I came home from Disney World, the happiest place on earth, to a phone call with the results of my breast biopsy. “It’s cancer,” the radiologist told me. mI repeated my name to her to make sure this was my news to hear. She gave me names of surgical oncologists who specialize in the breast.

I didn’t start to absorb this news, really, until during that initial appointment. The surgeon spent over an hour explaining, diagramming, examining and reassuring me. After all her thorough work-up, she may have wanted to slap her hand to her forehead but was too polite to do so when I asked, “so is this cancer?”

The first lumpectomy was completed. Now we wait. The surgeon said that it could take up to two weeks for pathology to return and I’d need to take up to four weeks off from work. It could have been less time off from work, if I weren’t a nurse, but I’ll take the four weeks away from the hospital in the summertime! She said that she exaggerated the margin excisions so that all the cancerous scattered foci should be removed and with care to not induce too much deformity.

Less than two weeks later the results were in: margins werestill positive; they’d need to go back in. The surrealness of the story to come was not even on the storyboard yet. What I thought was a small surgery to remove a stage 1 breast cancer would prove to be almost two full years on a mad tea party ride.

Among all the steps prior to making it to the operating room for the lumpectomy, I had an MRI-guided breast biopsy of an area of concern in the non-cancerous right breast. It showed a peculiar finding of a B-cell/T-cell proliferation process that nobody quite knew what to clearly make of or how to proceed, other than we know that the other breast IS cancer so “let’s focus on that right now,” I was told. It made sense to me, but I also could not allow the right breast findings to go without further exploration.

In the meantime, I had decisions to make. My second lumpectomy also resulted in positive margins.I heard the disappointment in my surgeon’s voice with both unsuccessful surgeries. It wasn’t her, it was the disease. It was so scattered. So tiny. Maybe one day in the future, the pre-operative radioactive seed placement will be replaced with radioactive seed raindrops that fall within all of the areas that are invaded with this cancer that is so inconspicuous, it’s invisible.

My surgeon offered me a third lumpectomy. After the second, the breast was already starting to deform and look ill. The other option was a mastectomy. The idea of having my breast removed was inconceivable. I thought I would rather do all the chemotherapy and radiation therapy in the world, than to have this procedure that seemed like cruel punishment for something that I had done terribly wrong. We spoke about mastectomy of the left side, and I also brought up the right side. If there was already a B-cell/T-cell proliferation process happening there, what would become of that? Would it also become cancer? Is it smart to also remove the right side along with the left?

A nipple-sparing total mastectomy with immediate reconstruction was what was determined as my next course of treatment. I knew I could handle this, keeping my own skin and nipples with reconstruction all within the same surgery. Let’s go, so I can get it done and proceed with my wonderful life! I was ready.

The mastectomy happened. The reconstruction did not. I could not believe this nightmare that I woke up to in the post-anesthesia care unit. I always tell myself “It’s OK, you are OK,” and I got through the next two weeks before actual reconstruction repeating that mantra. I begged my plastic surgeon to discharge me home after surgery and to not admit me. I had my son’s third birthday party to prepare. She agreed.

On the drive home, my husband told me that the final pathology was in on the right-sided mastectomy tissue.

“Dr. G said that you have lupus.” he tells me in the car. What in the world was he talking about? How could I be diagnosed with lupus in the boob? Just then, Dr. G called. It wasn’t lupus. It was a rare presentation of lymphoma — a second cancer.

Here's what is important: make smart decisions. Always advocate for yourself. What could be considered drastic unbearable measures may save you. The lymphoma that I have may have actually been cured with mastectomy. Time will tell. There is no solid empirical evidence yet.If I had left my fears guide me though, they would still be encapsulated and left to circulate within my body. Now, I think, I gave myself hope.

This post was written and submitted by Rosaleen Holmes. The article reflects the views of Rosaleen Holmes 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 

Choosing to get a mastectomy was a difficult decision to make, but then the pathology results came back indicating a second cancer.   

