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Not in Kansas Anymore: Inside the Healing Vision of Lotus Oncology and Hematology

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Dr. Roopa Gupta

Just as with Dorothy when she reached the Land of Oz and said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore,”—that’s the feeling you get opening the door of Lotus Oncology and Hematology. This is not your typical doctor’s office. And that’s precisely what Dr. Roopa Gupta wants it to be. 

Forget the sterile white walls, humming fluorescents, and anxiety-inducing, plastic-seated waiting rooms. In their place: a soft gurgle from a water fountain, sunlight pouring across floor-to-ceiling floral panels, plush sofas you sink into, and earthy colors that settle the nervous system. It’s a space that lets your shoulders drop the moment you walk in.

“I wanted to create a healing environment,” Dr. Gupta says, “not just a medical one. We offer the best, most current care, but in a space that reflects dignity, beauty, and transformation.”

The name “Lotus” wasn’t a branding choice—it was personal. “The lotus blooms beautifully from murky waters,” she says. “It stands for rebirth, resilience, and rising above hard things. That’s the journey cancer patients are on. I wanted them to remember they’re not the diagnosis—they’re the flower.”

Dr. Gupta’s path to this moment started with internal medicine and then moved into oncology, though it wasn’t a straight shot. “I wasn’t sure at first,” she said. “I’m deeply sensitive—an empath—and wondered if this work would be too much to carry.” However, the more time she spent with patients, the more the work felt like home. “Every year into this field confirmed it—this is what I was meant to do.”

Lotus opened with a clear mission: treat the person, not just the illness. That starts with time—sometimes hours—for a first appointment. “It’s not just about the cancer,” she says. “It’s about what the person is carrying—what they’re afraid of, what their life looks like, what they need.”

She also brings in integrative therapies backed by research: Acupuncture, yoga, reiki, nutrition support, massage therapy, and reflexology. “Wellness Wednesdays” offers breathwork, sound therapy, and art therapy, with plans to add music, mental health support, and even pet therapy. “We’re working with people in the community to bring this all together,” Dr. Gupta says. “It’s not extra. It’s essential.”

But the heart of Lotus isn’t the services. It’s the people who fill the space with presence.

Brianna Timm, one of the nurses on staff, says the difference is immediate. “Even if someone is terrified when they walk in here, they start to feel like—okay, maybe I can do this.”

Timm would know, having worked in different kinds of healthcare settings. She said this one felt different. “They’re not just going through the motions or waiting for it to be over. They’re present. And because we’re sincere with them, they believe us when we say we’re in it with them. This becomes a healing environment. It’s not a second home, exactly—but it’s a place they feel safe.”

“I’ve seen it happen,” she adds. “The first time, someone might notice one small good thing. Next visit, they see more. And before long, this space, these people—we’re part of their journey.”

That idea—of being part of something shared—is woven into everything Lotus does. “We want patients to feel heard, seen, touched. We listen. We validate their questions. And then we move forward, together,” Dr. Gupta says.

It’s a group effort. Nurse Lindsey Corkran says, “I’m honored to be part of such a loving and supportive team. Everyone here works with genuine care and diligence to ensure each patient receives the best possible treatment. I see amazing things happen every day—for a place that handles such serious and sometimes heavy issues, there’s an incredible amount of laughter, warmth, and life here. I think it’s wonderful for our community to have Lotus as an option for their healthcare.”

Moments of joy—like a husband reclining in a surprise lounge chair during his wife’s infusion or a patient ringing the treatment bell after realizing the whole team, including Dr. Gupta, came out to witness it—are small, but they matter.

“That was one of my first weeks here,” Timm says of the bell-ringing. “He was hesitant at first. But when he saw Dr. Gupta walk out to see him do it, he smiled, stepped up, and rang it three times. Big, clear rings. He knew that moment mattered to all of us.” These gestures aren’t just nice. They build trust, especially in a region where healthcare access can be complex and confusing. 

That kind of trust is earned—through honest conversations, familiar faces, and, sometimes, a phone call answered by the doctor herself. “We don’t have layers and layers of separation here,” Dr. Gupta says. “We’re accessible. We’re human.”

