When we meet someone for the first time, the encounter has the power and visual equivalent of a poem, a painting or a song. Life is full of these events that seem random. Instead, they are highly symbolic and meaningful.

Just as a river’s confluences, life’s confluences happen in everyone’s life traveling from some strange places, moving constantly and bumping into our side. As the years pass, they keep reproducing and taking forms of encounters, coincidences or occurrences. I have been blessed with these wonderful invisible connections; we are all spiritually linked.

I have been snowed under with cancer for many years. Consciously, I avoided talking “about it”. Later, when I intended to convey my feelings, my mind was limited to deep brown somber holes. Despite trying to connect with others, my melancholy prevailed.

The liberation came when I had an enlightened encounter with Pamela Worrell-Black, a superb social worker with Fairfax Inova Hospital, who begged me to attend a free retreat offered by a nonprofit organization for breast cancer survivors called Casting for Recovery. I bluntly rejected the idea because I was determined to leave behind everything that had to do with cancer.

However, Pamela’s persuasion was stronger than my rebuff. She described the positive effects of that retreat. Finally, I accepted that someone from the organization would call me and then my second marvelous encounter emerged … enter Carol Stevenson. She is one of the sweetest and kindest volunteer-leaders of Casting for Recovery. Carol — who is also a survivor — talked to me for an hour and a half on the phone. She was so caring and compassionate, and I treasured the loving things that she confessed to me.

It all started on a glorious weekend in a locality appropriately called "A Place Apart"; Shrine Mont was formerly a hotel that dates to the 19th Century and now is retreat and conference center located in Orkney Springs, Virginia. The mountains were waiting with undisturbed silence.

I visited this idyllic place supposedly to infuse my dreams, heal my soul and learn how to fly fish, a therapeutic exercise that would help to minimize the effects of the radiation and chemotherapy received and to prevent and protect from lymphedema, a side effect of breast cancer surgery.

We were just 14 women with a variety of concerns, feelings, reactions, and resentments. To belong to this group, you don’t need a special education or a doctorate. You did not need to have an extraordinary talent nor speak a second language. You could be fat, tall, have curly hair. You could be tan, yellow, Black or white. It did not matter to have a domineering personality or be timid as a bird abandoned in the snow. Here, money or recommendations did not count. The only creepy common denominator was having suffered from breast cancer.

At the retreat center, the discussions were very informal. We had a ritual space near the chimney where each one of us guided by counselors redefined our illness, shaped our hopes and, most importantly, strengthened our connections and humanness. Gradually and slowly, we gave ourselves permission to glimpse into our inner strata.

The group (my first ever) ignited great personal transformation. I did a great deal of confessions. I was forever talking; I could not stop telling happy stories and cracking jokes. I was singing and dancing. I reverted into the person that I used to be. Finally, I was able to reconcile with my younger self, the one that left Chile — the same soul that escaped to America because she could not handle the pain of losing her mother to cancer at age of 49. Now, I know that geographical therapy never works.

During the healing sessions, my mind was filled with restorative thoughts and my quest was expanded. It was an incredible experience that enhanced my life. It taught me that individuals, no matter where they are coming from, are universally connected by love, strength, empathy and spirituality.

I had the privilege of being assigned the experienced river guide, Phil Gay, a master casting instructor that has lead CEOs on fishing excursions to some of the most enthralling rivers in the world.

During my training, Phil, instructed me to watch a group of fish that gathered around the one I had caught with his aid. Utterly astonished, I discovered an entire underwater world of fish bonding. The dynamic of camaraderie was developing just before my eyes; a group of fish surrounded the “unfortunate captive” rushing to his side like sharing perhaps some sort of pain or conveying messages. But even more remarkable was this kind of interspecies attachment — a sort of tacit comprehension, a demonstration of solidarity proper of human beings. They narrowed the circle around him soundless and paused. They seemed to understand what was happening and their conduct struck a poignant chord with me as I visualized a funeral.

Attending this healing retreat gave me a profound emotional perspective with a chance of rediscovery. I sensed a deep passion for life; I felt liberated and pampered.

However, in communion with the valuable lived experience and seeking a meaning to all of this, I believe the most outstanding lesson of this journey was the parallel of the social and emotional affiliation between our group of courageous women and the amazing collective cohesion detected amidst the school of fish.

Nora Massignotti-Cortese, is a journalist, artist and workshop facilitator. She can be reached at bertognott@aol.com

Talking about cancer can be a great burden but sharing one’s story can be liberating. Even if you share it while fishing. 

License to Live: How a Fishing Retreat Liberated Me from Cancer

Nora Massignotti-Cortese

It’s been many years since my diagnosis of breast cancer. I’ve probably forgotten more of the lessons it taught me than I can remember, and I’m not complaining one bit about that.

However, the most important lesson was also the most unexpected one. Cancer taught me to find your person: someone who has been on the same journey. No one gave me this advice; I just stumbled through and found it myself, as we often do.

I was 35 years old and “the picture of health,” according to my doctor. I was a runner with a healthy diet, rarely drank alcohol or caffeine… I could go on, but you know the story. Then, I found a lump. Surgery, chemo, radiation and reconstruction followed. It was stage 2B.