My Mastectomy Results Were Not What I Expected

Rosaleen Holmes

Over the past eight months, as the COVID-19 pandemic has swept across the nation, this idea has gained greater and greater currency. It’s an idea that transcends party divisions, an idea that many Americans see not as controversial but as common sense. In part, it’s why COVID-19 tests are offered free of charge around the country, why some states are waiving cost-sharing agreements for treatment and why there’s already talk of mandating that eventual vaccines won’t be provided at a profit.

These are necessary steps to prevent unnecessary American deaths. But they only go so far. That’s because, as we in the healthcare community know all too well, COVID-19 isn’t the only respiratory disease with costly and potentially lethal implications. Lung cancer is far and away the leading cause of cancer death in the country, and in many of these cases, the loss of life wasn’t inevitable. It was the preventable result of financial strain.

If you or someone you love has battled lung cancer, this likely isn’t a surprise. Over the past two decades, the average price of treatment has skyrocketed to exceed—by a margin of tens of thousands of dollars—the annual household incomes of most Americans. These costs cause lung cancer patients to declare bankruptcy at a higher rate than people with any other disease. They are also, quite literally, a cause of death—having forced patients to settle for subpar medicines and therapies or abandon treatment altogether.

These figures defy market logic. In just about any other industry you can name, as innovation advances and the efficiency of production increases, prices go down. Not so when it comes to lung cancer treatment, despite the fact that we know so much more about fighting the disease now than ever before.

Indeed, in recent years, precision medicine in oncology has gone from a pipe dream to a reality. Powerful, targeted therapeutics have transformed the once universally grim prognoses and life expectancies of lung cancer patients. From checkpoint inhibitors to mutation-specific drugs, these therapeutics are proving that a future can exist in which lung cancer is a chronic—but maybe not deadly—disease.

As long as treatment is unaffordable for most patients, though, that future is inaccessible.

, but it shouldn’t be the only month of the year when we focus on this injustice and intensify our efforts to address it. We have to recommit ourselves to investing not just in the next generation of lung cancer therapies but in the next generation of patients with lung cancer.

 and others are already doing this critical work, supporting underserved patient populations in many ways and fighting for them in the policy arena. However, the problems with pricing need to be tackled by the industry too. While politicians often talk about regulation as a cure-all, competition in the industry can have an even greater impact.

It won’t be easy. But if we harness the best of today’s minds and technologies to reduce the cost of drug discovery, reimagine the drug delivery chain and reform the pricing model, then lower-cost, novel alternatives to current drugs—drugs that might as well list “going broke” as a side effect—is possible. So, too, is a future where lung cancer is just a part of life, not a death sentence. A future where one of the big lessons of the pandemic—that 

—becomes a clarion call in the fight against lung cancer.

Sue Hager is Head, Patient Advocacy and Corporate Affairs for EQRx, an innovative biotech focused delivering high quality medicines at radically lower prices. Over the last decade, her advocacy efforts have focused on expanding access to personalized medicines in oncology.

The cost of cancer care is often an insurmountable challenge for many patients, in particular patients with lung cancer. Many of whom will die because they cannot afford treatment. Health care costs must not compromise care.

Health Care Costs Should Not Compromise Cancer Care

Sue Hager

Last year at this time, I was getting ready to start a new cancer drug that would hopefully prevent “cross talk” between any hibernating cancer cells that might be in my body waiting for intel on how to spread, like stealthy double agents. I had many conversations with friends and doctors about my fears, knowing the risks and the lifestyle alterations taking this new targeted cancer drug would pose. The side effects were many. Getting approved for the drug was akin to running a mud run in February wearing nothing but a 100-pound weighted vest. But I opted to try it. The alternative was an increased risk of an aggressive cancer returning somewhere other than my long-gone breasts. That possibility scared me more than living a year on newly approved, strong drug.

Fear based decisions are tough, even when they are logical. I cried a lot in the month leading up to the first doses. I had gone through chemo and a year of infused targeted drugs. I had had my ovaries removed and started another cancer drug to block estrogen binding, which I’ll be on for years. I’d recovered from multiple surgeries.

