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 

Little things are adding up. Some conflicts at work. Holiday spending concerns. Some loneliness.

You may be reading this after Thanksgiving. As I wrote this, I was making my Thanksgiving cranberry dish for the feast. The family will be gathering at my brother’s home. They claim to like my cranberry dish, but I think they are assigning me something easy to make given that my cooking and baking history is dismal.

Then why am I happy? The dog show is on Thanksgiving!

I love dogs. I’m excited to see the Purina dog show after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade tomorrow. When I was first diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia (AML) in 2016, my golden retriever Payton visited me right outside the hospital in Illinois, before I started my treatment. He was like a son and gave me an extra reason to live. He sadly passed right before I got my second diagnosis of AML and a bone marrow transplant in 2020.

I remember taking a walk with Payton in the winter weather between chemo and transfusion sessions. I suddenly couldn’t stop shaking. We turned around immediately. I started shivering violently. I put my hands under hot water, but my teeth clacked so hard that I thought I would not only chip a tooth but break my jaw! I hovered over a space heater, but the clacking wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get the thermometer to stay in my mouth, nor could I dial 911 as I was shivering so badly. 

It was Payton’s dinner hour when he would normally do a pre-dinner dance. But he would not leave my side. He put his head on my lap and just stayed as still as possible for what seemed to be hours. Eventually, I captured a fever reading on the thermometer and connected with a neighbor who took me to the ER. Payton was cared for by the neighbors and his daycare while I recovered. I carried his love through treatment.

Even though my heart still hurts that Payton is gone, I am grateful for the memories. I’m so grateful that he helped me take the next step each day in my treatment and recovery journey.

I am going to do my best to put any nuisances aside tomorrow. I sometimes let petty problems fester and forget that I am blessed with life and opportunity.

Forgive me — I am taking a detour in this missive...

I’m going to be honest here. Sometimes when I write about how great it is to have survived cancer, a part of me feels awful. I want to reach out to those who are facing end of life to let them know that they are in my heart and in my thoughts. They are. A lot. I can say that I am blessed to be a survivor, but that shouldn’t mean that those who are struggling aren’t blessed. I want to hurdle peace and love and comfort through space to patients facing the unknown. I pray that a paradise does exist for the beautiful souls at end of life — and for the rest of us when it is time. It’s such a frustrating mystery. I’m just little ol’ me and can’t do much. This is why giving to research and other powerful resources is so important to me.

May my cancer community, family and friends find peace and love this holiday season.

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Articles

During this holiday season, I wanted to take a moment and reflect on how my dog Payton stayed by my side during acute myeloid leukemia.   

My Dog and Thoughts of Gratitude After Cancer 

Dear patients with cancer and caregivers,

You will hear a lot about gratitude this holiday season. You will be encouraged to have high spirits and to count your blessings.

I’m going to start right off the bat with this message: It is OK not to feel constant gratitude. You may be physically sick, fearful, angry, confused or exhausted. You may feel sad that you are not home if hospitalized. Or feel like you are a burden to those around you if you are home. You may feel helpless if you are a caregiver.

During the holiday season, there are boundless efforts by family and friends, society, retailers and even corporations and governments to make us feel bright and merry. Even the hospital may have a Thanksgiving meal and carolers during Christmas.

When I had acute myeloid leukemia (AML), I thought of something I was genuinely grateful for, but I wouldn’t necessarily feel the lift and relief of gratitude. My sick body and daunting future made it difficult to experience the lightness of being.

Yet, I did not want to get stuck in misery. I made a private effort to experience a “pop of joy” during dreary days. This quest played an important role in my recovery.

I was in an alcohol treatment center during Thanksgiving 2019 and in a gross dingy halfway house during Christmas. At that time, I was grateful to be clean and sober again after breaking 25 years of sobriety earlier that year. I was not loving my living situation, but my spirits were up after recovering from a debilitating depression exacerbated by my alcohol relapse.

The next month, (January 2020) while still in the halfway house, I learned that my AML had come back and that I would need a bone marrow transplant. “You have got to be kidding me.”

My treatment spanned from January to July. I was not hospitalized during the holiday season, but I still had my challenges with keeping depression at bay when others were trying so hard to lift my spirits. I can only imagine the feeling of those hospitalized during the holidays.

