By Laura Harvey
Everyone loves a parade. And there's something special about the processions of patients that occur on Floor 18 (G18) in the Main Building four times a year -- at Easter, Independence Day, Halloween and Christmas.
"The tradition started here long before I did," says Katherine Beetle, clinical nurse on G18, where most of the patients have had stem cell transplants. "They're immunosuppressed and sometimes very sick, and that can be isolating. The parades offer a chance for them and their families to be creative making and decorating their IV poles. Hopefully it takes their minds off being here."
Reminding patients that they're not alone
Staff from the floor participates in preparations and also during the events. You might see doctors, physical therapists and even staff, patients and caregivers from other floors getting involved with crafts and marching in the parades around the G18 hallway.
By Laura Harvey
By Madylan Eskridge
At 10 years old, Kenady Strutz was diagnosed with melanoma, often thought of as a cancer that only affects adults. Kenady has turned her pediatric melanoma diagnosis into a platform for educating others about protecting their skin.
Laurie Strutz always had heard that the skin cancer melanoma took more than a decade to develop after a blistering sunburn. So she was shocked when her 10-year-old daughter was diagnosed with the disease.
"I didn't think it was possible for someone Kenady's age, especially since she'd never had a bad sunburn," Laurie says.
A surprising pediatric melanoma diagnosis
Kenady, now 14, remembers noticing a purplish spot on her knee when she was 9.
"I told my mom I didn't like it because kids at school stared at it," Kenady recalls.
At her 10-year checkup, Kenady and her mom pointed it out to a pediatrician, who referred them to a dermatologist.
But even then, her mom didn't think much of it.
After the pathology results confirmed it was melanoma, Kenady began her cancer journey at MD Anderson Children's Cancer Hospital.
By Carol Bryce
When Annamma Thomas began working here in 1981 as a nurse in the ICU, her colleagues soon dubbed her "Little Anna" to distinguish her from the other two "Annas" who worked on the same floor. Today she's affectionately called "Anna T." by her co-workers in our Post-Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU).
Whatever you call Thomas, you only have to spend a few moments with her to be inspired by her enthusiasm. She's been here for 33 years, and this 4-foot-11-inch dynamo loves her job.
Thomas' co-worker, Clinical Nurse Joyace Ussin, confirms Thomas' positive attitude.
"Anna's always happy, laughing and keeping everyone focused on our most important task: taking excellent care of our patients," Ussin says.
A model for other nurses
Thomas' real passion is sharing her knowledge with her co-workers. She's mentored more than 40 nurses in the 14 years she's worked in the PACU, Ussin reports.
When it comes to teaching others, Thomas' philosophy is simple.
"I share what I know. But I don't criticize anyone," she says. "I do lots of mentoring because I feel like I can teach nurses simple things, like how to make sure patients are comfortable."
Being diagnosed with breast cancer at 33 is unusual enough, but Raylene Hollrah was also diagnosed with an extremely rare type of lymphoma just a few years after her first cancer diagnosis and before her 40th birthday.
Raylene, an outgoing insurance advisor who prefers to be called Ray, is only the 25th person in the U.S. -- and the 61st in the world -- to be diagnosed with breast implant-associated anaplastic large cell lymphoma (ALCL). It's a diagnosis that has changed her life in many ways.
"I always say cancer is like breaking a window," she says. "You've got shattered glass everywhere; you've got to clean up the mess and try to figure out how to fix it."
A breast cancer diagnosis -- and cause for breast implants
The discovery of a lump in her breast during an annual physical in 2007 launched Ray on a roller coaster ride that has tested her strength and spirit. After a negative mammogram and ultrasound, a needle biopsy came back positive for breast cancer.
By Lindsey Garner
Did you know that MD Anderson has its own post office? Located in the Main Building, the post office serves patients, visitors and employees. It's also where patient and Main Building employee mail is delivered and sorted by a team of three mail clerks.
From letters to parcels and interoffice to international mail, MD Anderson has 24 employees working behind the scenes to ensure that more than 268,000 pieces of mail each month are transported and received. Most of our mail clerks and transportation representatives had long careers in the mail industry prior to coming here, either with the U.S. Postal Service or in mailrooms at other organizations.
How our mail gets sorted
By 7:30 a.m., Mondays through Fridays, large bins of mail are picked up from the post office and brought to the mailroom at an MD Anderson facility offsite from our main hospital campus.
A team of eight mail clerks sorts the mail into bins for each building.
By Erika Archer Lewis
The importance of laughter grows even greater when life gets heavy, although it can be hard to see the need for it when you're right in the thick of things. Life can feel overwhelming.
I'm usually private about health matters, and tend to keep troublesome life events bottled up inside until I have them all figured out. But, in this case, I knew immediately that the situation was bigger than me. I had just found out that I carried the BRCA1 genetic mutation, putting me at greater risk for breast cancer and ovarian cancer. I was about to undergo a prophylactic double mastectomy, and I had an overwhelming urge to reach out to people in all areas of my life.