I was lucky to have support from my spouse, family and friends. I also had co-workers going through the same treatments, and they sadly welcomed me into their club. 

And still I felt so alone. I couldn’t find anyone close to my age and general good health who was also a survivor. I felt like no one could relate to my sense of utter betrayal by my body.

The internet was very different in 2001, long before smartphones and social media. I eventually found a breast cancer discussion board and started chatting with women from all over the world. They were living through the same isolation amid strong support systems. Their family and friends wanted to help, and they were helpful, but there was always something missing. The missing piece is what I was searching for.

A woman named Deborah in Melbourne, Australia asked me questions — lots of questions. As we talked, we discovered we had much in common. The same type of breast cancer. Diagnosed around the same time. Born three weeks apart, the same year. Married two weeks apart, the same year. We lost our mothers while in our early 20s. We kept saying, “Really? Me too!”.

At this point, the missing piece snapped into place. Someone finally understood what I was going through. As our friendship grew over the following months, someone who understood started to care how I was going through it. And I cared about her recovery just as much. After all these years, I still can’t find words to describe how important this was for my healing. It was just…everything.

Logically, this seems to make little sense. After all, I had a loving husband who supported me in all the ways. He even read my breast cancer books to learn as much as he could, though he soon quit this endeavor because it was just too scary.” No judgement, I absolutely understood because it was indeed scary. My friends and family called almost daily to ask how I was doing.

I gave the answers that would protect them from the truth, because that was in my nature. Why would I tell them the actual truth, who could stand to hear all of that? And wouldn’t it make them feel even more helpless? I simply couldn’t do that to them.

But I could do that to Deb. She wanted to hear the actual truth. “So how’s the pain today?”, she’d ask, “are those meds clogging you up, too? I swear I haven’t pooped in a month it seems!” Before I could stop laughing enough to type a response, she pinged again: “Oh, and did you fall asleep again in the parking lot after your last nuke session?”

Truth is, I never told anyone else about the extreme radiation fatigue because, of course, they would worry. Because maybe it’s not that safe to fall asleep in your car in a parking lot.

More than 20 years later, Deb still asks many questions. It’s become our inside joke. And finally, in 2015, we met in person. Until then, we had never even talked on the phone. It was the first visit to New York City for both of us. When we met with a long hug, it was as if we’d been meeting for coffee every week for decades, and we didn’t miss a beat.

Those five days were filled with the usual tourist activities. We saw a Broadway play, went to the top of the Rockefeller Center, ate in fabulous restaurants, and naturally asked each other lots of questions.

As my husband was dying of colon cancer in 2010, he told me,“Please don’t wait to visit Deb in Australia.” It’s been a while, life has offered ups and downs and pandemics, but next year I plan to do just that.

This post was written and submitted by Becky McCabe. The article reflects the views of Becky McCabe and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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

I was lucky to find “my person,” when dealing with cancer: someone who was experiencing similar situations as I was, even if she was thousands of miles away.  

 

When Dealing With Cancer, You Must 'Find Your Person'

Becky McCabe

Before being diagnosed with colorectal cancer, I started experiencing some pain in my side, but I didn't really have any other symptoms. The pain is what led me to visit the urgent care center, which was walkable from my neighborhood.

I have never been someone who goes to the doctor often, and I thought I may have had kidney stones. The urgent care doctor sent me for a CT scan a few days later. I remember walking out my front door the morning of my scan, joking with my wife about how I wasn’t just going to get a prescription.

After the CT scan, I was called back to talk with the doctor. The doctor sat me down; it was really weird. It's the first time I've gone into a doctor's office where I did not need to register or check in at the front desk.

The doctor came into the room and said, “You have cancer.”

A huge smile broke out across my face. The doctor asked, “Are you OK? Do you need me to call anyone?”

I said, “No, I feel fine. I am a big believer in things happening for a reason, but all I need to know now is: What are my next steps? What do I need to do?

Thankfully, the doctor knew me. He knew I lived nearby and never took too many medications. He also knew I didn’t have insurance at the time and offered additional support through a referral for a colonoscopy, which was the next step.

The colonoscopy confirmed I had cancer, and later tests showed that it had spread to my liver. I then saw an oncologist who offered good advice from the beginning: Get a second, third and fourth opinion every step of the way.

“If you are not hearing what you want, advocate for yourself and get other opinions,” my oncologist told me.

The next step was telling my wife what was going on. I have a friend with a podcast called “We Have Cancer.” He shares how he and his wife face cancer together, even though he is the one with cancer. The podcast made me realize how much of an impact cancer has on those who we live with — 

My wife has been extremely supportive. Even though I’m still in treatment, I have been trying to be supportive of my wife while still asking myself questions like: “What is the opportunity I have here?” “What should I do with my diagnosis?”

Some of these questions led me to get involved with nonprofit cancer groups.

I’m very open about what I have gone through, the highs and the lows. I am passionate about getting people activated, especially on social media.