When I woke up in the hospital, it was typically from a nurse checking my vitals and administering morning meds or chemotherapy. My mind was processing a weird dream, remembering something weird and petty, recognizing physical pain and nausea, and generally in a funk. I would do something to stop all of this. I was fortunate to have a window in my room. I would look at the blue sky and a faraway tree and say, “Wow. Thank you!” I felt the wonder of the world.

Hokey? Perhaps. But I still do it to this day. I wake up and my thoughts go in weird directions. “Why am I thinking about this stupid thing?” I look at the blue sky and the palm tree right outside my window and say, “Wow. Thank you!” I feel the wonder of the world. I don’t care if this is “weird.” I feel something good.

Part of the pursuit to feel a pop of joy included talking about my cauldron of emotions with social workers, chaplains, therapists and sometimes family. Some relief was just Grace. Some relief was distracting myself with painting. Some relief was making a phone call. Some relief was allowing myself to feel the way I was feeling in the moment.

I know many people with mental health diseases. My father had Alzheimer disease. My friend’s daughter has schizophrenic dissociative disorder. A relative is trying to move on from life as an opiate addict. I am grateful that I have sobriety and good mental health. This may shock people, but I would rather have cancer than be on the path of death from active alcoholism.

We need not compare ourselves to those with heavy misfortunes to feel grateful. We can simply cherish moments when love is in the room.

Ask for a warm blanket and cuddle up to watch a movie. Permit yourself to sleep. Allow yourself to cry. Share a laugh with someone. Talk to a trusted person if you’re angry. Just because it’s the holidays doesn’t mean you’re expected to jingle all the way. Give yourself some space and pampering. That includes you too, caregivers.

Having dealt with addiction, depression and cancer twice, I do believe that being honest, seeking help from the right people, being creative and releasing stubborn tendencies help us not only cope with life, but reward us with buoyant and grateful moments. It’s OK if we are not in that state of being all the time.

The holiday season often emphasizes gratitude, but it's important to acknowledge that constant gratitude isn't always feasible, especially for cancer patients and caregivers. Experiencing emotions like fear, anger, or sadness is normal. Finding small moments of joy can aid in recovery, as demonstrated by the author's personal journey with acute myeloid leukemia and addiction. Engaging in creative activities, seeking support, and allowing oneself to feel a range of emotions can foster resilience. Embracing honesty and self-care can lead to moments of gratitude and joy.

During the holiday season, overwhelming feelings are OK to have, whether you are a patient with cancer or a caregiver.  

It's OK Not to Have Full Holiday Spirit During Cancer 

As a survivor of acute myeloid leukemia, some things are no longer going to be normal, but who wants to be normal? 

4 Years After My Bone Marrow Transplant for AML 

Four years ago, I had a bone marrow transplant to combat the recurrence of acute myeloid leukemia. At every check-up since, I‘ve been told that I am doing remarkably well. I am insanely grateful for the many who spent their lives researching and innovating effective treatments. And for the doctors, nurses, facility managers, caretakers, custodians and oodles of others who helped me — directly or indirectly.

Even though I recovered from cancer, not everything is now normal. But who wants to be normal?

All the important things are normal. By that I mean, my complete blood count (CBC) tests show all indicators are “within normal range.” I do have high triglycerides and low protein, but that is a result of my lackadaisical response to nutrition and exercise challenges. (I must get off my butt and go biking, and then snack on chicken breast and broccoli.)

But CBCs and urine tests don’t rate your hair growth or your mental health.

All the chemo that I received over the years affected my bones, teeth, nails and hair. And attitude.

Four years after the transplant, I now wake up daily to see my baby orangutan hair in the mirror. Bald spots are adjacent to unruly sprouts of very fine hair. I tried shampoo with keratin for years with no change to the density or volume. I frequently trim my patches by just grabbing a chunk and scissoring. No rhyme or reason for the hacking. God invented baseball caps and wigs.

My nails are more fragile than before cancer, and sometimes the nail doesn’t fully connect to the nailbed. I am told to fully dry my hands after washing, keep my hands clean and drink milk. There are also grooves in my nails — a common occurrence after chemo.

