Journal by Laura A. Weeks - Laura A. Weeks

The making of Stories We Hold

4/30/2015

In October, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com. On May 15, the Rescue Mission is hosting an exhibit at 2nd Helpings Gallery for this project.

It takes a lot of hands to prepare an art show.

I'd be lying if I said this exhibit is coming together by my handiwork alone. In fact, it'd be a disaster if it were. Yesterday, I used the staple gun backwards, and I slid halfway across the room trying to help my boss push a frame together. Today, it took me three tries to drill a screw. Last month, I mapped out the show in laughable proportions.

Luckily, though, I have some talented (and strong) co-workers who are helping me every step of the way. Behind most of the work is my boss Randy, who's quickly becoming a canvas-wrapping pro. With some guidance from our graphics manager Susan, Randy has learned this process from scratch, and I couldn't be more grateful. (Shoutout to Geoff, Rory and Brian, too!)

So if I've learned anything from watching this show come together, it's this: First, I should stick to taking photos, rather than assembling them. Second, I work with a group of the best co-workers.

An art show for Project Hands

3/9/2015

In October, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com.

One of my goals for the new year was to put Project Hands on gallery walls. This spring, that's finally happening, and everyone is invited.

Here are all the details:

1. Come to opening night! May 15, from 6-8 p.m., at the Rescue Mission's 2nd Helpings Gallery. Swing by the show, titled "The Stories We Hold," for food, live music and possibly to hear some Project Hands interviewees read their stories. I'm so excited to share this project with the community, and I hope you'll spread the word!

2. Purchase the book. About a month ago, I started designing a keepsake book featuring the most poignant stories and photos from my evenings at the Rescue Mission. I can't wait to see these memorable perspectives in print and hold them in my hands. If you're interested in taking home a copy, please stop by opening night!

3. Meet my sponsor. It's rare to work for a company that supports its employees' outside-of-work endeavors. But when I came to my supervisors at Magnets USA, they were more than happy to sponsor my show. Not only will all flyers and posters come from their presses, but they're also printing and assembling the canvases for my photos.

Project Hands update: My afternoon with Jasim

2/10/2015

In October, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com. Below is just one of the many powerful, eye-opening accounts I've heard.

At the end of our first interview in October, I thanked Jasim for sharing his story with me. Without falter, he replied, "My heart is open for you."

An Iraqi refugee living at the Rescue Mission, 50-year-old Jasim knows loneliness, fear and loss all too well.

"I am Sunni. I helped six Shiite people, because our God is no different. For two weeks, nobody told me hello when I said hello. No response. I felt alone."

Then his home was attacked.

"They shoot machine guns, because I help Shiites. When they shoot in my house, glass goes everywhere. They spurt fire in my house. My son was injured. I hug my family. I put them in the bathroom, in the shower. A safer place."

The decision to leave Iraq and come to the United States did not come without consequences. His wife's parents forced them to divorce, and he had to leave his three children behind.

"If I could talk to them, I would say, 'You know I'm your dad. Just trust me. When I can bring you here, I will. Just be patient. Take care, because the city is dangerous.' They put bombs in cars. They will kill any person. I think about my kids too much. I see my kids in my dreams with me, but I wake up alone."

His eyes are filled with tears.

In four months, I never forgot the sadness in those brown, weathered eyes. So when I met him again on an unseasonably warm February afternoon, I expected that same lonely, fearful and despairing Jasim.

I was wrong. The Jasim that met me in the reception area of the Rescue Mission was comfortable, almost sanguine. His demeanor wasn't unlike the sun-drenched hallway where I photographed. He spent most of our time together smiling and laughing. He told me he's learning more English from books at the library. He goes to his doctor appointments. He's looking forward to one day having his own apartment.

He showed me his English-Arabic Bible, which he reads every day. His favorite verse is Matthew 5:39, "But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also."

Jasim has not yet been able to speak to his family in Iraq.

The weekend's best photos

2/9/2015

It was a beautiful weekend filled with family, sun and a few unexpected subjects. Here are my favorites:

A frosty Friday morning gave way to a warm, gorgeous weekend.

I looked at work a little differently Friday. See what I mean.

Got to photograph some luxury cars for a work assignment on Sunday morning.

My grandmother spent most of Sunday afternoon wrapped up on her porch. She turns 90 this month.