Sharing my story has brought me to a men's support group for patients with cancer, caregivers and survivors called “Man Up to Cancer.” This past year 

I've seen sharing my story as a gift for two reasons.

The first reason (and this is kind of selfish) is that ever since I started openly sharing my story, I’ve had people tell me the impact my life has had on theirs. That has been a gift for me to know that and it keeps me going forward.

The second reason why being open with my journey has been a gift is that it’s encouraging people to get screened and prevent cancer or catch it in earlier stages. When I started to share the information about screening and when to get screened, at least 12 people told me my story was the reason they got screened. At least five of those people had 

If I can save one life through all of this, then it is all worth it to me. I firmly believe that I am going to be here for a long time, and cancer is not going to be the thing that takes me out.

From Fight Colorectal Cancer: Colon cancer and rectal cancer can be prevented with screening. Screening can also detect colorectal cancer early – when it’s most curable. Learn more at 

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

After being diagnosed with stage 4 colorectal cancer, I made it a mission to share my story and help others.

If I Can Save One Life By Telling My Cancer Story, It Was All Worth It

Tim McDonald

On October 16th, 2023, my husband Dan was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. At that moment, life became blurry, and all I could hear was a whooshing in my ears. I have fuzzy memories of follow-up medical appointments and phone calls to loved ones for what felt like years, though it was only a couple days, and I was beginning to believe that I would be on my own to figure out the next steps. It was then that I heard the voice of Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN.

She was on the phone with my husband as I returned home from picking up our daughter, and just the sound of her voice triggered my tears. She heard my pain and immediately offered me grace and kindness. She knew that though Dan was in for the battle of his life, his path would be dictated by the professionals and my path would be all but forgotten by most.

She came to my aid by telling me that she knew how I felt and that it would all be OK, but that is not what she said. In fact, she has never uttered those platitudes. Instead, she told me that she knew it felt like a five-alarm fire, and yet all the helpers were just standing in the parking lot and watching. She calmly explained that the urgency I felt wasn’t being disregarded, but rather the precision of the diagnosis and treatment plan needed to take priority.

She walked Dan and I through staging and creating our care team. She then said something that has stuck with me and will remain with me throughout this entire journey. She said, “I know right now that this feels like taking a drink from the fire hose, but I promise you things will start to calm down and make sense.” In that moment, I didn’t believe her. Now I know that she spoke the truth, and that sentence has become my mantra.

Since that first phone call, Jill has been walking with us, side by side. She checks on all of Dan’s needs, asks about my wellbeing and checks in on our daughter. She is able to make us feel seen, heard and honored while maintaining a full caseload. I have never been so impressed as I was when I saw her with a room full of patients, and they all felt as honored and seen as we do. She shows up for us all during our hardest moments, as if we are the only people on earth.

As I count my blessings during this terrible journey, I know that what I am most thankful for is Jill’s guidance and warmth.

I have had the privilege of working closely with Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, care coordinator for our liver and hepatobiliary cancer program at Abbott Northwestern in Minneapolis. I have been consistently impressed with her exceptional skills, dedication and compassion. Jill takes the time to know not only the medical aspects of each patient’s case but also their personal lives, including their caretakers, hobbies and stressors. This holistic approach to patient care has undoubtedly contributed to the positive outcomes and enhanced quality of life for those under her care.

One of Jill’s standout qualities is her remarkable ability to act as a liaison between patients with cancer and their entire medical team. She has cultivated strong relationships with professionals in interventional radiology, oncology, surgery and various other specialties. Her extensive network and open lines of communication ensure that every aspect of a patient’s care is seamlessly coordinated. Jill has all key personnel on speed dial, facilitating quick and efficient collaboration, which is essential in the complex landscape of cancer treatment.

In addition to her exceptional organizational and communication skills, Jill consistently demonstrates a genuine and heartfelt concern for the well-being of her patients. Her caring and thoughtful approach create a sense of trust and comfort, helping patients navigate the challenging journey of cancer treatment.

In conclusion, I wholeheartedly recommend Jill for this award. Her skills, dedication and compassionate approach make her an invaluable asset to our team.

As a registered nurse new to oncology, I could not have asked for a better role model than Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN. Jill has been with the Liver, Pancreas and Bile Duct Program at Allina Health Cancer Institute for 15 years and was in oncology nursing for 18 years before that.

Her role here has been the surgical HPB Oncology Nurse Navigator. She has led numerous support groups, given many educational presentations on her specialty and cared for countless patients. Jill exemplifies what it means to be an oncology nurse. With her patients, she is never afraid to have difficult conversations. She has mastered the ability to be both stern yet humble, and direct yet kind. She helps patients open their perspectives again to see themselves as more than just their cancer diagnosis and instead as a whole person — something that is important yet challenging.

She is often the first person patients and clinicians alike turn to for resources, as her depth of knowledge and years of experience are unmatched and invaluable. She is the powerhouse of our program, and the reason many patients are sent our way. As a nurse new to the program, I have gotten used to walking into clinic rooms and facing looks of disappointment from my patients, who inevitably ask, “Where is Jill?”

