CURE staff

Marissa is a “GenXer” living as a “flattie” with metastatic breast cancer since March 2014. 

Several months ago my phone pinged with a notification of a text message from an unknown sender. My first thought was which scam was it this time? Was it the toll road fee I “failed” to pay or that package that won’t ever be delivered? Turns out it was neither. It was a message wishing me a happy birthday and prompting me to “start a birthday tradition that prioritizes my well-being” by scheduling a mammogram at a facility I had never been to before. Whoa, hold the phone. First of all, I’m not a huge fan of birthdays. And, second of all, I have metastatic breast cancer and had a double mastectomy with aesthetic flat closure mere days after my 40th birthday. I don’t need a mammogram, thank you very much.

As with any marketing campaign, you need to know your targeted audience. A person who has had a mastectomy is just not a fit for this situation. I’d like to see a mammography tech try to find any chest tissue worth squeezing on my scarred flat chest wall and to see their faces if my breastless self were to show up for an appointment. I’m assuming no one would notice I’m flat until it came time to disrobe.

These reminders are painfully triggering. I have accepted that cancer is a part of my life. I see it daily in the disfigurement caused by this disease, but to be reminded I should have a mammogram, on my birthday no less, is an experience no one in my situation should have to endure. The offending radiology group received an earful from me, and rightly so, after I was able to finally track them down.

After some digging, I discovered that the facility I had used in the past for radiation mapping was bought out by a corporation that now had access to my medical records, which clearly states I have no breast tissue. Whoever was in charge of marketing text messages obviously didn’t read my records or were so tone-deaf they didn’t bother to look at all.

The sting of that thoughtless text stayed with me, a reminder of how often healthcare systems can miss the mark and overlook the realities of patients like me. That frustration resurfaced as I faced another challenge: arranging my upcoming scans to monitor my disease. At my last oncology appointment, when the receptionist asked where I'd like to go, I chose the same facility I've trusted for 11 years, hoping for familiarity and ease. No problem, she would fax the orders and I could call to set up a day and time. But, she said… they were bought out by another company. Aaagh! The imaging center I have used since my diagnosis in 2014 is now owned by the offending mammo spammers. You can imagine my disappointment.

Scans create anxiety all on their own. This adds yet another layer to this multi-layered birthday cake. It took everything I had to suck it up and have these scans done by the mammo spammers. I unsuccessfully attempted to find a different local facility that isn't affiliated with this company and came to the conclusion they now have a monopoly in my area.

Prior to my appointment, I learned the facility no longer had a nurse to access ports for contrast, which spiked my anxiety. After some self-advocacy, the radiologist agreed to handle it. As we chatted while he was accessing my port, I shared my frustration with the new company and the text message fiasco. He and my favorite tech agreed the corporate takeover had worsened things, expressing hope for change. The process went smoothly, but the experience underscored the company's disconnect.

When my results were posted later that day in the portal I couldn’t access anything other than the scan pictures. I would have to wait another agonizing day.

The notification came the next morning from my oncologist with a message of no evidence of active disease (NEAD) and I immediately could feel the lightness of thousands of untethered birthday balloons lifting away the scanxiety that had been plaguing me in the weeks leading up to my scan appointment.

Here’s to more birthdays, more clean scans and living every day as best we can despite cancer.

And to the mammo spammers, let them eat cake, just not my celebratory slice.

Articles

A patient with metastatic breast cancer recounts receiving an inappropriate marketing text for a mammogram, highlighting the insensitivity of healthcare marketing campaigns that fail to consider individual patient histories. The text was sent by a facility that had acquired her previous radiation center, demonstrating a lack of personalized care. The patient faced further frustration when her trusted imaging center was also acquired by the same company, leading to anxiety over her upcoming scans. Despite these challenges, she received positive scan results, underscoring the need for more empathetic healthcare practices.

A thoughtless birthday mammogram reminder underscored how the healthcare system ignored my reality of living with metastatic breast cancer.

When a Thoughtless Mammogram Reminder Reopened a Deep Cancer Wound

Mary Anderson, B.S.N., RN, OCN, embodies the spirit of an Extraordinary Healer, having dedicated more than 35 years to oncology nursing through different roles in pediatric oncology, infusion nursing and oral oncology, and now spearheading a national community for nurses through the National Community Oncology Dispensing Association (NCODA).

In all of these roles, she has embodied care for her patients and a desire to advocate for the role of oncology nurses. As senior manager of nurse initiatives at NCODA, Mary elevates the role of oncology nurses within medically integrated care teams across the country, empowering them with knowledge, confidence and tools to provide exceptional patient-centered care.

When Mary was an oral chemotherapy nurse navigator at Norton Cancer Institute in Louisville, Kentucky, she assisted the clinic with formalizing an oral anticancer treatment navigation program.

