david meyers obituary and david meyers glioblastoma
We rarely keep houseplants. Potted plants are over- or under-watered. I loved the idea of having something new, green, and alive after my diagnosis with glioblastoma, a terminal brain cancer with a one-year prognosis.
My friend Mitch gave me a lucky bamboo plant in a deep-green pottery bowl with three pencil-size stalks braided together. We placed it in the living room window across from the couch, where I spent most of my day.
Hannah's morning coffee made me smile.
I told Hannah I wanted to look after the plant. I was pleased when it didn't immediately turn yellow, brown, or lose all its leaves.
I felt useful when I cared for the plant. Glioblastoma made it hard for me to walk, and treatment made me tired.
I was a doctor, not a patient. I needed help too often since my August 2018 diagnosis. The significant change left me feeling lost. Watering the plant, however small, reminded me of my old self and showed me I could still care for others. I could help plants and people.
I recovered from surgery, radiation, and the first round of chemotherapy in the following months. I kept watering the plant after work. Its leaves were glossy and nearly doubled in height. I and the tree thrived.
It suddenly showed stress. Watering increased and decreased. I buried coffee grounds. I used commercial plant food. Despite my efforts, the leaves kept browning and falling. I got angrier and uneasy.
“I can't even water a plant!” Yelled. “Failing!”
Hannah reminded me of houseplant deaths. She asked why I was so upset about this one.
I exclaimed, “If my lucky bamboo dies, I might too!”
The plant reminded me of my fragile health.
I found comfort in the green plant. I became more frightened as the tree struggled. Its shriveling leaves alarm me.
I realized I had wrongly linked my careful plant care—something over which I had some control—with my own survival—something over which I had no control.
My tumor would return not because I didn't atomize essential oils in my office, didn't eat sugar, or didn't keep this plant alive.
As my anxiety subsided, I started reading online tutorials to learn how to treat my sick plant. I transplanted the tree, untangling its roots, to a larger pot. We thrived again when it was in the sunny window.
I think of Mitch and other supporters when I look at the tree with its braided stalks in its new pot. If the plant outlives me, I hope it will reassure Hannah that our large community will care for her.
D.C. family physician and health policy researcher David Meyers has terminal cancer. While he is getting treatment for his disease, he and his wife, Hannah Joyner, are writing a memoir.
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"David meyers, you will be perpetually missed, yet always remembered," the sheriff's specialization said in a proclamation. "We all extend our love, petitions, considerations, and sympathies to David meyers, his companions, and associates."
David meyers cause of death glioblastoma brain cancer
Normally, my wife and I don't keep indoor plants. Anything growing in a pot either becomes overwatered or is submerged. I cherished the thought of having something fresh, green, and alive around us after being diagnosed with glioblastoma, a terminal brain cancer with a prognosis of less than a year to live.
We chose to put the bamboo plant in the living room window opposite the couch, where I spent the majority of each day after my friend Mitch gave me what he claimed was a lucky bamboo plant in a deep-green pottery bowl with three pencil-size stalks braided together.
Looking over the mug of coffee Hannah brings me every morning, I grin.
I volunteered to take care of the plant myself and told Hannah. When it didn't immediately turn yellow or brown or lose all of its leaves, I was pleasantly surprised.
I felt a sense of accomplishment while taking care of the plant at a time when I occasionally felt useless. Glioblastoma limited my ability to walk, and the chemotherapy left me exhausted, making it challenging for me to complete daily tasks.
I was accustomed to giving care rather than receiving it because I am a doctor. It seemed that I had to rely on assistance from others far too frequently ever since receiving my diagnosis in August 2018. I felt lost and uneasy because of the drastic change. Even though it was a small act, watering the plant showed me that I could still be a carer and helped me reconnect to a crucial aspect of my old identity. Still, people and plants could rely on me.
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A Prayer for David meyers and for Those Who Love Him
O Divine Force of the Living and the Dead, approve of David meyers, whom we trust has entered this day into your realm. Award harmony, light, and everlasting youth to him who has been taken from us while still a kid. May he always be aware of the tinge of your affection and the gleam of your light in your vast domain. Look delicately upon his family, whose hearts are overburdened with distress. Stroll with them; console them; encompass them with heavenly messengers to lift them from the profundity of their grievous misfortune. At long last, look generously upon our Focal Catholic People group. We stand as a family in our moments of triumph and bliss; give us the mental strength to remain as a family now, despite our lack of David meyers. May we console each other with expressions of confidence, trust, and love. Persuade our hearts that everything works for the good of those who trust in God. So be it.
Who is David meyers?
Over the next few months, I healed from surgery, finished radiation therapy, and went through my first round of chemotherapy. I looked after the plant even after I went back to work. It quickly nearly doubled in height, and its glossy, lush leaves. I was doing well, and so was the tree.
Then, for some reason, it started to exhibit signs of stress. I watered more at first, then less. I buried some coffee grounds in the ground. I gave it store-bought plant food. Whatever I did, the leaves kept turning brown and falling to the ground. I became increasingly irritated and uneasy.
I'm not even able to take care of a basic plant! I screamed. I am failing!
We have experienced the loss of houseplants before, Hannah recalled. She questioned why I was becoming so agitated over this particular one.
I screamed, "I might die if my lucky bamboo dies!"
I had the unsettling impression that the plant had come to represent my own precarious health.
I found comfort in identifying with the thriving plant's greenery. The tree was struggling now, and I was getting scared. I was concerned that its shrivelling leaves might be a sign of a brain tumour recurrence.
I came to the realisation that I had misunderstood the relationship between carefully tending to the plant, which was something I could at least somewhat control, and my own survival, which I had no control over.
When my tumour eventually returned, it wouldn't be due to any mistakes I made, such as failing to atomize essential oils in my office, occasionally eating sugar, or failing to maintain this plant.
I started reading through online instructions to learn how to take care of my sick plant as my anxiety subsided. I moved the tree to a bigger pot as directed, untangling its roots to give it room to expand. We both started to thrive once more when it was placed back in the bright window.
I make it a point to remember Mitch and the other people who have taken care of and supported me whenever I look at the tree with its braided stalks in its new pot. If the plant outlives me, I hope it will give Hannah comfort and serve as a reminder that she will continue to be cared for by our large community even after I am gone.
In the Washington, D.C., area, David Meyers practises family medicine and studies health policy while battling terminal cancer. He is currently receiving additional treatment for the disease's progression, and he and his wife, Hannah Joyner, are co-writing a memoir.
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