My grandmother's marriage certificate, which hangs beside her bed. As I plan my wedding, she shares stories about her own. My grandparents married just one week after they met. She was 17, and he was 27. Because she was underage, her father had to go with my grandparents to the courthouse. She wore a two-piece navy suit. She says even if her parents could have afforded a big wedding, she wouldn't have done it any differently.

My five-year-old nephew, who's usually decorated with super hero tattoos and Band-Aids.

To most, this is just a swing. To Caleb, it's a part-time pirate ship and high-speed train.

This is Jasim, an Iraqi refugee staying at the Roanoke Rescue Mission. I caught up with this Project Hands interviewee Sunday for a few more photos. Stay tuned for a separate post about my visit.

One major difference between my first conversation with Jasim and Sunday's was his demeanor. He laughed more, smiled more. Though he has yet to hear from his three children in Iraq, he is hopeful for better days.

Project Hands: The story my cousins hold

1/26/2015

Since launching Project Hands, I've depended on my family's support, feedback and willingness to share on social media. But to actually have them become part of the collection is something I didn't anticipate.

About two months ago, my cousins asked me if they could share their story — a mother-daughter perspective on cancer — through Project Hands. It's a story of hands that comfort, clothe, feed, fight and pray. Not only was I excited to share, but I was also so eager to learn about their experience on a deeper level. So this is for you, Lindsey and Maria. I'm so proud to call you family!

Questions without answers | Lindsey

Only a few months after my graduation from Ferrum College — right after I turned 22 — I was diagnosed with extremely aggressive and malignant Cystosarcoma Phyllodes, better known as a Phyllodes Tumor or PT.

For most, this will be the first time ever hearing that name. In fact, the first two doctors I went to didn't know what it was. It wasn't until I was referred to the breast clinic at UVa Medical Center that we knew what we were dealing with. They told me that this rare disease, Phyllodes, only makes up for 1 percent of all breast cancers. A malignant Phyllodes is even rarer.

There's no known cause for this tumor. Actually, nothing is known about this type of tumor. Since my diagnosis, I have had a lumpectomy to remove the tumor, a second surgery to remove more tissue and cancer cells left behind, a mastectomy and one reconstruction surgery. I was told that chemo and radiation would have no effect. I don't remember much of this time — it happened so fast. All the surgeries happened between October 2013 and November 2014.

Mom cannot fix cancer | Maria

Hearing that your child — yes, she is still my baby girl — has cancer is something I pray I never hear again. It was such a shock. The first months were just a haze of appointments and surgeries and tests and questions. We didn’t have time to really focus on what this meant.

I have never felt as helpless as a mother than I have during the past year and a half. Mom is supposed to be able fix things and make you feel better, but Mom cannot fix cancer.
I can’t have surgery for you. I can’t take away the nausea or the pain.

Lindsey made all of her own medical decisions, and we supported her through every decision. We listened to the doctors. We researched the very little bit that is known about this cancer. We prayed for peace with every decision, but ultimately this was not my body. These decisions were not mine to make, and the courage of a 22-year-old woman to make such life- and body-altering decisions was heartbreaking to me.

Have I begged God to heal my baby? Of course. But we have also thanked God for many things during this journey. We have been blessed beyond measure by our friends who have provided so much comfort with prayers, calls, texts, food, flowers and most of all, a shoulder to lean on when it was most needed.

Inappropriate cancer jokes | Lindsey

I can tell her anything. She's my best friend. We made a pact the day I was diagnosed to make each other laugh at least once a day. If you don't laugh, you cry, right? So we make inappropriate cancer jokes.

She's also my rock. There were and still are moments when I just want to throw in the towel and say, "No more scans. No more surgeries. No more hospitals." But she brings me back to reality and reminds me that if I can beat cancer, I can beat anything.

My parents have always had a close relationship with my brothers and me. They have always kissed the bumps and hugged away the bruises. They have always supported us 100 percent. During this experience, they have had to feed me and dress me and pretty much everything else, because at the time, I couldn't take care of myself. I have so much more respect for them.

They were there for every doctor's appointment and phone call. They always try to make me smile. My brother spoils me. My friends were also there, going to appointments and listening to me cry or rant. They always know what I need to make it through the day.

All of the amazing little things | Maria

I pray that she can see herself through my eyes. The strength and wisdom and perseverance she has displayed through every step of this journey has been a beautiful thing to witness as her mother. I have only seen tears from her one time through this, and that was when she saw herself for the first time after her mastectomy. We both cried, and then we put that away and focused on what was next. I pray that she realizes that this ugly disease does not define the essence of her, and that her beautiful scars only mean that she was stronger than what tried to kill her.