I believe she is the reason that many of our patients not only are compliant but have the strength to carry on. Many of our patients have challenging treatment plans with poor prognoses, and yet so many do well. She motivates patients by believing in them, meeting them where they are at and helping them navigate the course when obstacles come up. She is the kind of caregiver any facility would be proud to have, and any nurse would be proud to be.

I met Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, when I was diagnosed with stage 1B pancreatic cancer in 2019. After receiving a confirmed biopsy, I was told that a surgical consult was my next step. Within hours, I was contacted by Jill, who explained the journey I was starting and set me up with a top-notch surgeon. Learning I had pancreatic cancer was daunting to say the least, but Jill's compassionate and thorough approach gave me great comfort. In fact, after my first call with her I nicknamed her "Jill the Hug."

Over the past five years, I have experienced her exceptional follow-through, and I know I can count on her to ensure that I get the care I need. For example, after Whipple surgery, I had lost 30 pounds in a matter of weeks (I am 5’ 2”), and I called Jill. She immediately set me up to meet with my surgeon the next morning, which was followed by exploratory surgery with a gastroenterologist.

There are so many moving parts when dealing with cancer, and I’m so fortunate to have had Jill to keep me organized, moving forward and healing. She is adamant that patients get the best possible care and doggedly tracks down whoever is needed to solve an issue.

She has played a critical role in both my physical and mental state. She was there whenever I’ve been admitted to the hospital. This was especially important to me when I my cancer reappeared, and surgery was needed to remove the rest of my pancreas and spleen in 2021. COVID-19 was very active, and the hospital was not allowing any visitors. I was nervous and sad to be there without my family, but Jill was there when I checked in with a pair of socks with tigers on them and again after surgery. I’ve continued to get the value of her time and insight when I join in a survivors’ meeting every month that Jill co-chairs.

All of her effort, skill and caring have been so important to me as I’ve journeyed through chemo, radiation and surgeries and the resulting “chemo brain.” In my heart, I know that Jill has been key to my survival.

Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, is an exemplary oncology nurse at Abbott Northwestern Hospital. She epitomizes dedication and compassion in her profession. Her life’s work revolves around going beyond the conventional boundaries of nursing care to ensure the well-being of her patients.

Jill’s commitment not only extends to the patients themselves but also encompasses a genuine concern for the families affected by the challenging journey of illness. What sets Jill apart is her unwavering focus on both the quality of life and quality of care for her patients. She approaches her role with a holistic perspective, recognizing that the emotional and psychological aspects are as crucial as the physical ones.

For patients facing terminal illnesses, Jill possesses a unique ability to navigate the delicate terrain of preparing them for everything that lies ahead. In these instances, Jill’s approach is marked by empathy and a deep understanding of the profound emotional challenges associated with end-of-life care. She engages with her patients and their families with sensitivity, providing not just medical support but also emotional support during these difficult times. Jill becomes a beacon of comfort, guiding her patients through the uncharted territory with abundant grace and compassion.

Her impact extends far beyond the hospital walls, leaving an indelible mark on all of the lives that she touches. Jill stands as a testament to the profound difference that a healthcare professional with genuine empathy and dedication can make in the lives of those facing the formidable challenges of illness and the prospect of saying goodbye.

For over a decade now, Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, has provided unrelenting care as a hepatobiliary oncology nurse to patients with some of the worst diagnoses you can get in the cancer world.

Even though we work for separate health systems, I have been lucky to share many patients with her as I work as a RN liver transplant coordinator. We have shared many wins and unfortunately many loses together over the last decade. During this time, I have witnesses firsthand her extraordinary organizational and execution skills, her compassionate caring and expert communication with patients, and her no holds barred advocacy to ensure each and every patient get the care and treatment they deserve. All this has been done despite the reality that patients with hepatobiliary cancer can and do provide a major mental burden on their caregivers. It is common to review imaging in the morning that shows progression of disease in one patient, and then an hour later, you celebrate a disease-free report with another patient.

The mental health challenges presented by patients isn’t the only issue that Jill — and nurses in general — routinely deal with. All the above, and more, is done, even though she must do more, with fewer resources. Lay-offs, nursing strikes and a decreasing budget has provided its own issues. These have all happened, sometimes multiple times, over the last decade. This leads to the difficult decision of working overtime without getting paid overtime or allowing patients to suffer as a result.

I can attest that she has never taken the easy path. Most weeks she will work overtime, while knowing she won’t get paid more, to ensure patients get the care and information they deserve. Given my role as a liver transplant coordinator, and sharing many patients with hepatocellular carcinoma with her, I have heard directly from mutual patients the benefits Jill provides to them.

However, I have also seen and heard this on a personal level. A friend I play hockey with was taken too soon by pancreatic cancer. I have been told numerous times by his brother (who I still play hockey with), his family and from other friends the extraordinary care and treatment he received from Jill.

Jill simply is everything you would want in a care provider. She is extremely knowledgeable in her field, she is compassionate and caring to no end, and it is an absolute guarantee that she will never allow anything but the best to happen to her patients. She will fight right alongside each one until the end. She is the first person I would call if any one of my family members needed help.

