Mary Sansone is a survivor of acute myeloid leukemia. She was first diagnosed in 2016 at the age of 51, and again in 2020. She received a bone marrow transplant at Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa in 2020 during the pandemic.

Mary also suffered from depression and alcohol addiction in her past. She has empathy and compassion for all patients and caregivers, especially those suffering with addiction issues.

Mary shares candidly about her own experiences.

Mary Sansone

Mary Sansone is a two-time survivor of acute myeloid leukemia. Catch up on all of 

Five years have passed since my bone marrow transplant to combat a recurrence of acute myeloid leukemia (AML). This was a magnificent mile marker. I spent my five-year-old birthday (June 5, 2025) lounging and meditating on my pool floaty while soaking in the Florida sun. No commitments, no errands, no party. Just a luscious and relaxing day off.

I have since returned to work. In my role as a client advisor for fine jewelry and prestigious Swiss-made timepieces including Rolex and many others. I interact with a variety of interesting people with interesting hobbies. Many of my clients have exciting professions, beautiful families, and often — wealth.

My hobby as of late has been working. And recently, sulking. A shame - given the many blessings I have received.

As the newest member of our team of client advisors, I am routinely the last on the performance list. My colleagues have established long-term relationships; I am starting from scratch. As I write this, I am experiencing a rough week in terms of sales. My focus on gratitude for my survivorship abruptly pivoted too poor-me.

Much of what happens in the showroom is luck. I imagine that a divine power intervenes and blesses me when “the power” likes me. I imagine I am being punished by “the power” when I am disliked. I struggle with trying to identify my flaws so that I can correct these and be in good standing with The One who distributes blessings. I am not sure if that is how the world works. This is somewhat human, and somewhat moronic.

When I am home and reflect on my thoughts and moods, I re-conjure the elation for employment. I am alive. I have health insurance. I am clear of conscience. I can breathe.

Writing for Cure Magazine is insanely therapeutic. It brings my focus back to the miracles. Let’s take a look:

Things start out sketchy, but bear with me.

I relapsed on alcohol after nearly 25 years of sobriety due to a major depression. At the time, I wanted God to take me. My relapse made me sick very quickly. In a matter of seven months, I was in a life-or-death state of being. I looked hideous, I was falling down, I continually vomited and cried profusely. My job let me go; I was an “enigma.”

My brother Chris rescued me. I went to rehab and made new lifelong friends. I recovered and enjoyed life once again. I moved into a sober living home, which was gross. I went in for doctor checkups before I looked for a new job.

My oncologist at Moffitt Cancer Center informed me that my AML returned. One struggle after another. But I handled the shocking news better than I did the depression. I was quickly admitted to the hospital to initiate induction chemotherapy and wait for a donor to be identified so that I could undergo a bone marrow transplant.

My four siblings were not matches; however, NDMP found a perfect match with a 23-year-old girl from Israel. During the pandemic, they managed to get the donation to me four months after diagnosis. I was readmitted and underwent the difficult procedure. I remained spirited despite suffering from various side effects.

My hair never fully came back. I have sparse sprouts on my head five years after the procedure. I don a human hair wig. I’m grateful for the women (I assume) who donated their hair! I do not have any underarm hair and rarely need to shave my legs. I have some arthritis from all the chemo, stronger prescription lenses, and nail problems. None of these bother me.

My oncologists exclaim that I am doing wonderfully. “You are a poster child for bone marrow transplants.”

I love what I do for a living now, but too often I let everyday problems trample on my gratitude. By scripting these blogs, volunteering at Moffitt Cancer Center, and supporting friends with cancer, I’m able to reverse the line of thinking; I stomp on the worries and reach for the stars. I unscramble my crazy thoughts and put gratitude at the forefront of my emotions.

Struggles in life will continue. My struggles are miniscule when I think of the many who are mentally or physically ill, dreadfully poor, marginalized, or worse. The world is both an ugly and a beautiful place. I want to be on the side of beauty.

