Healing Art: A Journey through Pancreatic Cancer

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The Cancer Help Program is celebrating our 40th anniversary next year. At the end of each retreat for those almost-40 years, we (the staff) look back on our time with the group with amazement. Each group is special, with different dynamics and a different constellation—but by the end of the retreat most participants sense some inner movement towards wholeness, acceptance, peace, and, importantly, healing. The power of the week is truly a mystery. Our June group was no exception, and when one of the alums, Myra Eastman, offered to share her experience and her beautiful artwork—inspired by our work together—We were honored. Myra’s experience was unique, but what she shares here is echoed by so many alums: deep healing comes when we open ourselves to exploration and possibility in community. Amazing. Thank you, Myra.

—Arlene Allsman, Cancer Help Program Director

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‍April 15th, 2024

Finally the day had arrived. I was going to the week-long Commonweal Cancer Help Retreat in Bolinas. I was nervous, but also so excited. Back in 2023, a friend from Santa Cruz had just returned from a Commonweal Cancer Help Program retreat and told me I had to go. At the time, I was barely getting through the day, already months into grueling chemo cycles to treat my inoperable stage 3 pancreatic cancer that had been diagnosed in late 2022. I tried to squeeze into a retreat between chemo treatments but it never worked out. In August 2023, after 12 chemo cycles, my tumor shrunk and I was scheduled for surgery. In the hospital, two days after my successful surgery, I received a call from Arlene, the director of the Cancer Help Program. She had great news: there was room available at the next retreat. I told her I wouldn’t be able to make it as I would still be recovering from the surgery. I was disappointed to miss the retreat again. This time though, Arlene made sure I would make it in and put me on the list for the spring retreat. I was in! I felt I had finally won the lottery.

When the time came, I drove alone for the first time in a very long while from Santa Cruz to Bolinas. Surprisingly, the trip stretched to five hours. As I approached the Golden Gate Bridge, it suddenly closed in both directions. April 15th is tax day, and Gaza war protesters had chosen to protest U.S. tax dollars funding the war by chaining themselves to concrete-filled barrels and stopping traffic. I was stuck until the police could clear the roads. I could almost see Bolinas across the bay but couldn’t quite get there yet. I called Arlene, let her know I was fine, just waiting and would be late. This felt somehow auspicious, as I really was fine and knew this was the beginning of something important.

I was eight months post surgery. My body was recovering, my hair growing back. I was ecstatic that I had (so far) survived this deadly disease. Friends called me the “miracle girl.” I was so lucky. I was determined to reclaim my pre-cancer life and jumped back into what I had lost: my working life as an artist, exercise, and time with family and friends. I wanted to move on, fast. But something was terribly wrong. I could feel it. I was haunted by what had happened and was experiencing flashbacks. I couldn’t sit still or relax during the day. Anything that reminded me of being sick caused anxiety. My body was slowly coming back but my mind was stuck. That's why I knew I had to go to the Commonweal Cancer Help Program retreat. I knew I had to go alone—apart from my loving family and friends who had cared so deeply for me. I needed to confront the trauma in a safe place. Finally, the right time had come.

From the moment I walked into the retreat I felt it. I was already being held, understood and cared for. I was the last to arrive but felt immediately  joined together with the group. I was with fellow cancer travelers who wanted to heal. I was no longer alone. I could figure out who I was now.  I was with staff whose kindness and care overwhelmed me with gratitude. I knew I was safe.

The week is now a blur of cherished memories. Our little group of eight participants bonded fast, our souls connecting. We laughed, cried, talked, and listened (we still do). During that week in April I learned that cancer is a “rough initiation” and our little group was my new clan. I learned to feel and trust my body again. I learned that I’m not doing it wrong. I learned it's okay to “play the cancer card.” I learned that having cancer changes you forever. And from Michael I learned I was suffering from PTSD. His advice? As a narrative painter I needed to paint what happened to me.

Honestly I didn’t do it—not right away. I didn’t want to. I was still trying to move on, not dwell on being sick. I resisted giving cancer any more oxygen. Enough!

But Michael was right. I was still haunted by the pain, the infusions, the CT scans, the pokes and prodding, the endless medical procedures, the months in bed, the hospital, the biopsies, the surgery, the rollercoaster waiting for results, the bad news, the everything that happens when you have cancer. So I started this new series of paintings, Pancreatic Cancer. The first three are featured here in this story. These are paintings I see in my head before I start—they are painting themselves. They make me cry. They make me remember. They communicate how it feels. They are healing me. And hopefully they can help others too. Without Commonweal I couldn’t have done this work. I am forever grateful.

—Myra Eastman, Commonweal Cancer Help Program Alum 2024

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