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Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, is a highly respected oncology nurse known for her exceptional dedication, compassion, and holistic approach to patient care. Her role as a care coordinator involves seamless collaboration with multidisciplinary teams, ensuring comprehensive care for patients with complex cancer diagnoses. Jill's ability to connect with patients and their families on both medical and personal levels fosters trust and comfort. Her unwavering commitment extends beyond clinical duties, providing emotional support and advocacy, even amidst challenging healthcare environments and resource constraints.

Several colleagues, patients and caregivers nominated Jill May, B.S.N., RN, OCN, for the 2024 Extraordinary Healer Award for her dedicating to caring for those with gastrointestinal cancers.

Taking a Drink From the Fire Hose

Loila Mickelson

My life changed overnight, on a November morning in 2014, in the shower, when I felt this lump underneath the skin on the right side of my neck, almost like a ping pong ball. Three weeks later I was in front of a cardiologist, whom I randomly selected on my health plan, complaining of chest pains, shortness of breath and that damn ping pong ball in my neck, which she dismissed as an innocuous swollen gland. “We’ll run some tests,” she told me. “Just to put your mind at ease.”

She called the day before Christmas and told me they’d found a “mass of some sort” surrounding the carotid artery, and that it would be in my best interest to get a CT scan. Several days later, I found myself on the second floor of the CT scan unit at NYU Langone with my stomach in knots. Beeps and buzzers went off as they slid me through a tube on my back to get a better view of this mysterious thing.

Seventy-two hours after we rang in the New Year, she called and said, “You have an enlarged lymph node that seems to be…” And after that, my mind went south, out of focus. Her voice became muffled, distorted, farther away.

“Hello, Mr. Migdale, are you still there? I’m going to refer you for a biopsy with…” After that, her words faded into my subconscious.

At 52, my health had never been an issue. Back in high school I was active in sports, a regular in the weight room in college, and for decades, no matter how much I ate, I never gained a pound. Like most guys, I took my health for granted. I never cared about how high or low my blood pressure was, knew nothing about cholesterol, let the scorching sun splatter my skin without lotion. I never paid attention to my weight or physical exams every year, and never bothered going into my online portal to analyze the results because I figured I was healthy.

According to an article written by Matt Mitchell in TalkSpace, an online medical journal, men are less likely to get an annual physical exam than women, mainly out of fear of what a doctor may find, or like me, go once a year for their routine visit, and ignore the recommended follow-up. He went on to write that “Avoiding your doctor especially when your body is trying to tell you something is wrong, is one of the worst things you can do for your physical and mental health.”

I Was the Picture of Health, or So I Had Thought. Suddenly I was Desperate for Answers

January was an emotional rollercoaster. I spent most of my time trying to find out what was wrong. The cardiologist who set me up with those initial tests referred me to an ENT on Broadway and 18th Street, who poured the fear of God down my throat after he suggested a needle biopsy. Three weeks into the New Year, I was in his office discussing symptoms when, without warning, he jammed this needle into my neck and said he’d call with the results. He babbled over the phone the next day about not getting a clear picture of the lymph node and stated that he wanted to explore this further by removing it. I’m a firm believer in western medicine, and when it comes to a particular feeling about a new doctor, I weigh the pros and cons but also rely on my gut instinct. Two days later, I picked up my results from his office and never phoned him again.

Growing up, I’d watched my parents run to doctors with every ache and ailment. My sister and I thought it was a bit ridiculous. They documented each visit and kept every record in a filing cabinet. Some dated back 20 years. The irony of all this was that they never took a sick day, even if they were under the weather. When my sister and I had a headache or a sneezing fit, my mother would say, “You’ll be fine in an hour. Here’s an aspirin. You’re not missing school.” My father insisted that we get a thorough physical exam every year, so beginning at age 10, our family doctor examined all my vitals and drew blood. As I got older and moved around, the doctors changed, but I never missed an annual physical. 

So, when I brought the file of all my test results to my internist the first week of February, his nurse was at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen someone so organized,” she said. He was also impressed with how thorough I was and baffled by this lump. My stress level had skyrocketed. It was the dead of winter, and I was frozen with fear. Within minutes I was told that his ENT friend on East 58th Street was waiting for me. It was an emergency visit. Even before taking off my coat, this ENT convinced me to have the ping pong ball removed, then scheduled a routine biopsy on February 13 at a familiar Manhattan hospital.

For Many, a Cancer Diagnosis Comes as a Complete Shock

According to the Mayo Clinic, cancer is the second-leading cause of death in the world behind heart disease. With a cancer diagnosis most people feel anxious, afraid, overwhelmed and at a loss for what to do or how to cope.

The ENT called me in at the end of February, stared at me, and in a voice only a dog could hear said, “You have HPV P-16 squamous cell carcinoma. They found cancer cells in the lymph node.”

He didn’t know much about the diagnosis but predicted that I’d be bedridden for one year. Jan, my fiancé, and I were devastated. To add to the heartbreaking news, his nurse told us that their affiliated hospital would not cover me for cancer treatments and took off to see another patient. I felt like I’d been beaten up, defeated and dragged through the mud.