I am a firm believer in “The pursuit of happiness.” Being alive is a miracle. Experiencing joy and security are priceless rights and blessings. I’ll remind myself to live light, be buoyant, be kind, and give back. Thank you, God, for everything!

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Articles

A bone marrow transplant recipient reflects on their five-year journey post-transplant for acute myeloid leukemia (AML). Despite professional challenges and a relapse into alcoholism, they express gratitude for their recovery and current life. The narrative highlights the importance of gratitude, resilience, and the therapeutic power of writing. The author emphasizes the significance of support systems, such as family and healthcare professionals, in overcoming adversity. They advocate for focusing on life's beauty and the pursuit of happiness, while acknowledging the ongoing struggles faced by many individuals.

Five years after my transplant for leukemia, I’m learning to focus on gratitude despite daily struggles, remembering that being alive is the greatest gift.

I Sometimes Forget to Celebrate Survivorship

Mary Sansone is a two-time survivor of acute myeloid leukemia. Catch up on all of 

In 1997, I went to substance abuse treatment three times, plus I made good on a reservation to the psyche ward. Each time, the mental anguish during withdrawal felt soul-suckingly horrific. The panic was indescribable. I was drenched in sweat and self-pity. “How did I let it get this far?” I asked — not of the alcoholism, but of the journey to treatment.

Decades ago, I was also taken to the hospital after I fell off a bar stool. Too much tequila. In the ER, they took my blood alcohol level twice. I had a .592 — the highest on record at the time. (Maybe still is.) I remember thinking, “I’ve been more drunk than this.” That said a lot since I often blacked out. If I was conscious at .592, what was my BAC during the blackouts? After they gave me charcoal to help purge the tequila, I refused to stay. I left and went to a bar. (I knew another alcoholic who survived after a .70 BAC reading at a hospital. Regardless, it is not a contest.)

I have many examples of running from help to feed my addiction.

My guess is that many alcoholics and addicts with a cancer diagnosis hope to use openly or secretly during treatment. The foreboding detox pains and mental panic may even prevent an addict from accepting cancer treatment at all. 

Unfortunately, substance abuse behavioral change is largely absent from the oncological treatment environment. There is plenty of data that indicates an increased risk of various types of cancer from excessive drinking. However, as of this writing, there is little research done on how to treat an alcoholic who is newly diagnosed with cancer, in treatment for cancer or as a survivor of cancer.

I may have had leukemia when I relapsed on alcohol in 2019. I quickly went into the vomit-y stage. I don’t remember feeling that ill when I was on my last legs the first time around — over 20 years ago. After the relapse, I went to rehab and shortly after found out my leukemia was back. (Perhaps I ought to be grateful for my leukemia? It might have made me so sick so fast that an intervention was welcome.)

Approximately 15,000 people with a history of cancer participated in the National Institutes of Health’s All of Us Research Program. Researchers reported that 12,000 people in this group reported that they drink alcohol, and nearly 40% reported engaging in hazardous drinking, repeated excessive alcohol use. Amoing those who may have been actively undergoing treatment for cancer, about 75% drank alcohol, many heavily, according to a report from the National Cancer Institute. The study found that contrary to physician expectations, alcohol use was not reduced by patients being actively treated for cancer.

Alcohol consumption and risky drinking behaviors among cancer survivors are associated with various adverse long-term outcomes, including higher risk of recurrence, secondary primary tumors and increased mortality, according to findings published in 

If I had been using, I would have wanted compassion, and the comfort of knowing that a smart detox plan would be integrated with my cancer treatment, along with counseling and an after-cancer-care plan. I would want to know about the social workers, chaplains, yoga, mediation, acupuncture, and other mind and body wellness programs that are offered at the center. Thank God I was sober when I got diagnosed! If I was hiding my addiction, I would have later thanked those that shared their suspicions with the medical team thereby possibly saving my life in more ways than one.