My favorite thing about Lindsey is not one thing — it is all of the amazing little things that make up the spirit of who she is. She loves beyond reason. She is beautiful, funny, sassy. She has her whole life ahead of her, and I pray she gathers the minutes of her life and lives them without fear of the future.

I am still beautiful | Lindsey

I have learned so much more about myself. I have so much more confidence and self-respect. I never thought I was this strong before. I know without a doubt that I am still beautiful, despite my scars — because they are beautiful, too. They show that I survived. I now know that I can overcome anything.

Whenever I have a bad day, I bring out my yoga mat and forget everything. I leave it off the mat. Once I'm on the mat, everything else blurs out, and I can concentrate on what's going on internally. It's the best type of therapy. It got me out of depression and helped relieve my anxiety — and continues to today.

Since yoga has helped me greatly during my fight, I have decided to head to a yoga academy and one day be certified to teach therapeutic yoga to those dealing with cancer. It helped me gain my strength physically and emotionally, and I want to be able to help others get to that point as well.

I plan on staying cancer free. I will not allow it to show its ugly face again. Cancer threw me for a loop. I thought I knew where I was going and what I was doing with my life, when really I had no clue. I have been able to take a step back and learn more about me.

My dad and I are planning on breaking ground on my tiny A-frame on a piece of land near the Staunton River, so I can strive to live a more simple and green lifestyle. I also have this thing that resembles a bucket list. I don't want my success to be based on material items, but more on the experiences I've had. I want to travel. I want to see what else is out there. I'm planning a thru-hike on the Appalachian Trail for spring of 2016. I will be hiking all 2,189 miles, from Springer Mountain in Georgia all the way to Mount Katahdin, Maine — just to prove I can. We'll see where I go from there.

"My faith has gotten me far. Faith in my doctors, faith in myself and most importantly, my faith in God."

Project Hands update: My Saturday with Joy and Shirlene

1/22/2015

Something always told me I'd be spending more time with Joy and Shirlene, a particularly moving pair of Project Hands interviewees. Like many stories I hear at the Rescue Mission, theirs is a dance of heartbreak, inspiration and faith. But it is also the reality of one of my deepest fears — having to surrender control over my body and ultimately, my life. Shaken by their story, I wanted to understand them more profoundly.

"I have a very rare form of ovarian cancer," Joy told me back in December. "Stage four. The last stage. I've been given five months to two years to live with this cancer. My surgeon, a Harvard educator, has never seen anyone make it past two years. So it's a grim picture. I was diagnosed in April this year. No idea. No clue. No warning. No bells whistling. No angels coming to tell me. Just cancer, which is, to most people, a death sentence."

Though she lives under the Rescue Mission's hospice care, Joy — with the help of her friend and caretaker Shirlene — is full of fight and faith.

Our afternoon begins with my first lunch at the Mission. During the meal, I observe just how protective Shirlene is over Joy. "I watch her every move," says Shirlene, whose trained eye detects even the slightest warning signs in Joy's appearance, like eye weakness and paleness. Often during lunch, Shirlene offers Joy her food. Her leftover chicken. Her extra piece of fruit. This, because she has witnessed Joy at her frailest — a mere 87 pounds. "I was skeletal," Joy recounts.

After lunch, I follow them to the library. Poring over Shirlene's laptop, the women — who have bonded as sisters — prepare for their upcoming trip to Cleveland, where they will speak at a conference called Tea, Testimony & Truth. Directed by Joy's renowned oncologist, Dr. Jason Knight, the inaugural event (held Jan. 12) is a safe space for cancer patients, caregivers and others impacted by the disease. As the guests of honor, Joy and Shirlene shared their incredible story with nearly 300 women.

At the library, Joy also shows me several photos taken after her surgery last spring. I was shocked — not so much at how weak she looked then, but by how far she has come. Where her cheeks were once hollowed, they are now full and often plump with a smile.

"I gave her family my word when she was in Cleveland," says Shirlene, who documents Joy's medical journey for Joy's family in Africa. "I gave them my word that I would watch out for her and be there for her. I came up old-school, so when I give somebody my word or shake their hand, that means I'm going to do it no matter what."