Less than an hour later, an office at the Cancer Center on 34th and Lexington called and scheduled me to see the Director of Head and Neck Surgery at NYU Langone, a hospital that accepted my insurance. This ENT on East 58th Street personally called and urged him to squeeze me in for an appointment. My mind was in such a fog that I didn’t hear anything but the date and time they wanted me to show up, and when I did, I was scared with a scope down my throat.

Ten days later, after he found the 3.5-inch tumor on the right base of my tongue, I had a clean full body PET scan and another biopsy. I met with his radiation oncologist who said he needed a few weeks to analyze my chart and determine what course of action his group would take.

Radiation Took a Toll on Me Physically, But Mentally I Stayed Tough 

Radiation treatment was brutal. It reminded me a lot of Jack Nicholson in the movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” with high voltage being shot into his temples and those convulsions. March 24, day 1, my arms were strapped in, shoulders were locked down, and was told to “bite down” on a foam lollipop fed through a slit they had made for me in a mesh mask. I became restless, itched, panicked. Moments later, there was a voice in my ears, “Tom, relax. Stay still, breathe in through your nose, exhale through your mouth.”

Days crept by. I stripped, got zapped and life moved forward. It was the same routine every time. I saw a lot of the same people suffering like me. For some it was their first week, others their fifth. We’d countdown sessions and wished each other luck. One week after that, fatigue set in, my throat became scratchy, I’d already dropped 15 pounds but never lost sight of the finish line. Jesse, the lead technician, and I reviewed the calendar together after every session. She ended up calling me “Iron Man.”

By week 6, I was 30 pounds down. My throat felt like I had four steak knives jabbing me when I swallowed. The smell of food made me nauseous. I sipped liquid through a straw. The pain was unbearable. No matter how crappy I felt, I never missed a session.

After 32 sessions, I stumbled across Manhattan on May 7 for my final visit to the basement. I stripped, threw on my robe. Jesse poked her head in. “Ready to graduate?” she asked.

They piped music into my ears as usual, and I drifted off for what seemed like hours. I felt groggy when they unbuckled me, took off my mask and helped me off the table. “You did it, Iron Man,” Jesse said, and snapped a pic of me on my last day.

Eight months later, I went back to visit the eight technicians at NYU Langone who saved my life. We reminisced after the hugs, handshakes, kind words and pictures. My parents are 90 and 91 and still go for their annual routine physical. In recent decades, they have added numerous specialists to their list of doctors.

I go for my routine visit once a year to NYU Langone and get my physical exam as well from my internist. In the interim, if I have an ache or an ailment, I run to the doctor. Now that I’ve survived cancer, it doesn’t seem so silly.

I Took My Health for Granted Until I Was Diagnosed with Cancer  

Tom Migdale

Don’t give up. Never give up. You are not going to die. My doctor said “Don’t go out and buy a Ferrari. You are going to be around for a while and you are going to need your money”. It was one of the nicest things someone said to me in the moment, it was up lifting.

Michael was diagnosed with multiple myeloma in April 2019. Symptoms included back and rib pain, highly common for an extremely physical man who had just turned 60 and active in extreme sports such as kiteboarding, snowboarding, off shore fishing. His diagnosis was confirmed with blood work and MRI.

When initially diagnosed Michael’s first thoughts were, as are most patients, how long do I have to live? Am I going to die? Now what? How do I prepare for this? And what the heck is multiple myeloma? Multiple myeloma is the second most common blood cancer in the U.S. It is a cancer of plasma cells. Recently some specialists say that multiple myeloma is a highly treatable cancer, considered to be a chronic disease, rather than a death sentence. Following the diagnosis we both became hesitant to discuss with others, mostly because we really didn’t know enough about multiple myeloma. At one point I felt it was easier for me to be in hospital with the nurses and doctors than it was to be at home. No one knew what I was talking about and it became a strain on me to keep repeating the same thing. We are not in the medical field and it is overwhelming trying to grasp exactly what blood cancer is. As time went by, the exact opposite happened. We want to talk about multiple myeloma and want to share our journey with others.

Both cancer patient and caregiver should ask questions, talk to your doctors and nurses, find good resources, such as CURE®, and for us, the MMRF. Some of the best information we have received is from patient navigators and case workers. Watch webinars, listen to podcasts, talk to other people with cancer. Get involved. When someone tells you they have cancer give them a hug, be present, offer to give them a ride to treatment, pick up medicine, sit with them, listen. Don’t give up! Never give up! And in my case, write it down.

I, Jodi, am Michael’s wife, caregiver, and narrator. Caregivers aren’t necessarily nurses who tend to the dying. I manage doctor appointments, medicines, insurance and whatever else is it that becomes overwhelming. Fighting cancer is a hard job, any person fighting should have someone to assist them with the battle, a cheerleader, so to speak. Don’t give up! Never give up!

This post was written and submitted by a CURE reader. The article reflects the views the author and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

Don't Give Up: Advice from a Caregiver

Jodi Graeff Miner

Josie Montegaard, MSN, AGPCNP-BC, and Yuliya Linhares, MD, provide advice for patients with CLL on managing their diagnosis and treatment.