Mary’s influence on this topic extends to her co-authorship of the Oncology Association of Nurse Navigation practice guidelines for oral oncolytic management, ensuring best practices are widely accessible. Mary’s dedication to advancing and advocating for oncology nursing is evident in her work as a conference presenter and peer reviewer for a nursing journal, providing critical insights that elevate the profession. Her leadership includes serving as president of the Greater Louisville Oncology Nursing Society and earning recognition as Nurse of the Year in 2019 from the Norton Cancer Institute.

Mary Anderson’s lifelong commitment to innovation, education and advocacy improves the lives of patients and empowers her peers. She truly exemplifies what it means to be an Extraordinary Healer.

Mary Anderson’s lifelong commitment to innovation, education and advocacy improves the lives of patients and empowers her peers.

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Mary Anderson, a seasoned oncology nurse with over 35 years of experience, has significantly contributed to the field through various roles, including pediatric oncology and oral oncology. As the senior manager of nurse initiatives at NCODA, she enhances the role of oncology nurses in integrated care teams. Her work includes co-authoring practice guidelines for oral oncolytic management and leading initiatives at the Norton Cancer Institute. Recognized as Nurse of the Year in 2019, her dedication to innovation and advocacy continues to empower patients and peers alike.

Mary Anderson, B.S.N., RN, OCN, embodies the spirit of an Extraordinary Healer.

A Lifelong Advocate and Innovator 

For the past 2 years, I have worked alongside Carmela Cuccurullo, NP. I have never seen someone in hard-soled clogs move as much as she does. You will find her running to and from the treatment floor to guide the infusion nurses at the Ruttenberg Treatment Center. She can often be seen rushing to manage treatment and address conflict while helping care for the two dozen patients in clinic.

It is even more remarkable when you consider that Carmela works in a department that accounts for 25% of all treatments received in one of Manhattan’s busiest treatment centers. With the cross-coverage she provides, she has personally worked with approximately 41% of all patients within the multiple myeloma department.

Not only does she dive headfirst into the most challenging situations of every clinic, but she is also the primary team’s first point of contact for this patient population. On any clinic day, you can arrive at the office to find Carmela already running through the huddle list, finding the most challenging patients, pointing them out and exclaiming, “I’ll see them!” From the most anxious patients who make a scene in the infusion center, to family members needing monthly treatment calendars to keep on top of their loved one’s schedules, to the patients in wheelchairs whose transport sent them to the wrong hospital, Carmela invests her time.

One notable case of the care that she provides is a patient Carmela has encountered since 2022. “QZ” was a frequent no-show patient for treatment and follow-up appointments alike, his course complicated by being barely middle-aged and already having received half a dozen lines of therapy. He had chronic fatigue, acute kidney injury, frequent transfusions to address his anemia and pathological rib fractures. Add the financial burden of commuting to several different clinic sites within the five New York boroughs to receive comprehensive care, and you can appreciate why this patient would appear irritable and nonadherent. He stared at the ground as the laboratory assistants drew his blood, his clothes often were disheveled, and he barely uttered a word except for a few grunts when greeted. Giving him care was by no means an easy task, but would Carmela take the easy route? No. Enter Carmela, already reviewing recent local laboratory results while coordinating the patient’s treatment plan in Brooklyn, scheduling a bone marrow biopsy in Chelsea, and texting the social work team to assist with transportation to get this patient to his follow-up on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She is ready to meet this challenge ... but the patient never shows up. Upset and frustrated, as any health care provider would be, Carmela is back on the phone rearranging schedules, making sure that the next time the patient comes into the office there will be no excuses because she is taking ownership of this patient’s care coordination. She even calls the patient directly to make sure he has everything he needs for the next visit and understands how critical it is that he shows up. This is a seemingly endless cycle of disappointment. Countless clinics have ended with Carmela frustrated enough to stop caring and disassociate herself from this thankless task, but she never stops.

Fast forward one tireless year later, a new treatment and an almost new person as QZ strolls into the clinic smiling. His once-stooped posture is now straightened, no doubt to show off the fashionable outfit he is wearing. As he sits in the exam room, I remark how good it is to see him. He replies with a sly grin. Then I asked if he had seen Carmela, and the patient paused. His eyes dart away and, with embarrassment, says, “No.” Many of us are familiar with this look of embarrassment when you are ashamed of your behavior. It is the same look as when you know someone has bent over backward to help you, been one of your biggest supporters and now that you have a moment of clarity, it might be time to say, “Thank you.” After returning to the clinic huddle, I mention to Carmela that our patient is looking better than before and that she should say hello. Carmela stares at her computer screen and nods, saying, “Sure, maybe,” which I have learned is the equivalent of a victory lap for her. For once, she does not need to end the clinic flustered, rifling through her papers to make a contingency plan for this young man. All the effort she put into him was finally paying off.