This new drug would cause months of stomach problems. The pharmacy handed me a bagful of free Imodium (loperamide) – like a pound of it. The makers of the drug called repeatedly to check on me. They offered me a peer mentor to talk with if I wanted to help get me through the treatment. I didn’t opt for the buddy system, but the offer was telling. I knew it would be a tough year. But frankly, I will try anything approved by science that could prevent the cancer I’ve been dealing with from taking up residence in my brain, lungs, liver, bones or any other hospitable environment.

I dealt with the stomach issues and honestly, it was bad. There were luncheons I attended where I didn’t eat, exercise classes I didn’t teach, articles that didn’t get written, dinners I cooked for my kids I did not eat and birthday cakes I made for them I did not share. There were constant mouth sores and careful planning of when and where to take my daily dose. There was no way I could have worked outside of my home during the first months on the drug. Then, once my stomach calmed, my liver enzymes shot up. They were high enough and I was exhausted enough that my doctors reduced the dose to accommodate my fickle liver. I panicked about the efficacy of the lowered dose. But my doctors are confident, competent people. So, I stayed the course.

I will take my last dose of that drug today. I should be ecstatic on this strange anniversary. I should be excited about the possibility of getting rid of these mouth sores, being able to think less about what I eat, hopefully having fewer unrelenting muscle spasms and regaining the energy to stay up past 9 p.m.

I will still be taking one other cancer drug for a fistful of years to prevent the less aggressive type of cancer cells that might be hibernating from replicating. But I am currently holding the last of the pills that have provided some insurance against the reprisal of the more aggressive cancer cells that might have survived. There are no tests to detect trace amounts of the type of cancer I have been facing. There are no scans to detect anything smaller than full-on tumors.

Cancer marks you in more ways than one. It is not just that society looks at you differently. Some see your fragility and deal with it by distancing themselves. Others want to wrap “survivorship” up in a bow and party with you and move on – when you feel like you are a lone survivor fighting a stereotypical slap of freezing waves while clawing at the hull of a capsized ship while the mournful eye of a beluga passively regards your struggle.

I know there are opinions about all aspects of cancer and the decisions patients make. I know people tell themselves all sorts of things to set them apart from patients with cancer – extolling the virtues of what 

do to safeguard themselves from getting cancer and becoming one of us. I know there is judgment cloaked as well-intentioned factoids about what you should eat, feel and be to “beat cancer.” I know there are whispers, especially about breast cancer. It is intimate. But I also know there are, likely, occasional eye rolls and that it can be exhausting when a patient with cancer once again steers an unrelated conversation back to the topic of cancer. How can a conversation about my sons not involve a discussion about the collateral damage of cancer?

It is circular and inescapable and intrudes on every aspect of life it enters, especially the most mundane moments.

see the translucent brown bottom of a bottle

that was once filled with tiny orange promising pills.

A woman writes about the feeling of ambivalence that comes with each milestone in the treatment journey for her breast cancer.

Push Down, Turn: Phases of Treatment for Cancer

Krista Genevieve Farris

OK, that is a fair question. A question that I am asked on a regular basis. And quite frankly, on days when I am emotionally and physically drained, when my tank is running below empty, I admit that I ask myself that same question. Why do I do what I do?

The answer is simple. I was born to do the work that I do. It is a true calling, vocation and passion that I do not take lightly, and each encounter that I am privileged to have is held in a sacred space.

Primarily, I think people question me for two reasons. One, as an oncology social worker, the day-to-day exposure of patients’ and families’ raw emotions and shared intimate details of their life stories can be overwhelming.

And two, similar to my patients, I have heard the words, “It doesn’t look good, you better get yourself a surgeon,” “biopsy,” “malignancy,” “scans,” “suspicious,” “complications,” and “surgery.”

Like millions of others, I have sat across the desk to hear the words, “You have cancer” more than once. I can tell you without hesitation, it was a totally humbling experience to be the patient hearing the news of a cancer diagnosis after I had been on the other side of the desk as a health care worker when the news was delivered to the often-unsuspecting patient.