We end our day back at the Mission, where I spend a few minutes in Joy and Shirlene's home — a shared bedroom, living room and kitchenette. It is bright and roomy — much like their hearts, I've come to learn.

I take portraits of Joy. By the window. In her favorite, flowered armchair. Reading from the books that uplift her. (Shirlene did not want to be photographed — "Do good and disappear," she says.)

Then I leave, feeling once again bettered by their presence, warmed by their light.

Throughout the day, Joy asked me to include a thank-you to five Rescue Mission staffers who serve in the Women and Children's Center: Beth Barnhart, Bernice Flores, Sommer Smith ("Sommer is a ray of sunshine and warms my heart."), Laura Johnson ("Laura encourages us on our journey.") and Melissa ("She always laughs and smiles. She has a big, happy and loving personality.")

A story of faith, hope, love — and Serenity

1/9/2015

In October, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com. Below is just one of the many powerful, eye-opening accounts I've heard.

The day everything changed

We've been together for 10 years. Married for three. We've got eight kids. Six together. We haven't had a great life, but we've always been able to provide for our kids. We've always been able to have a home and have our kids together.

He always worked, and I always stayed home with the kids. He would come home, and I'd be ready with the kids. We would go out and do stuff together every day. The park, whatever. On weekends, we'd go camping. Sometimes we'd go to the museum. Zoos, everywhere.

Then about a year ago, I had a stroke. Following the stroke, I lost my job. I'd been there for about two years.

The day he had the stroke, I thought I was losing him.

We turned to my family, because she doesn't have any.

But his family quit helping us, and we lost everything. We lost our home, we lost our car.

We placed our kids with my dad, so they wouldn't get taken from us.

Pregnant and living in a tent

Then we took some money we had, went to Walmart and bought a tent and some camping gear. We camped out all summer — all while I was pregnant with her.

Three or four times a week, we would have my mom pick us up to go see the kids — and get a shower. That was a big thing.

Being pregnant on the riverbank was really hard. Very uncomfortable. Moving around, getting in and out of the tent, being bored. Worrying because I was high-risk, worrying about something happening and not having transportation from the river to the hospital. I'm highly allergic to bees, so if I'd gotten stung, the ambulance wouldn't have made it to me in time. I probably would have died.

A couple of nights, it dropped down to about 30 degrees. That's when we had to call it quits. We couldn't do it.

We went to a hotel and got help from family and churches. They'd pay for the hotel.

The peace of Serenity

On November 4th, I went to the hospital, and they kept me in there. Then on November 5th, they were doing ultrasounds of the baby and said she had fluid around her heart. They wanted to go ahead and take her. They did the C-Section, and she stayed in the NICU for 12 days.

We stayed at the Ronald McDonald House, which kept us off the river. It was like a five-star hotel to us, after what we'd been through all summer.

Once the last day for the NICU came, we had to stay at the hospital to show them we could take care of her — since she's a premie. We made the decision right then and there that we couldn't go on the street. That's when we came here.

Jessica and Alvin named their daughter Serenity.

I used to have a very big problem with pain medication. I got clean and sober, and the Serenity Prayer is something that I say often. Having her and knowing that she's healthy ... she's my lifesaver.

She's added peace to our family. It's like my heart is at a different level — even though she's pulling my hair right now.

The hardest part

For all the tangible things Jessica and Alvin have lost, losing their pride has been one of the hardest to cope with.

Knowing you have to be in a homeless shelter ... it takes your pride away. We couldn't do this with all of our kids. It would be impossible.

Realizing they can't provide for their children is even harder.

Every time we talk to our oldest daughter, she asks if we've found a place to live yet. They want to come home. It breaks my heart to tell her, "No, baby, but we're still trying." It's been two years now that we've had bad luck. I went from being stable my entire life to this.

It's hard when your kids ask you for something, and you can't get it for them. They don't understand why.

What savings we have is with the kids right now. If they want something, they know they have to wait until tax time.

I'd say the hardest part for us is having to put our kids with someone else, because we couldn't provide. We couldn't provide them with a home. We couldn't provide them with clothes. We couldn't provide them with shoes. We couldn't provide them with toys. We couldn't provide them with stability.

Their prevailing love

He's my life. We have a really strong bond together. We finish each other's sentences. It's like we were made for each other.

She means the world to me. If we were separated, I wouldn't waste my time looking for anybody else, because I've put so much into our relationship. These past couple of years, we've spent a lot of time together. We've definitely decided we have found our soul mate.