Getting the Most From Your CLL Care Team

Video content above is prompted by the following question(s):

Do you have any advice for patients and their caregivers about how to work with their health care team to ensure best outcomes?

Why is it important for patients with chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL) to have a support network in place?

How and when should patients reach out to their health care team about treatment adverse effects or any changes in how they’re feeling?

Do you have any additional advice or key takeaways for patients as they manage their CLL diagnosis and treatment?


Josie Montegaard, MSN, AGPCNP-BC, and Yuliya Linhares, MD, conclude their discussion with advice for patients with CLL on managing their diagnosis and treatment.

Josie Montegaard, MSN, AGPCNP-BC

Hygiene Champion and Patient Safety Advocate

Maria Hicinbothem is a staff nurse in Dermatology and Plastic Surgery at Fox Chase Cancer Center and works at an outpatient clinic that performs Mohs skin cancer surgery.

One of her main roles is focused on patient safety and quality. Infection prevention is important at any medical facility, but it becomes particularly consequential for patients receiving a Mohs skin cancer procedure. Hicinbothem has gone to extraordinary measures – up to and including dressing as a bottle of hand sanitizer – to disarm and educate patients and colleagues alike.

On a more serious note, she developed a procedure around a persistent gap in patient “pre-photo” collection. That is, since most of her patients are referred from elsewhere, they often arrive without the prerequisite pre-photos prior to surgery. In her role, Hicinbothem is acutely aware of patient needs, particularly for her clinic’s population, which skews much older.

She has earned her reputation for excellence in anticipating patient needs and preparing in advance for their visits. Her patient advocacy – with a focus on hand sanitization – is also exhibited in the processes she has put into place to improve patient education and preparedness prior to Mohs procedures. Her efforts yielded positive results on our patient experience surveys, conducted by a third-party organization. She authored an abstract on her processes that was accepted to Oncology Nursing Society Congress 2023, and she presented her work at this national meeting.

Maria Hicinbothem is genuinely a lovely person who makes a very serious topic more human – and therefore more consequential – for patient understanding. For this reason, I nominate her for this award.

Wandaris “Wandi” Ortiz, is, simply put, an extraordinary healer and worthy of an award of that title. Ortiz is a special, rare type of nurse that Fox Chase Cancer Center is fortunate to have in relative overabundance: a compassionate caregiver who is also an agent of change.

After an early career in inpatient medicine and the wound ostomy team, Ortiz has become a fixture in Fox Chase’s Department of Radiation Oncology, where her focus is on patients with gynecological cancers.

What distinguishes Ortiz from her colleagues, who are all accomplished professionals in their own right, is her focus on patient dignity. As someone who has experienced trauma herself, she strives to make patients feel safe at foremost and respected overall. She has worked extensively with our patient advocacy team and senior leadership to craft a trauma-informed care model. This model hinges on taking a patient-eye view of how to avoid what might trigger fears, shame and feelings of helplessness in patients.

Ortiz has always been focused on the little, positive touches that could mean a difference to a patient, such as when she provided a birthday party to a young mother who was too sick to manage one on her own. It is these kinds of touches that also make a huge difference in terms of patient dignity — for example, how Ortiz championed a process change so that patients would meet their doctor before being asked to undress and to put on a gown. It is a small act that preserves patient dignity and enhances their comfort level.

Science and data-driven medicine are priorities at Fox Chase, so Ortiz has collaborated with our researchers to bring attention to trauma-informed care and study care models related to the topic.

Wandaris Ortiz is an extraordinary person and a healing caregiver, which is why I would like to nominate her for this award.

The Embodiment of Service Leadership in Patient Care

Sandi Wetherbee is an exceptional, highly educated, experienced nursing professional who feels most comfortable at the bedside of our patients. Throughout her career, she has shown herself to be a capable manager and effective leader, but time and again, she chooses to express her leadership through direct service to patients. She is a fierce patient advocate and effective communicator who has earned the respect of all members of our clinical care team.

Wetherbee is a frontline nurse in our inpatient surgical oncology unit at Fox Chase Cancer Center, where she has become the champion of our biggest surgical service, Urology. In fact, Wetherbee’s career has coincided with the expansion of our Urology practice, which has grown from a modest group when Wetherbee joined Fox Chase in 2000 to the nationally recognized program it is today.

She constantly seeks to enhance her expertise with Urology and associated surgical technologies, particularly in terms of infection risks to patients. Her efforts have led to her becoming the face of our Catheter-Associated Urinary Tract Infection (CAUTI) team, and she has recently had an abstract accepted for poster presentation this year at the Oncology Nursing Society meeting and for publication in their journal on protocols to reduce CAUTI.

As an experienced, dedicated professional, Wetherbee has become an amazing resource for Fox Chase. Many nurses start their careers in her unit and under her mentoring. As Fox Chase’s Urology program has expanded to affiliated hospitals within Temple University Health System, Wetherbee has become a key resource in training nurses at our new Fox Chase Urology services at Temple University Hospital – Jeanes Campus and Temple Health – Chestnut Hill Hospital.

