"The Role of Hope In Palliative Care," a paper I had written, was accepted for the 16th International Cancer Congress in New Delhi. At that time the plague was rampant in parts of India. This trip became a twofold effort to present my paper and to inoculate children against this disease. I visited hospital cancer wards, trekked through mountain villages, and was horrified by the devastation of poverty, disease, and lack of education.

After I returned home, I took advantage of an opportunity to nurse in the Middle East, again in hematology-oncology. Travel was extensive, as was speaking on palliative care and hospice. I co-chaired a multi-cultural support group for women with cancer; introduced the teachings of my mentor of seven years, Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, on bereavement, death, and dying to Middle Eastern people; and passed the OCN exam for nursing certification in oncology. When I developed an allergy to chemotherapeutic drugs and could no longer nurse in oncology, it was time for me to return to the US. With Charlie, my new husband, we bought a farm that struck every chord within us as home, in the Rogue River valley of southern Oregon.

By this time, I had recovered from malignant melanoma four times. I had nursed in five countries, presented internationally, had a published piece, was OCN certified, had two wonderful kids, and the kind of husband worth waiting 16 years to find. At age 48, some would say I had it all. For me, however, not being able to work in the specialty I felt such passion for was a form of death and caused months of grief. I felt a gaping hole in my heart; and not for the first time in my life, I did not know where to turn.