And humanity, she says, is the whole point. “We’ve desensitized ourselves in so many ways,” she says. “Everyone’s on a screen. Everyone’s scheduled. We’ve forgotten how to just connect. I wanted this to feel like that old village doctor’s office, where someone could walk in and say, ‘Can you take a look at this?’ without being told to book an appointment for two weeks from now.”

Nature plays a role, too. The office looks out on a pond with ducks and birds. Dr. Gupta’s daughter brings duck food. “It sounds small,” Timm says, “but even seeing the natural light makes a difference. At my last job, there were no windows. None. Here, a squirrel runs by, or a bird lands outside, and you catch yourself smiling.”

Dr. Gupta remembers how the office space they originally planned on fell through—and how devastated she was. “But now? This is where we were supposed to be,” she says. “The sun comes right through those east-facing windows. Sometimes, I sit in the waiting room at the end of the day with a cup of coffee and just breathe it in.”

She remembered walking out to the waiting room, where a patient’s wife was reading quietly in that very room, sunlight pooling around her. “I thought, this is what I wanted. That you feel at home and carry that hope with you.”

Dr. Gupta, too, has hopes. “The science is amazing right now. Treatments have gotten so much better—especially for breast, colon, and lung cancers. But now we need to get that medicine to those who need it. Insurance and access are still big hurdles.” She wants more advocacy and better policy. “Science has done its part. It’s time for the system to catch up.”

In the meantime, she and her team do what they can, one patient at a time. “This work doesn’t drain me,” she says. “It fuels me.”

At home in Oxford, she recharges by walking, meditating, cooking, and reading in what she calls “the most beautiful park in the world.” Her daughter, nine years old, recently started leaving sticky notes in the office that read “Dr. Gupta, Jr.” A subtle nudge, perhaps.

“This isn’t just my dream,” Dr. Gupta says. “It’s Brianna’s. It’s Lindsey’s. It’s all of ours. And it’s still unfolding.”

Lotus Oncology and Hematology is located at 401 Purdy St., Suite 102, Easton, Maryland. 410-505-8948

 

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And then there were three (For Sharon and Andrea) By Laura J. Oliver

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I’m at my sister’s horse farm basking in a late-March, Blue Ridge mountain twilight, enjoying a glass of wine around the firepit with my two older sisters. Golden Mica-dog is on sentry duty gazing out over the fields and lake like the good boy he is—keeping watch for bears, beavers, and falling stars. He will never be known for his intelligence, fairly or unfairly, because he is such a good-looking blond.

We are comparing memories—and it’s gratifying when they are the same; how Mom drove like there was a wasp in her blouse, the blue Ford with the hole in the floor. You could see Eagle Hill Road streaming like a river beneath your feet, speeding to the bus stop or home from the A & P. Sometimes we recall the same event but entirely differently– the emotional lens of our visions unique to each.

Because there are three of us, often two memories will coincide with gleeful validation but not convince the outlier who hangs on to what she alone knows is true. The car was black! It wasn’t a Ford! That kind of thing. That role changes with each memory.

As with your siblings, we learn things from each other that we never knew about our own histories. My eldest sister remembers saving our middle sister from a group of boy-bullies who had surrounded her on a piece of playground equipment, dead-reckoning her bike to disperse the danger, but she is the only one who remembers the event. And I remember, but don’t share, a similar memory where Tommy McVeydo-The-Rotten-Tomato (kids are callous, what can I say?) had backed my very pretty 14-year-old sister up against the pasture fence in what I now recognize was a moment of highly charged flirtation. As a 9-year-old, I saw a threat, a call to glory, and threw myself between them, thwarting a budding romance.

I had not yet learned to read the room.

And these exchanges are as grounding as the land we gaze over. Siblings. The only people in your life who know your whole story, who know where you came from, what you overcame, and whether you turned out alright. Though it is good to remember that if life were a court of law, nothing is less reliable than eyewitness testimony.

Carpenter bees are bombing us, and the red and yellow pepper hors d’oeuvres. We look up the species to be sure they’re not bumblebees, then whack them. They sport shiny, hairless abdomens and are further identified by their flight patterns–diving and zigzagging. Vanishing like UFOs. Like drones.

Like memories.