My neck and back crack and crunch all day long. I had several bone density tests done and have been diagnosed with arthritis — certainly from aging but exacerbated by all the chemo. It’s getting worse every year. Sometimes it feels great to contort my head so that the joints pop, but I worry when I feel bone on bone. Still…

I react differently now to mosquito bites. If I get a bite on my hand, a large portion of my hand will swell up for days. I used to try to get the venom out which would result in a discoloration of my skin. Now I just apply topical cortisone and wait. Eventually, it goes away.

I don’t mind wearing a baseball cap on my errands and donning a wig during work. I don’t mind yoga to alleviate the arthritic pain. I don’t mind the cooling sensation of cortisone medicine.

I am happy. Before cancer, I went into a depression. After cancer, I decided to do something fun for work, instead of suffering through red-tape-heavy, intense, high-pressure days in the corporate world. I decided to stop the exhausting travel, 3 a.m. emails and constant peer conflict. Come see me in Tampa Nordstrom for some personal styling! For that, and for my life, I thank the chemo.

I do mind cancer. I will always stay connected with my healers and the patient and family community.

When I was admitted to Moffitt Cancer Center for treatment to arrest my acute myeloid leukemia, I was walked through several hospitalization orientation steps. Thankfully, I had my brother at my side. Later I was blessed with a bevy of helpful social workers.

The process can be distressing and emotional. From the get-go, the treatment center required insurance, billing information, medical records, radiology images and pathology slides (for some patients with cancer), informed consent and a list of medications. There was training on the use of a patient portal to access records, messages, appointments, resources and more.

The touchier topics are approached. Do you want to give someone power of attorney? Do you wish to complete advance directives? Do you need to create a will? Do you need financial assistance?

When you’re in a state of bewilderment, and perhaps even physical pain, all these steps can be daunting.

Caregivers and social workers are godsends. Though genuinely empathetic, social workers are less emotionally affected by your diagnosis and can therefore focus on processes. Lean on them.

My social worker helped my caregiver and me execute forms, including the power of attorney and advanced directive. She provided a list of institutions that could help financially and emotionally. She advised me to submit my social security application. Honestly, I think she did a whole lot more, but I just have a lousy memory. I do know this: She listened. A lot. (Are all social workers born with a sweet voice?)

The list of resources for financial aid was long and remarkable. I reached out to The Lymphoma & Leukemia Society with my social worker’s help and submitted a request to take advantage of their insurance co-pay program. I was bewildered and delighted that they paid a large portion of every monthly insurance premium! They are now in my will.

There were numerous other foundations that provided grants to help with the housing and transportation and other expenses for patients and caregivers. I was hospitalized during the COVID-19 pandemic and there were grants for one time relief help. Almost all my applications were approved. The list had at least 15 resources for financial aid.

Emotional help was also abundant at Moffitt Cancer Center — they had therapy dogs visit select patients. Cellists played music in common areas. Coffee and treats were shared with patients and caregivers in the surgical areas. Volunteers visited patients in infusion centers. I was in the bone marrow transplant ward and could not leave the unit, but for other patients, there was an art room with art supplies and instructors. There was a library and a chapel. There were support groups no matter where you were being treated.

My social worker introduced me to Imerman Angels. Even though I did not reach out at the time, I am now an Angel, myself. Through their unique matching process, Imerman Angels can connect you with a custom-selected Mentor Angel whose life experience and cancer story were much the same as yours. Sometimes we don’t want to share our feelings with loved ones. We may even disagree with our caregivers on a topic. Sometimes patients don’t have remaining family or someone nearby who can be by their side. I remember wanting to talk about death, but not with my family members! The mentor can be an ear for anything you wish to share.

American Cancer Society Hope Lodge communities offer a home away from home for people facing cancer and their caregivers when cancer treatment is far away. A Ronald McDonald House program can help reduce stress and financial burden for families when they must travel far from home to access medical care for their child.

I remember getting treatment. I remember the cellist. I don’t remember struggling with forms or worrying about bills! Thanks to my social workers, caregivers, charitable foundations, institution-provided education, volunteers and support groups, I was able to focus on getting better. And I did.

Before receiving treatment for acute myeloid leukemia, I made it a point to take advantage of all the resources that were available to me. 

Mary Sansone

My Dog and Thoughts of Gratitude After Cancer

It's OK Not to Have Full Holiday Spirit During Cancer

4 Years After My Bone Marrow Transplant for AML

Several Resources I Counted on During Treatment for AML

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