I wish to share that getting sober is worth it. If you have cancer, it is especially worth it. Sobriety is not a nerdy pursuit. It is paradoxically both invigorating and calming. It is far from boring. Welcome to next-level coolness.

My biggest fear was that getting sober would make me insane. (Yes, I see the irony.) It took a lot of therapy and some medication for me to jump from irrationality to clarity. Being clear-headed led to progress which led to self-esteem. I learned to truly love myself.

For patients with cancer with a substance abuse disorder, I hope that you accept help. Your cancer center may or may not have a chemical dependency program or partnership. But this is when you need to be your own advocate. Let the medical team support you through a safe detox. The physical suffering will pass. Breathe, draw, write, sleep and engage in therapy. Pharmacology can help with anxiety or depression. Professional and social support will help you in your sober journey through good times and bad.

It’s not always that simple. But it’s also that simple.

Substance abuse and cancer treatment intersect in complex ways, with many patients struggling to manage both simultaneously. Despite the known risks of alcohol consumption on cancer outcomes, there is limited research on integrating substance abuse treatment into oncological care. Many cancer patients continue to drink heavily, even during treatment, which can exacerbate health risks. Effective management requires a comprehensive approach, including detox plans, counseling, and wellness programs. Sobriety can significantly enhance quality of life and treatment outcomes, emphasizing the need for integrated support systems in cancer care.

As a cancer survivor, I overcame alcohol addiction and urge others to seek support, safe detox and sobriety to improve their treatment and recovery.

On Alcohol Addiction for the Patient With Cancer

Sometimes when I volunteer as a peer visitor at chemotherapy and infusion centers, the patients and families in the waiting rooms do not want to engage. They thank me for asking them if they need anything but are quick to return to their phones or private conversations.

I don’t feel useless. God forbid I come across like an obnoxious salesperson. I respect their desire for solace. 

The waiting room is a special place: the appointment was on the calendar. The trip was made. Check-in was conducted. A seat was taken. The name was called. Progress was made. We may be going uphill, but we’re on our way.

The room is a quiet sanctuary, but not silent. A community of strangers reveal their struggles with cancer without even having to say a word. It’s a place where one might hear about brains, organs, blood and limbs, or the menu for dinner. Concerns are expressed, laughter is heard, prayers are muffled, books are read and texts are sent. Distractions and planning happen simultaneously.

No one is just waiting. The room is where impatience nudges hope. Where boredom diffuses worry. Where duty converges with self-love. Where progress is made.

A couple was sitting in another waiting room. Let’s call them Amy and Dan. I asked them how they were doing and if I could get them anything. I learned that they just flew in from Maryland that morning to visit the wife’s sister, Ann. Ann was getting an MRI. She has stage 4 lung cancer that had spread to her brain. She also has a bacterial infection in her lungs and pneumonia. I learned that their older sister passed on from lung cancer. Amy was tested but she had a different father and wondered if that was the reason for her clean bill of health. In the meantime, Amy and Ann’s 93-year-old mother was in the hospital back in Maryland. She recently experienced chest pains, so the hospital scheduled a cardiac catheterization. Amy and Dan couldn’t be in two places at once. A niece was with the mother while Amy and Dan took care of Ann.

The following day would be New Year’s Eve. Despite the worry and stress, the couple made a 5 p.m. dinner reservation; it was important to take care of their own mental health. They were going to take a detour from the climb for sustenance.

We laughed about our 5 p.m. suppertime preference and at my Midwest hard “Os”. We talked about good restaurants. We shared stories.

Nurses call out names and warmly greet patients. They escort them to a private room with a curtain. The waiting room stirs. “Maybe my name is next.” Progress.