Barnstead, the renovated barn we grew up in– was full of wasps, and we start sharing bee memories. The invisible but ominous buzzing against the screens in our bedrooms upon returning from school, waking to wasps crawling up our pillowcases or tangled in our tennis shoe laces when getting dressed in the morning, late for the bus.

My middle sister’s memory is that I helped her kill wasps in her room—that she was afraid, and I was not. This is interesting because it could not be further from the truth. Things that sting terrified me as well—but I’m guessing her memory is accurate—that I did come into her room with bee-slayer bravado because what I know about myself is this: when I’m terrified of something, and you are too, your need flips a switch, and fear becomes fierceness. How does that work? That we can take on for another, what we cannot face alone. While cowering in my own room in a bee face-off, in her room, it was, “He’s on the curtain. Get ready to run.”

I can read the room now.

We vow to come back to the farm for the full moon in June –to watch it rise like blessings over the lake.

The next day, we decide to take a tour of the hilly 80 acres of forests and fields, and since I’ve got some aches from running with the dog the day before, we use the ATV known as Jethro (picture a golf cart with upgraded horsepower). We park it at the bottom of the steepest hill, so we won’t have to hike back up to the house later. My sister drives like there’s a wasp in her blouse, as if she’s on her way to a fire, or as if …she is our mother’s daughter.

My oldest sister calls shotgun, and I’m on the open side—no door and a slippery seat we three barely fit on, but she links her arm in mine to hold me in, to keep me safe.

I brace with my outside leg and clutch a roof strut, and we are laughing now as we accelerate down the hill because if this is how we’re going to die, it’s very funny and kind of okay.

 Your siblings are the longest relationship you will have in this life. Interestingly, it is an involuntary arrangement. At first, anyway. But later, if you are fortunate, you will gather by choice when you can.

Our own families are grown. Our parents are gone

We start over from where we began.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

 

 

 

 

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Food Friday: Radishes

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Early spring brings us delicious young vegetables: peas, asparagus, garlic, and radishes. Radishes are the pink darlings of early spring. Cherry red, fuchsia, magenta, hot pink, carmine, crimson, scarlet, carnelian, vermilion, coral, cardinal, cerise – I could go through my art supply catalogues picking out the names of vivid reds and pinks all day long – radishes are deeply satisfying to look at, and to gobble up. And they grow fast – plant seeds 30 days after the last frost and you, too, can enjoy pink spicy goodness.

I remember sitting on the back porch on summer evenings when I was a girl, watching my father transform four uniform pink hamburger patties into charbroiled hockey pucks on the tiny black hibachi. We would snack on the raw, red-skinned radishes that my mother doled out to us in small Pyrex bowls, filled with bone-chilling ice water. How could anything so cold have such a spicy kick?

How can we resist the lure of fresh radishes? Especially when we get fancy, and doll them up with butter and a hint of Maldon salt? The butter truly tones down the peppery, hot flavor of radish and turns it into an indulgent treat. Dorie Greenspan says, “It’s a little trick the French play to bring foods into balance, and it works.”

For the data driven – radishes are high in fiber, riboflavin, and potassium. They are low in calories, and have lots of Vitamin C. They are a natural diuretic, and have detoxing abilities. Radish facts

I prefer to dwell on the spicy flavor and the crunch.

Have you tried sliced radishes on buttered bread? They will jazz up your next tea party the way cucumber sandwiches never have. Although, if you were French, you would have been eating radishes on buttered slices of brown bread for breakfast for years. Mais oui! Radishes on Brown Bread

And if you’d rather not be picking up disks of radishes escaping from your sandwiches, try this easy peasy radish butter. Yumsters! Radish Butter

Consider the cocktail, and how easy it is to add some sliced radishes to your favorite Bloody Mary recipe. I’m not sure that I would go to all the trouble that this recipe stirs up – I would have to make a separate trip out to buy sherry, after all. Easter Cocktails Radishes will add a kick to the bloodies you might need to add to your Easter brunch menu – making all those jelly beans palatable. (Don’t forget – Easter is April 20th – it’s almost time to start hiding those Easter eggs.