The news is no longer a compilation of random words. Oh no, the words form a diagnosis strike fear to the core of each person’s inner being, and no matter what stage the cancer will be deemed to be, it will forever change that person’s outlook on life and choices.

I remember vividly that my first undergraduate internship was at a VA medical center working on a medical/surgical floor. I was drawn to the oncology patients who at that time were down the hall behind closed doors. The word “cancer” was not spoken — it was whispered, or the term “the C-word” was used.

The patients often were alone, scared and feeling abandoned. I spent as much time as I could with each one, providing a safe place to hear their life stories and their thoughts, feelings and concerns about their diagnosis and what the future — if any — held for them.

I was able to connect with the patients in a meaningful way, and my then-supervisor insisted that I must have had “much experience in this area.” I had not at that time. My ability to provide comfort and hope was a gift, and I knew that this was the population I wanted to work with.

After receiving my master’s degree in social work and working at the Breast Health Center at Johns Hopkins Medicine in Baltimore, I was even more inspired to dedicate my life to helping oncology patients and their families.

Over my decade’s long vocation, I have been blessed to work in a variety of settings and if I was not working directly with an oncology patient, I was volunteering my time.

I have been blessed so many times over the years meeting many incredible men and women who have taught me much and have enriched my life in countless ways. I have learned that cancer is something that happens to a person but does not need to define them. We are all so much more than our diagnoses.

As one patient shared with me, “I am so much bigger than my cancer,” even though she was in a terminal state, she refused to let the disease take over her life focus.

I may share some common themes with my patients; however, the beauty lies in the richness of everyone’s journey and what they learn about themselves, and the insight and growth that they can share to help and support each other.

We may hear the same words and even have the same treatments, however what makes it uniquely our own is how we cope and manage to integrate this experience in our lives.

My work is about life and living it to the fullest. It might sound surprising that it is not all doom and gloom. On the contrary — it is often life-affirming, awe-inspiring and motivating. The focus becomes reflective, an opportunity for personal growth and getting in touch with parts of yourself that you would otherwise not know existed. It is about quality versus quantity and self-love and care.

My work is about being the beacon of light and hope as I assist those who have heard the words “you have cancer” as they navigate the uncharted waters of their personal journey.

An oncology social worker, who is also a cancer survivor, describes life lessons learned through work and personal experiences.

How an Oncology Social Worker Answers the Question, ‘Why Do You Do What You Do?’

Shakay J. Kizirian , MSW, LCSW

There may be many worthy of the Lung Cancer Heroes® award, but none more deserving than Carolyn Baggett, M.S.N., RN, OCN. Carolyn has made a measurable impact on the lives of her patients and colleagues as the oncology nurse navigator and lung cancer screening coordinator at Baptist MD Anderson Cancer Center. She also steps outside the health care system to contribute to the education and involvement to many in the Jacksonville and North Florida communities. I am a grateful recipient of her boundless knowledge, insight and compassion for those we both serve — our friends in our community with lung disease.

Carolyn has been a great contributor to the American Lung Association LUNG FORCE initiative in Jacksonville the past two years and is an active member of our cabinet. She has helped us secure corporate sponsorship for lung cancer research from her employer, Baptist MD Anderson, created teams of participants at the annual LUNG FORCE Run/Walk and supported the LUNG FORCE Expo, an event for education and camaraderie between patients and health care professionals. And she is a go-to resource for lung health education. Carolyn joined the team at Baptist in 2014 where she originally served as a lung cancer nurse navigator. In the words of one of Carolyn’s former patients, “She’s the voice after the doctor leaves to make sure I fully understand everything. She’s been the MVP of Baptist MD Anderson for me.”