This is why Carmela is an Extraordinary Healer: She does not look for credit or brag about her work, nor does she just sit back and enjoy her success. Carmela lives in the struggle that is oncology nursing and bears the weight of responsibility for patients on her shoulders. As a mentor, she is a true example of what it means to coordinate patient care.

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Carmela Cuccurullo, NP, exemplifies dedication and resilience in oncology nursing at the Ruttenberg Treatment Center. She manages a significant patient load, providing cross-coverage and personalized care, particularly in the multiple myeloma department. Her commitment is highlighted through her relentless efforts with a challenging patient, "QZ," whose transformation reflects her impact. Despite numerous setbacks, Carmela's persistence and coordination skills eventually lead to the patient's improvement. Her humility and dedication to patient care make her an exemplary figure in the field, embodying the essence of an extraordinary healer.

For the past 2 years, I have worked alongside Carmela Cuccurullo, NP.

Unmatched Energy, Every Single Day

Patti McGee is an author, a massage therapist and breast cancer survivor of 20 years. Catch up on all of 

As Nurses Week dawns, I’m sitting here, 22 years into my breast cancer survivorship, feeling a wave of gratitude for the nurse practitioner and nurses who carried me through my treatment and beyond. Karen L., Jill, Karen C. and Laurie — these incredible women didn’t just provide medical care in the treatment room; they wrapped me and many others in compassion, laughter and a sense of family that made all the difference. Their jovial spirits and heartfelt support sparked a community of survivors, friendships and hope that still warms my heart today. So, let’s settle in with a cozy vibe and celebrate these amazing souls who turned a tough journey into one filled with connection and joy.

From my first day in the treatment room, Karen L., our nurse practitioner, was a beacon of calm. She had this gift for explaining the scariest parts of chemo, like why I was suddenly drenched in sweat from hot flashes, with such clarity and warmth that it felt like chatting with a trusted friend. Those hot flashes, a brutal side effect of chemo and post-cancer drugs, hit me hard, but Karen was right there with practical tips, a reassuring smile and a chuckle to ease the tension. She’d check in, ensuring I was comfortable, and her encouragement kept me going.

Jill, Karen C. and Laurie, our treatment room nurses, brought an infectious energy that could light up even the toughest days. Jill’s quick wit and Laurie’s playful banter had us laughing over silly things. With my mom beside me, she would crack one of her silly jokes and keep the room in laughter.

Their compassion created a space where we felt like one big family. They’d fluff pillows, offer blankets, and ensure we were cozy, always encouraging our loved ones to sit with us. They kept the treatment room stocked with snacks and drinks, and patients like me got in on the fun, bringing in homemade cookies or ordering pizza for the staff.

It was a give-and-take that made us feel like partners in the journey, not just patients. Those moments of shared laughter and kindness were a lifeline, easing the weight of treatment and reminding us we were never alone.

But their impact stretched far beyond the hospital walls. Karen L. and I became fast friends, and together we co-chaired a cancer support group that grew out of our treatment room chats. We’d gather monthly, sharing stories, tips for managing side effects like those relentless hot flashes, and plenty of laughs. Karen L. brought her expertise, and we would bring in speakers on medical and holistic topics. That group became a haven for survivors, patients and caregivers — a community within a community.

Inspired by the nurses’ enthusiasm, Karen and I co-chaired a local Relay for Life event. We raised $268,000 in our first relay. The event was pure magic: survivors, families, and hospital staff walking laps under starry skies, raising funds for cancer research, and celebrating life. It’s become a beloved tradition, and I credit Karen, Jill and Laurie for fueling its spirit.

The friendships born in that treatment room are some of my greatest treasures. I met many survivors there who made a lasting mark on my life. These connections, nurtured by the nurses’ warmth, have carried me through my post-cancer years. Even now, I am friends with them on social media.

Reflecting on my 22-year journey, I’m grateful for Karen L., Jill, Karen C. and Laurie. Their care wasn’t just about medicine but building a community of hope, laughter and survivorship. They helped me and my family navigate the hardest days, and their friendship continues to light up my life.

I’m sending them all my love this Nurses Week and a big thank-you for being the heart of our cancer care family.

Nurses play a pivotal role in cancer care, providing not only medical support but also emotional and communal sustenance. The personal journey of a breast cancer survivor highlights the profound impact of compassionate nurses who fostered a sense of family and community. Their support extended beyond treatment, inspiring initiatives like support groups and fundraising events. These relationships, built on shared experiences and mutual support, have lasting effects, underscoring the importance of holistic care in oncology that transcends traditional medical treatment.

I’m 22 years out from breast cancer and forever grateful for the nurses who gave me not just treatment but friendship, laughter and a community of hope.

CURE staff

When a Thoughtless Mammogram Reminder Reopened a Deep Cancer Wound

A Lifelong Advocate and Innovator

Unmatched Energy, Every Single Day

Celebrating Nurses Week: The Heart and Soul of Our Cancer Community

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