Indeed, nursing education has become increasingly important to Wetherbee, and she naturally excels in the role of educator. As our resident expert in urology nursing and ostomy care, she has become an integral part of the training we provide to nurses from all around the United States who come to Fox Chase.

Wetherbee is incredibly detail-oriented and thorough in her documentation and care planning. This translates to the highest possible quality care delivery. She also partners seamlessly with physicians, fellow nurses and other members of the care team. Her communication skills allow her to advocate effectively for her patients.

In summary, Sandi Wetherbee’s clinical expertise, patient-centered approach, attention to detail, passion for education and collaborative spirit make her an extraordinary nurse.

Maria Hicinbothem, Wandaris Ortiz, and Sandi Wetherbee are exemplary nurses at Fox Chase Cancer Center, each demonstrating unique contributions to patient care. Hicinbothem focuses on infection prevention and patient education in dermatology, notably improving pre-surgery processes. Ortiz champions patient dignity in radiation oncology, implementing trauma-informed care models. Wetherbee excels in urology nursing, leading efforts to reduce CAUTI and mentoring new nurses. Their dedication to patient safety, dignity, and education highlights their roles as leaders and advocates, making them strong candidates for the 2025 CURE Extraordinary Healer award.

Three nurses—Maria Hicinbothem, Wandaris Ortiz, and Sandi Wetherbee—are being celebrated for their exceptional dedication to patient care, safety and advocacy.

Nurse Champions of Patient Safety, Dignity and Leadership

Jeremy Moore

How do you educate patients and caregivers in your practice about prostate cancer?

 When patients and their caregivers ask me for resources for education about prostate cancer, I often refer them to places like the Prostate Cancer Foundation to look up thoroughly curated, tested and checked material because there is the opportunity for misinformation on the internet when it comes to prostate cancer care or any kind of cancer care, for that matter. Having a trusted resource is really important. The Prostate Cancer Foundation has some great pamphlets and information that has been checked by physicians and clinical teams to make sure that all of the things in there are updated and true.

The other place that I often send patients is to the ZERO Prostate Cancer website, which is really nice because it also has curated information that I can trust and that patients can trust, but also has access to support group information so that patients, no matter where they live in the country, can find a support group that might be a place where they can go in person or perhaps online to hear stories from patients like them and to ask questions of other people who are going through what they've gone through or who have gone through what they're going through. These kinds of resources are really important.

I would also say that I encourage patients to ask their medical teams when they do have questions. Because even if you find something online at a trusted source, it may not necessarily translate in a way that makes sense to you when you read it, or you may have some misunderstanding about what you're reading because some of this stuff is really complicated. When things don't make sense, or even just to make sure that you have your information straight, it's really a good thing to ask your nursing team, your doctor team, your nutrition or dietitian team member, or your physical therapist about what you're reading and really make sure that what you're reading and think you understand is absolutely correct.

If I had to give some advice to someone who was newly diagnosed with prostate cancer and was heading to their doctor to work through a treatment plan, I would encourage people to say to their doctor, “Can you tell me and make sure that I understand, is this cancer curable or not? Is it treatable but not curable? What's the best treatment plan to be the most aggressive that I can be against my cancer? And what options do I have in terms of making sure that my quality of life and my day-to-day life is actually preserved as much as possible?”

I would also encourage people to be really candid about questions they have when it comes to their sexual health, mental health and physical health, because there are changes that happen in someone's body when they go through treatments like androgen deprivation therapy, or ADT, that affect all of those things and many other areas, too. Being bold to ask the questions that you really have is important. No doctor, nurse or health care team member is going to judge you. And if they do, it's okay to get another team or another doctor. If you wonder, “Is my sexual health going to be the same after I get treatment for prostate cancer?” Depending on what your treatment is, the answer will be different. Your sexual health can be improved, maintained, can be better even if you have some changes in it. But it's important to ask the questions, “How do I get there? Who can help me improve my erectile dysfunction? Who can help me improve issues that I have with libido?” Whatever the question is. But that is probably one of the most under-discussed areas in prostate cancer that is most meaningful to patients.

I would also really encourage people to talk with their doctor or their clinical team about mental health because having a cancer diagnosis in itself can put someone at very high risk for developing depression or having adjustment issues that may be helped by counseling or by medications. And it's not to say that it is anyone's fault or that you're weak if you develop mental health concerns like anxiety or depression. It's a physiologic change that happens because of the way bodies respond to stress. And we have treatments, including counseling and medicines, that can help you feel better. And finally, sleep is something that can be affected. Always ask about sleep and if there are any things that you can do to feel better. But I think the supportive needs of people with prostate cancer are things that we don't discuss enough. Be empowered to ask your doctor. Be empowered to say, “Is my treatment the right treatment for me? What options do I have?”, if you ever feel like you're going down the wrong road or you just want to make sure from the get-go.

Transcript is AI-generated and edited for clarity and readability.

Alicia Morgans, MD, MPH, offers advice to patients newly diagnosed with prostate cancer and reviews educational resources available for patients and their caregivers.

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