Their bond has survived Alvin's alcoholism, Jessica's addiction to painkillers and a period of time when Jessica was back together with the father of her oldest daughters.

I was really horrible when I drank. I put my hands on her a couple of times, and I really feel bad about it. I drank a fifth of liquor a day like it was nothing. That took me away from spending time with my kids. It got to a point where I'd walk in the door after work, and my oldest daughter would say, "Daddy, do you need me to go to the fridge and get you a beer?" I've been sober two years, though.

I'd lay there at night, when I was with my oldest kids' father, and think about why I did what I did. It broke his heart. It killed him. I think that if I hadn't come back, he would've killed himself.

The hope ahead

I'd like to see us in a nice country home, with the kids running around in a big yard.

I'd like to see myself with my CNA. Have a job at a doctor's office or a hospital. That's my plan. I want to be able to go back to school and provide for my children.

We want our kids to have better lives that what we had. College. Success. Stability.

2015 photo goals + 2014's favorite images

1/1/2015

1. Put Project Hands on walls and in print. When I first presented the idea for Project Hands to the Rescue Mission's CEO, she excitedly envisioned something big. A gallery exhibition. A wall of photographs displayed in the Mission. Maybe even a book. I'm excited to see what paths Project Hands takes in the coming months and how these stories will continue to impact hearts and minds.

2. Focus on film. 2014 was a year of film for me. It started with a 1950s Duaflex that my fiancé and I restored in January and continued with a newfound love for my dad's old Minolta. With each roll of film, I learned a lesson in slowing down and letting go. In a March post, I wrote that film encourages premeditated love. With only 12 or 24 images per roll, we're forced to consider each frame more carefully. Plus, there's nothing more exciting than finally seeing your photos after a week or so of impatient waiting.

3. Collaborate. I've always preferred working alone, but I also know the power of two. (I am, after all, getting married this year.) Got an idea? Let me know, and maybe we can work together to create an even bigger reality.

My favorite photos from 2014:

The night I learned about true friendship

12/2/2014

In October, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com.

I woke up this morning feeling fuller. As I brushed my teeth, I silently and reverently counted my blessings. On my drive to work, I almost teared up when a song about hope came on the radio. All this because of Joy and Shirlene, two women I interviewed last night for Project Hands. I woke up this morning feeling humbled to have met them. Their story is one of friendship, trust and an experience that has transformed them into sisters. I hope you'll read and share it.

A space for miracles | as told by Joy

I have a very rare form of ovarian cancer. Stage four. The last stage. I've been given five months to two years to live with this cancer. My surgeon, a Harvard educator, has never seen anyone make it past two years. So it's a grim picture. I was diagnosed in April this year. No idea. No clue. No warning. No bells whistling. No angels coming to tell me. Just cancer, which is, to most people, a death sentence.

When I went to Carilion Hospital in April, I had an extended belly, which I thought was maybe because of gas or fluid. I looked like I was six months pregnant. My legs were filled with fluid. They were huge. I started having these symptoms in February, but I kept ignoring them. I took home remedies like Gas-X and Milk of Magnesia. Maybe it's just gas or bloating, I thought. So I ignored it until that dreaded day in April when I went to the emergency room. I was in so much pain. Short of breath and very tired.

When they started looking at my vitals, they realized I was very anemic and needed fluids. My hemoglobin was very low. They wanted to run some more tests, and that's when they gave me the verdict of cancer. I was to see the OB-GYN oncologist, who examined me further and did a CAT Scan. They determined it was stage four cancer, and they wanted to operate immediately.

But I had a previous engagement. I had speaking engagements throughout this year, where I was going to speak to women's groups about Africa and women in agriculture and about sustainable environments. Public speaking is my passion. So I postponed my surgery. I was going to speak to 250 women in Ohio.

Just before I was going to give this talk, however, I collapsed at the elevator. I was rushed to South Pointe, which is the emergency care section of Cleveland Clinic. What's remarkable about this story is that Shirlene saved my life. I collapsed, went to the toilet in the hotel room and fell back. I was dying and she saved my life by calling 911.

That was the first indication that things were not well for me. Even though I had been giving this pronouncement of cancer, it looked like it was even worse. When we went to South Pointe, they told me that blood was flooding up my lungs and that I needed to have surgery immediately — otherwise, I would not live beyond six hours.