Climbing up a hill requires finding the best path, maneuvering around obstacles, clearing brush and exerting oneself forward. I know this is an obvious and overused metaphor, but we rarely hear about the other side. Once a name is called, the waiting room is left behind. Another round of chemo or a blood transfusion is dispensed. After check-out we head home to base camp. We are on our way.

The waiting room in chemotherapy and infusion centers serves as a unique space where patients and families navigate their cancer journeys. It is a place of quiet reflection, community, and progress, where individuals balance hope, worry, and self-care. Volunteers, like the author, offer support while respecting the need for privacy. The narrative of Amy and Dan highlights the emotional complexities faced by families dealing with cancer, emphasizing the importance of mental health and shared experiences. The waiting room symbolizes the ongoing journey and progress in cancer treatment.

As a cancer treatment waiting room volunteer, I’ve discovered a unique community of shared experiences and unexpected connections.

The Waiting Room: An Underappreciated Experience

I am a survivor of acute myeloid leukemia. I now also serve as a Comfort Care Companion for those who are passing away from cancer and wish to have someone with them when family is not available.

We, survivors, often express our gratitude for life, love, support, research, advanced treatments, expert medical attention and more. We say we are blessed. We hope to be an inspiration to those who are newly diagnosed or in the active stages of treatment. Our blogs during the holidays are constantly touching on gratitude.

Yet, there are patients who do not experience positive outcomes from their treatment. Some are facing end of life. Sometimes all modern-day options are exhausted. I worry that some of these patients read our blogs and think, “Why am I not blessed? My treatment is not working.”

Everyone has different beliefs. I am no theologian or any kind of spiritual master, but I believe (or try really hard to believe) that life and death are both divine. I have no idea what is on the other side, but I hope that the soul transcends to nirvana. I hope that when we pass, we at least experience an otherworldly kind of peace. I’ve seen that peace during the vigils with end-of-life people.

I wish to share to those adults: some of you have done way more than me in your lifetime. I spent at least two decades under the spell of alcohol addiction. I did terrible things. I wasted golden opportunities. I didn’t even strive to live up to my potential. I was fired from jobs. I got divorced. I never had children. I went through a depression. Yes, I later had many decades filled with sobriety and joyous moments. Right now, I am well. But for long periods, I caused deep sorrow for myself and my loved ones.

Often, family members do show up at a vigil, and they passionately share memories and details about their loved one’s life. I feel gratitude that the person experienced so much richness and love.

I am consistently awed by the gentle nature of these patients. (I only use the word “patients” for comprehension; the dying person is so much more than a patient.) They are grateful for a hand. For Vaseline on their lips. For a lollipop of water. For a smile. Yes, many are medicated, but their breaths are precious. Holy even. Their outreached arms prepare for an embrace with a passed loved one. When family and loved ones are present, the air is rich with galactic love. Even if family is not around, both temporal and secular love abounds; the hospice care, medical staff and volunteers experience something powerful and divine. Everyone holds you in their hearts.

It is difficult to write about the end of life — especially during the holidays. The Mystery is unanswerable. I just wish to convey to those who are presently facing end of life, that your care will help others in the future. You are loved and will bring love to future generations through your experience. The world collectively wishes for your peace.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to 

subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.

Survivors of acute myeloid leukemia often express gratitude for life, love, and medical advancements, hoping to inspire those newly diagnosed. However, not all patients experience positive treatment outcomes, leading to feelings of being "unblessed." The author, a Comfort Care Companion, reflects on the divine nature of life and death, sharing personal struggles and redemption. They emphasize the profound peace and love experienced during end-of-life vigils, highlighting the importance of gratitude and the impact of patients' experiences on future generations.

We, survivors, often express our gratitude for life, love, support and research, but what about the patients who do not experience positive outcomes from treatment?

Mary Sansone

I Sometimes Forget to Celebrate Survivorship

On Alcohol Addiction for the Patient With Cancer

The Waiting Room: An Underappreciated Experience

To Those Facing End of Life From Cancer

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