Terra Mitchell was devastated when her husband, Eric, was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer in 2016. One of the first people they met at Baptist MD Anderson was Carolyn, who greeted them with her wonderful smile. “At that moment we knew we were in good hands. Carolyn was there with us every step of the way to guide us through this journey. No matter when, if we needed her, she was there for us.” During that journey, Carolyn became more than a nurse navigator; she became part of the family. After the loss of Eric in 2018, Carolyn helped the family through their grief and encouraged Terra to share her story as a caregiver to help others. “She’s more than a nurse — she’s an angel, and I’m proud to call her my friend and sister,” Terra said.

Although Carolyn loved her role as a navigator, she realized she could help patients with lung cancer with a screening program to help with earlier detection. Last year, Carolyn became the lung cancer screening program coordinator, ensuring a higher level of education and access to lifesaving screening, and she continues that role today.

Dr. Bill Putnam, medical director of Baptist MD Anderson, states, “The lung cancer screening effort was really initiated and driven forward by Carolyn, practically single-handedly. She organized the radiologists, surgeons and community physicians and provided pilot studies that could be examined and refined, and truly created a team that has now developed lung cancer screening at the highest level. There has been a significant impact on our patients within our Baptist Health System and in our Northeastern Florida community who now have access to lung cancer screening from their primary physician offices that never existed in the past. As a result, lung cancer screening has identified patients with early and asymptomatic lung cancers. Over 70% of our patients with lung cancer have early-stage disease that would not have been identified except for lung cancer screening. In addition, advanced-stage disease patients were identified prior to any symptoms occurring. In both situations, treatment was provided early to create the best environment for the patient to be cured and to improve their long-term survival. (Carolyn) has been a diligent and passionate advocate for screening and for annual surveillance for those at risk and has provided significant education to our 170 Baptist primary care physicians and patient organizations.

“(Carolyn) has participated in our Baptist MD Anderson Cancer Center symposium and has been a resource for participants at that symposium on lung cancer screening. She has made a significant impact on the health of our Northeastern Florida community.”

Committed. Educator. Advocate. Professional. Passionate. These are some of the words used to describe Carolyn by her colleagues, patients and friends. I would like to add one more: Hero. As in the movie “The Incredibles,” Carolyn is a hero who doesn’t wear a cape.

For the value that Carolyn adds to the health of her patients and our community, and for her continued gifts of time and expertise to the LUNG FORCE initiative in Jacksonville, it is my pleasure to nominate Carolyn Baggett for the Lung Cancer Heroes® award.

"Although Carolyn loved her role as a navigator, she realized she could help patients with lung cancer with a screening program to help with earlier detection."

Incredible Hero Without A Cape

Bethany Webb

On August 4, 2014, at age 36, I was diagnosed with metastatic inflammatory breast cancer, a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer that isn’t detectable until stage 3 or 4 and comes with a poor prognosis. Inflammatory breast cancer proved its aggressiveness over the years, and consistent treatment brought about challenging side effects that continually threatened my quality of life. I needed to learn more than just how to fight. I needed to learn to thrive.

Integrative oncology taught me how to thrive and support my mind, body and spirit while facing incurable cancer. It also taught me the importance of paying witness and gratitude to the community that supports you. Cancer doesn’t just change your life, but it also significantly impacts your nearest and dearest.

I wouldn’t be able to walk this journey alone and am forever grateful for those who walk with me, from my excellent medical professionals and integrative practitioners to, most of all, my family and dearest friends. They are my beacons of light, hope and ultimate community support. They are my metastatic breast cancer heroes.

In 2019, thriving five years post-diagnosis (a milestone not granted to many with metastatic inflammatory breast cancer), I felt a strong calling to give back to the metastatic breast cancer community. I wished more patients with metastatic breast cancer had easy and affordable access to integrative support to increase their quality of life.

Patients with metastatic breast cancer endure so much for a long time. Having resources to improve those days is a game-changer. I started sharing the idea of supporting the metastatic breast cancer community with some of my closest friends and they all responded immediately with ideas on how they could help.

These beacons — Claire Holland, Anne Marques, Liz Moore, Erin Wanke, Heidi Pfetcher, Meghan DeRoma and Beth Szostek — are outstanding women who, without hesitation, volunteered to be on the inaugural 2020 board of what is now the Roots & Wings Charitable Foundation. They not only are my heroes but also now are true heroes to the metastatic breast cancer community. They give their time and talents generously when their busy schedules are filled with careers, families, community involvement, personal projects and so much more.

