in the European Union.

For two days after the operation, I experienced sleep that felt near to death. Many doctors visited me, and, fortunately, Pamela Bicket, my wife, talked to them, as my memory was poor. After 72 hours, the blackening curtains, which had been completely closed because of my severe brain operation, were opened. I saw the impressive view once again.

One month after the operation were 42 days when, each day, I took a strong brain cancer medicine, Temodar, and every day from Monday to Friday I went into NYU on the Hampton Jitney for a short but killer radiation treatment. Then, within every 28 days, I took three times the amount of Temodar for five days, though it had effects on me for at least two weeks.

Today, the anniversary of July 12, is over 40 days past my last dose of Temodar. My MRI studies have shown no cancer. My neuro-oncologist at NYU, Dr. Christine Cordova, felt I need not take medications — not now.

Instead of dying like my mother did, there is hope that both my fight and medical progress will break, or at least control, the return of this cancer.

I am only one of millions of cancer patients. Each patient must determine what they want and what they do. For me, others’ needs are what I most want to help.

I have dedicated this summer to playing Schubert’s last piano sonata. If I play well, I will bring together the brilliance and complete emotions of Schubert with people who can be moved.

Zachary Cohen

Springs