For your next book club meeting, here is a cocktail with literary aspirations: Radish Gin Cocktail I haven’t been able to find the Cocchi Americano at our liquor store, though. So I have left it out, and no one seems the wiser. Nor has it been noted by my well-read blue stockings that I also used Bombay instead of the requisite Dorothy Parker gin. (For the crowd that is used to extremely cheap white wine, this is an eye-opener, just like Uncle Willy’s in The Philadelphia Story. It packs a punch.)

Here’s one for Mr. Sanders to perfect: grilled steak with grilled radishes. Grilled Steak 
It makes me sad, though, to cook a radish. There are some vegetables that are meant to be eaten gloriously simple and raw – like fresh peas, carrots, green beans and celery. Luke the wonder dog agrees.

I think I will just mosey out to the kitchen now and cut the tops off some fresh, rosy red radishes. Then I’ll slice off the root ends, pretend that I can carve the little globes into beauteous scarlet rosettes, and plop them into a small bowl of ice water. Then I will sprinkle some crunchy Maldon salt flakes over the clumsy rose petal shapes I have created, and eat one of my favorite root vegetables.

“Plant a radish.
Get a radish.
Never any doubt.
That’s why I love vegetables;
You know what you’re about!”
—Tom Jones


Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil and ink.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.

Chestertown Main Street releases visionary Phase One Master Plan

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After more than a year of community engagement, design work, and collaboration with the town of Chestertown, Main Street Chestertown has officially released its Downtown Master Plan: Phase One Report. The comprehensive 179-page document outlines a long-term vision for revitalizing and improving the town’s historic downtown district through a set of 40 proposed infrastructure and placemaking projects.

Paul Heckles, who has helped lead the initiative, explained that the process began nearly three years ago when Main Street Chestertown first began conceptualizing a master plan. “That led to a couple of years of planning,” Heckels said. “Eventually, we posted a request for proposals from consulting firms, and we hired Design Collective out of Baltimore.”

The project formally launched in February 2024, following a competitive RFQ process that drew interest from 12 firms. Design Collective was selected for its expertise in urban design and community-focused planning. What followed was a year-long effort that included workshops, creative brainstorming sessions, focus groups, and feedback loops with residents and stakeholders.

The result, now available here as a digital flipbook and downloadable PDF, outlines 40 conceptual projects that aim to reshape the downtown experience—ranging from burying utility wires and improving the tree canopy to reimagining sidewalks and restructuring the parking system for greater efficiency and accessibility.

“These 40 projects are pretty significant infrastructure projects,” said Sonni Huntzinger, Executive Duerctor of Main Street Chestertown. “Each one will require its own engineering and design throughout the course of what we’re calling Phase Two.”

The plan is structured into three phases. Phase One, now complete, centers on visioning and conceptual project recommendations. Phase Two will focus on prioritizing and sequencing those concepts, moving selected projects into detailed schematic design and engineering, ready to be bid out for construction. Phase Three will be the implementation phase—moving projects from paper to pavement, complete with groundbreaking and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

Throughout the planning process, Main Street Chestertown worked closely with the town’s leadership and an advisory board. The town contributed funding and input, and community engagement remained central. “The community really put a lot of effort into this,” Huntzinger noted, pointing to the various charrettes and workshops that shaped the final report. “It’s the community we want to say thank you to for this product.”

Heckles emphasized that the geographic scope of the report is centered on the historic district, but the ambitions of the plan go beyond physical improvements. “We hope it elevates the health and well-being of residents and visitors—anyone who spends time in downtown Chestertown,” he said. “We hope it addresses the need for a more diverse environment downtown, one where people of all walks of life are going to feel welcome and invited to participate.”

In addition to infrastructure, the plan also considers programming and communication strategies that will enhance the cultural and economic vitality of the area. As Huntzinger explained, “There’s a whole other layer that Main Street brings to it… It’s the impact these projects will have on quality of life and the downtown experience for visitors, residents, and businesses.”

The Phase One report is now publicly accessible, offering a transparent and detailed look into Chestertown’s aspirations for the next 5, 10, or even 15 years. As the town moves into Phase Two, the focus will shift to making those aspirations actionable.