But Joy, determined to give her talk, convinced doctors to postpone surgery yet again. Anticipating Joy's stubbornness, Shirlene had already contacted event organizers and forbade them to allow Joy to present. Joy was left with no option but to have the surgery.

We went to Cleveland Clinic, where the surgery was performed by the brilliant surgeon called Doctor Knight. He removed a 12-centimeter tumor from my abdomen, a complete hysterectomy. When he opened me up, blood gushed out. I lost two pints of blood in the OR, which is the equivalent of the blood that circulates in your body. They had to pump me with more blood and delicately perform this operation, which was like a dance of life and death.

I was then taken to the ICU, where I slowly began a process of recovery. I couldn't walk. I could hardly talk. My body was in total shock from the operation. It was like an out-of-body experience. I had never gone through any kind of major surgery. I had Shirlene, who had been there for the talk, who now became a caregiver by default. She's a friend, a business partner, a mentor, a sister in the Lord. Now she was forced in to being the caregiver and power of attorney over my medical records. Everything was happening so fast.

After a month in Cleveland, Joy and Shirlene returned to Roanoke, where Joy worked to regain her walking, talking, writing and cognitive skills with the team at Carilion Roanoke Memorial Hospital. After a month of physical and occupational rehab, Joy left the hospital on July 4. She weighed just 87 pounds.

I was in shock at the way I looked. I was skeletal. At one point, I didn't know where I was. I've never gone through anything like that in my entire life, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. It was horrific. But by the grace of God and by bringing angels like Shirlene into my life to encourage me, sleep in a cot next to my bed, watch out for my best interests and be the caregiver that she is, I made it.

After Joy was discharged, she and Shirlene lived in an Extended Stay America, with the help of the American Cancer Society. Eventually, though, Joy's social worker suggested moving to the Rescue Mission. It would free her mind from finances, the social worker argued, as she and Shirlene had both depleted their savings. The decision to transition to the Rescue Mission was not an easy one for Joy.

I'm here because I made a decision to be in a place where I would have peace. When the social worker first brought it to my attention, I just couldn't accept it, because it meant admitting that I was homeless. The picture I had of homeless people was very far from what I wanted to be.

I told Shirlene, "If it's a good place, and you can continue to be my caregiver, let's try it." I talked to some of the staff members and they had never had a situation like this. They were so kind and their hearts are so open that they changed things around to accommodate us.

Shirlene is still my caregiver. Every time I think of how far I've come, I can only attribute it to her. She believed in me when no one else believed in me. When I was 87 pounds and everybody else thought I was going to die — including my doctor — she never lost faith in my ability to live. I always say that love kept me here. Love saved me, and love kept me here. It's a story of friendship and of trust. She became a sister. She knew me much more intimately as a sister because she's the one who fed me. She's the one who bathed me. I was completely useless. If I didn't have her, I wouldn't be alive.

Now, though I'm much better, I still have those bouts — cancer brain, as they call it — where I can be disoriented. I take a bunch of medication that makes me dizzy and blurs my vision. But I value life, and I value the quality of life that I have now. Cancer has made me a better person, but I don't want it to be the moral of this story. No, I wish I didn't have cancer. I hate having this disease to the very core of me. But it has also made me appreciate every little kindness that I get from the wonderful women who are here with me. It has afforded me an open heart, a bigger heart. I value each day that I'm alive. That's what I scream every day, that I'm alive. Until that dreaded day when I will go. But I always give God his space for miracles.

God goes first | as told by Shirlene

How does it make you feel to hear Joy say these things about you?

It sounds good, but to me, it's not a big deal. I am just being her friend, contributing to humanity. I gave her family my word when she was in Cleveland. I gave them my word that I would watch out for her and be there for her. I came up old-school, so when I give somebody my word or shake their hand, that means I'm going to do it no matter what.

What have you learned from this experience?

That God is a healer. Even when life is at its darkest, when you're standing at death's doors, God is there saying, "Let me go first." I've seen the love, power and nurturing of God. That sweet relationship that God and I have got sweeter. He was my comforter.