Together, with incredible team members, we created the mission for Roots & Wings: to offer support to integrative and wellness programs that increase emotional, physical and spiritual well-being during the continuous oncology treatment for metastatic breast cancer.

In our first year, we have provided affordable and accessible integrative support at some leading metastatic breast cancer institutions in the United States, including Dana-Farber Cancer’s Zakim Center for Integrative Therapies, Duke Cancer Institute’s Supportive Care and Survivorship Center, and Rush University Cancer Center. We are supporting more metastatic breast cancer fighters than I could have ever hoped or dreamed. Their commitment, along with a dedicated volunteer team, are the reason Roots & Wings is flourishing. Without these beacons of light, hope and support, without these metastatic breast cancer heroes, Roots & Wings and its mission would still be a whisper of a wish.

A metastatic breast cancer survivor explains why it’s so important to find other cancer survivors to walk alongside.

Beacons of Light, Hope and Community for Patients With Metastatic Breast Cancer

Diana Keen

I’m still alive. This was not a given 10 years ago, when I was diagnosed with an aggressive case of acute myeloid leukemia (AML).

The usual chemo for AML was applied, but after a few weeks of remission I relapsed, confounding my oncologists. They said if I couldn’t get back into remission in preparation for a stem cell transplant, I had perhaps only a few months to live. I went to the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center in Seattle on the advice of a friend, bless him, and received a chemo protocol called G-CLAMS. It included 20,000 mgs of statin which had the benefit of socking in the chemicals, especially in patients who had the FLT-3 mutation for fast relapse.

The great oncologist Dr. Elihu Estey, now deceased, said “This chemo has a 15% chance of killing you. But your blood now has 60% blasts (leukemia cells), so you have a much greater chance of dying from leukemia than the chemo.”

I survived the chemo (clearly), and waited three months for a stem cell donor to be found for transplant. There were no relatives for a good match, so I had to depend on the kindness of a stranger — an unrelated allogenic donor. This generous person was not a 

 match, but I couldn’t afford to be choosey.

And so, we come to graft-versus-host disease (GVHD), a syndrome where the body rejects the new cells thar are introduced. I have chronic, high-moderate GVHD, which thankfully has not affected my internal organs. But my eyes and mouth are another story.

There is a moment in "Lawrence of Arabia" when he snuffs out a match flame with his fingers. A friend then tries the same thing and cries out, "OWW, that damn well hurts! What’s the trick?" To which Lawrence replies, "The trick is not 

Swell. But my eyes and mouth hurt, sometimes quite a lot. And I mind. I wasn’t really a good candidate for the stoic discipline, so I had to find a more secular way to handle it.

My oncologists put me on a regimen of medication (prednisone, in particular) to control the inflammation from GVHD. There are several other meds to buffer my immune system since I am immuno-suppressed due to the GVHD. I take these twice a day and will probably continue for the rest of my life.

With these drugs come some quite unpleasant side effects. I will not report my entire litany of woe, because you’d find it depressing to read, and I’d find it depressing to write. Let me limit it to a hip replacement, retinal damage and ambulatory problems involving ankles.

These are probably due to my ongoing prednisone usage.

But I still have much pleasure in my life, impediments notwithstanding. I have the good fortune to have a wonderful wife with whom I still share some great adventures. She offers me help when I need it, and I’m not so bone-headed to deny needing the help. We go out quite a bit to shows and movies, and I bring a bottle of viscous lidocaine to restaurants to help me get through a meal with minimum pain. I also take yogurt daily with live and active bacteria (no gelatin or corn starch) to keep my GVHD in the moderate range.

However, there are occasional moments of great sadness as to what I have lost. A sage once said, “The process of living is managing loss.”