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In terms of the absolute By Laura J. Oliver

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Easter is near, and although I no longer participate in an organized religion with an origin story, we have a brain bias to believe what we have grown up with—a homing instinct, perhaps. So, this is a resurrection story based on my Methodist upbringing —not the resurrection of God Incarnate, but of a family pet called Mr. Fish.

Is it silly? Well, it’s about a goldfish, so yes. But also no. If there is anything I’ve learned of late it is that there is no coincidence too subtle not to consider nominating for the extraordinary. We can’t be sort of pregnant, half-loved, or more perfect. While the U.S. Constitution refers to a ‘more perfect’ union, in reality, “perfect” is an absolute, like “always,” “never,” “all,” and “none.”

Like “miracle.”

When the kids were in elementary school, we bought them two goldfish. I’d had two goldfish in my youth—Tipper and Topper –who met a mysterious end I want to blame on the cat, but the evidence doesn’t support that theory. In the novel Lolita, Nabokov writes: “My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three.”  In deference to Nabokov, I’ll just say, “My very pretty goldfish died in a freak accident (hole, pencil) when I was six.”

But does any goldfish story have a happy ending? Stay with me. This may be a first.

In the uncanny way we recreate our own experiences for our children, I bought two goldfish for our kids. We set the bowl in the dining room, where I found Mrs. Fish floating belly up within days. But Mr. Fish lived! I removed his dead companion and cleaned out the bowl. A few days later, however, I slipped downstairs in search of my first hot cup of coffee and found Mr. Fish also belly up, eyes glazed and covered in some kind of spots.

I felt terrible. Unreasonably sad.

I’d been thinking about miracles, prayer, love, and possibility since Mrs. Fish died. Okay. All my life–or at least since Tipper and Topper bought it. So, I was alone in the dining room with a dead fish bobbing around in his glass bowl, saying a dead-fish prayer over his little spirit, when the thought popped into my head—What if to God death isn’t a thing?

What if it is all the same to God—it’s just that no one has asked or expressed a preference? What if there is no judgment over the worthiness of a request?

So I stood there and prayed, “God, if it’s all the same to you, please let Mr. Fish live.” I beamed my love, hope, and gratitude on his little floating body and left the room.

It was a spur-of-the-moment experiment—no risk and nothing to prove. Just a desire to understand the nature of limitations and love. Love of the kids, perhaps, more than the fish—but again, it may not matter. Love isn’t a need-based scholarship.

It was a pretty dining room with a fireplace in the next room visible from the cherry table and chairs under double windows, but as it was seldom used, no one else was aware of  Mr. F’s demise. The next morning, however, when I again slipped downstairs for my coffee, I peeked in the bowl where a fish had been floating, to see Mr. Fish swimming around submerged three inches underwater.

I’m stunned every time I lose someone I love—no matter how sick or how old, which must mean we actually never expect death, no matter what we say.

And it never fails that within a day or so of hearing news of a loss, I find myself thinking, “If I searched the whole world over…every continent and country, every mountain and valley; if I boarded a plane and flew to every corner of the earth right now, surely, I could find the person I lost. As if death doesn’t mean gone, it means elsewhere.

That thought experiment always ends with the realization that there are some things in this world you can’t work hard enough to earn, seek long enough to find. But maybe there are things available to us we have not attempted because we have deemed them too small, too frivolous—as if the creator of 100 billion galaxies can be too busy.

The stories of my youth and the rituals of my Methodist upbringing are permanently embedded in my mind and heart. In this season of Easter, I think of Mary Magdalene. Her grief, her devastation, her astonishment to find the boulder rolled away from the entrance to Jesus’s tomb and it empty.

I can feel her confusion and incredulity when she sees a man walking toward her whom she first mistakes for the gardener– with no idea he is Jesus until he calls her by name.

“Mary! Don’t you recognize me?”

And I can imagine her joy because, in my own small way, I have felt it, too, for people I’ve loved, lost, and found again. For miracles—which are neither great nor small, but absolute.

“Mary! You know who I am. Tell everyone.”

Our fish didn’t survive long after that—just three days, as I recall.

But he did live.

And I’ve waited 30 years to tell everyone.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

The Spy Newspapers may periodically employ the assistance of artificial intelligence (AI) to enhance the clarity and accuracy of our content.