A season of praying | as told by Joy

I knew Shirlene to be a very good friend, but I never knew the depths of her kind heart. I never knew the depths of how much she loved me as a friend. I didn't know that until this happened. I remember one scene in which she was going through my medication and calling different pharmacies for the best price. I said, "God, how does she even do that?" My mind was so muddled — it was just three weeks after my discharge. I felt a total peace just by looking at her. She had this chart with figures, and I just couldn't fathom how I could have done that. Mind you, I have a master's degree. I was completely able to do all that before, but at that point, everything was gone. It was like a hard drive that has been wiped clean. I had to relearn everything. My heart flooded with gratitude for God giving me such a friend. I remember that because I said to myself, "Picture this memory in the back of your mind. This is a Kodak moment." If I didn't have her, I would have been dead. It's just that simple.

What's the strongest aspect of your friendship?

The fact that we believe in God. We believe in Jesus Christ, our Savior, our brother, our King and Redeemer. We believe in the Holy Spirit that dwells within us. He's the Comforter. We believe that the love of God is so incredible, so unmeasurable and so beyond anything that you can ever imagine. Sending his Son to die and to take our place on that cross is something that is so deep, that it transcends anything we can ever describe. That's what became our foundation. That's what we shared through this journey.

She would get mad at me because I'm so stubborn, and I would get annoyed with her because she pushed me. No, that's the wrong word. She didn't push me; she knew that I had it in me to do what I needed to do. She just believed that I was going to make it when I didn't believe in myself. Through it all, through the conflict, we would go together in prayer. It was a season of praying.

A makeshift communion | as told by Shirlene

Praying and communion. I even brought the stuff so we could do communion on the hospital tray. We anointed her. Even in her sleep, when she was out of it for days, I would anoint her and remind God, "God, you said if we laid hands on the sick, they would recover." I would read Scriptures to her and Christian books. She would be half in and half out, but I would still read the Bible and talk to her about stories in the Bible, stories about how Jesus healed.

The test of friendship | as told by Joy

The main thing that I'd like to share is that life is precious. To value life at all costs. America is the best country in the world. It has the best medical facilities, the best medical personnel. I always say that Roanoke saved my life. I came here thinking that I was here for something else — reuniting with an old friend, maybe expanding a business. But I came here because it saved my life. I was diagnosed here. I got treated here. They nurtured me back to health here. We discovered what kind of friends we were to each other here.

When you are in adversity, you really get to know who your friends are. They are few and far in between. But the ones who stay with you will be your friends for life. How can I look at Shirlene and say that we'll never be friends again? We'll always be friends after this experience. I remember looking at her one day and saying, "Look how far we've come. The best is yet to come." She saw me in a skeletal position, and she never flinched. She never gave up on me. My own folks gave up on me, because cancer had killed two of my family friends. To know that their daughter, their sister, their auntie has cancer — it was a death sentence for my family. They didn't believe that I would make it.

Life is so precious. In one day, my life changed when they told me I have cancer. This time last December ... I don't know how to explain it. It's so surreal to be told in the doctor's office that you have cancer. It's like the world stops. Everything stops. You can't make any plans. What plans can you make when you're told you're at stage four? You're looking at a will. Life is precious. You don't have to have cancer to know that. Live your life to the best of your ability. Be good to other people. Smile. Be happy with even the smallest kindness.

I always say that Roanoke saved my life. I came here thinking that I was here for something else — reuniting with an old friend, maybe expanding a business. But I came here because it saved my life. I was diagnosed here. I got treated here. They nurtured me back to health here. We discovered what kind of friends we were to each other here.

Project Hands: A new chapter

11/10/2014

I think we can all agree that women, by nature, are more judgmental and less trusting than men — or is that just me being judgmental? Anyway, these assumptions are why I was a little nervous about starting the next chapter of Project Hands — interviews at the women's shelter.

But as with every interview I’ve done so far at the Rescue Mission, I was humbled by their strength, vulnerability and willingness to share very sensitive parts of their lives with me, a stranger.

The first woman I talked with tonight was 47-year-old Angela. Soft-spoken, she shared her battle with drugs, alcohol, attempted suicide and the death of her two grown children. Despite the darkness that’s surrounded her since childhood, she is hopeful for the days ahead.

I then had the pleasure of interviewing Janice, whose life is an example of unflinching strength and a will to overcome. In her 68 years, she's survived cancer, two abusive relationships and the death of her daughter.

I can’t wait to share their full stories with you later this week. Stay tuned, and for behind-the-scenes updates every night, follow me on Twitter.

Last month, I launched the website for my latest photojournalism endeavor, Project Hands. Many of the stories come from guests of the Rescue Mission, a comprehensive homeless shelter in Roanoke. Check it out at StoriesWeHold.com.