Eventually we lose everything, and I am grateful and try to celebrate what I still have. I know there are many others who have much less, and are substantially worse off than I am. But that doesn’t diminish 

 loss and ongoing pain as I proceed through the rest of my life. I can often re-focus my attention to something compelling and commanding to distract me from the pain and loss of previous abilities. But not always.

My advice is don’t feel guilty for having occasional sadness as a survivor of this disease. This will happen, however try not to wallow. It doesn’t serve you and is unpleasant for friends and family. I often feel like crying but don’t have working tear ducts anymore, so there’s some dark humor in that.

Maybe a relative will be a good match for you, and you won’t have GVHD. I will be envious. But many will suffer some form of it with an allogenic transplant. You will have challenges and setbacks and disappointments and loss. And possibility and joy and perhaps a new appreciation of how rich life can be. And you will have the continuing chance to live!

 and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

A decade ago, I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia and underwent aggressive chemotherapy and an allogenic stem cell transplant. Though I still have complications related to my cancer, I’m thankful for what I still have. 

Reflection on Life 10 Years After Stem Cell Transplant

Robert Trebor

Dialysis, like a kidney, filters the blood.

Moody is one description of this machine.

Are the names we called it as it’d clean.

something the parent’s eye can’t see.

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

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Curing childhood cancer, any kind, is no place to be divided.


Cure Pediatric Cancer

Kelly May Harris

Jan Poulsen led the LUNGevity Breathe Deep events in Salt Lake City for a number of years, which is where I met her. She’s a lung cancer survivor who decided she had too much to do to let the disease slow her down. As a never-smoker, she became an advocate for awareness, especially for radon gas testing and mitigation in homes.

Simply put, she’s an inspiration to those diagnosed with lung cancer, those affected by lung cancer and those who can make a difference against lung cancer in the life sciences community and radon gas community.

Simply put, Jan Poulsen is an inspiration to those diagnosed with lung cancer, a friend writes.

A Lung Cancer Survivor, Fighter and Advocate

Andy Robertson

Donna MacDonald, B.S.N., RN, OCN, CCM, is not only an extraordinary oncology nurse, but she is also an extraordinary human being. Donna has practiced nursing for more than 40 years and has cared for patients with cancer and their families for most of her career.

As case manager for the Program in Women’s Oncology at Women & Infants Hospital in Providence, Donna cares for women of all ages with breast, colorectal and gynecologic cancers.

Donna is a well-known face at Women & Infants, radiating warmth and compassion wherever she goes. She has been involved in all aspects of oncology nursing, including prevention, early detection, treatment, survivorship and palliative care. She has a wealth of knowledge and is a respected role model by her peers and a beloved nurse by her patients.

What makes Donna so extraordinary is that she goes beyond her duties and responsibilities as case manager by advocating for and supporting her patients during their cancer journeys. She serves as chair of the Women & Infants Patient and Family Advisory Committee, which improves quality and patient care experiences within the hospital. In this role, she works tirelessly to provide resources and support to her patients to ensure that they are receiving the best care.

She also volunteers her time with the Rhode Island & Southeastern Massachusetts Chapter of the Oncology Nursing Society and the Partnership to Reduce Cancer in Rhode Island. Donna is a very active volunteer, contributing her ideas and expertise whenever possible. She is deeply involved with the Partnership to Reduce Cancer in Rhode Island’s Ovarian Cancer Task Force, which has produced patient and provider education webinars, a roundtable and a provider toolkit.

Donna is a leading supporter of advocating for survivors of ovarian cancer, encouraging the task force to light the Rhode Island State House teal for ovarian cancer awareness in 2021 and rallying support for the independent licensure of genetic counselors in Rhode Island.

Donna is a selfless and dedicated oncology nurse who puts her patients and community first. She is always willing to lend a helping hand, no matter what she has on her plate. It is an incredible honor to nominate Donna MacDonald for the 2022 Extraordinary Healer® Award. There is no one more deserving of this recognition.

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

Donna MacDonald, B.S.N., RN, OCN, CCM, goes beyond her duties as a nurse to advocate and support her patients.

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