What happened when I opened up
What happened because of it was truly amazing. Almost everyone I crossed paths with for a few months had a story they wanted to share. Sometimes it was their own story, sometimes a friend's story, and some people needed to talk about the mother or grandmother they had lost to breast cancer.
Each interaction had something in common: people with huge hearts who wanted to share when they sensed my pain or struggle. People want to know and want to help. For the first time in my life, it felt incredibly right to let people help, and in turn, I could help them heal by listening.
By Harley Hudson
I decided to keep a diary of my stem cell transplant experience so it might help others in preparing for their stem cell transplants. You can read my previous entry here.
I thought you might be interested in a typical day in the life of a stem cell transplant patient on floors G17 and G18 at MD Anderson. I spent several days in the hospital following my stem cell transplant, a part of my chronic lymphocyctic leukemia (CLL) treatment. After a while, I developed a routine.
Mornings on G18
The patient day begins at 4 a.m. Yes, you read that correctly. Every morning at that horrible time, the night nurse comes in to draw several vials of blood. They do this for a very good reason. The complete blood count (CBC) numbers are a vital part of diagnosis and treatment. By drawing blood that early, our blood is first on the list for the lab to process. The results are back in time for the doctor in charge to read, analyze and make decisions when he or she visits later that morning.
The patient may then return to sleep ... until 6 a.m. At this time the nursing assistant comes in to take the morning vital signs. There were a few times I came really close to sleeping through this one.
The handoff from the night nurse to the day nurse takes place at 7 a.m. Both nurses come in to get acquainted if the day nurse is new to me. Now is the time to schedule a shower. The central venous catheter (CVC)must be covered and protected from water contamination. It is a process. I may order breakfast just before the shower.
After I've eaten breakfast, it is time to wait for the doctor and his entourage. This can be as few as two or as many as five or six people. The larger the number, the smaller the room feels. It does get crowded.
When 12-year-old Caroline Richards first mentioned a pain in her right arm last December, her mother, Lauren, chalked it up to a minor injury -- probably just a muscle pulled during basketball practice. But a few weeks later, Caroline woke up in the middle of the night, saying it felt like knives were stabbing her in the bone. That's when Lauren feared that it was something far worse.
Her fear was confirmed after a whirlwind day that included appointments with their pediatrician, a pediatric orthopedic specialist, an x-ray and an MRI. The diagnosis: osteosarcoma in Caroline's humerus, near the shoulder.
A new home base for osteosarcoma treatment
While the news sent the Richards family reeling, they soon got to work finding the best place for osteosarcoma treatment. After a few phone calls, a family friend put them in touch with MD Anderson Children's Cancer Hospital.
While leaving behind family and friends was difficult, the Richards quickly found comfort and support at MD Anderson Children's Cancer Hospital.
"Along with the excellent physician care that we get, the nurturing environment of the Children's Cancer Hospital really is what keeps us at MD Anderson," Lauren says. "It really is like a little pediatric oasis. There's a lot of love there. Caroline gets disappointed if her blood counts aren't high enough to go in for chemo because she loves the nurses so much."
By Natalie Arneson
I recently found out that I carry the BRCA 1 genetic mutation, and I'm not freaking out.
The mutation means that I have a crazy high chance of getting breast cancer. Like, it's practically a guarantee. And ovarian cancer is a strong possibility, too.
You can stop before you barrage me with condolences or compliments. I'll just roll my eyes. And then I'll hug you because I love you. But seriously, don't freak out. I'm not freaking out. Can we just skip freaking out and go to lunch?
Why I decided to undergo genetic testing for breast cancer and ovarian cancer
My mother, Terry Arnold, was diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer and triple negative breast cancer at the same time almost seven years ago. Fortunately, when it comes to cancer treatment, my mom kicks butt.
By Taylor Nance
By the fall of my freshman year, I was well on my way to navigating high school when something unexpected came up -- a stage 3 melanoma diagnosis.
I remember it vividly. It was November 3, 2011 -- the first Friday I'd been invited to sit with the varsity dance team at the Austin High School football game. I had made a trip to the dermatologist after a spot suddenly appeared on my ear and began growing quickly.
The next two years proved to be both challenging and inspirational for me, as I fought (and won!) my battle against skin cancer.
Undergoing melanoma treatment during high school
My melanoma treatment began right away. I was quickly scheduled for three surgeries on my ear. The first surgery removed the melanoma and the surrounding tissue along with the lymph nodes that surrounded the cancer. The second two surgeries were for the reconstruction of my ear. I also had to undergo a year of interferon, a type of immunotherapy.
For the first month, I had to leave school early so that my mom could drive me to MD Anderson to receive the interferon through my PICC line (a long, slender, flexible tube that is inserted into a peripheral vein, typically in the upper arm). Going to school with my PICC line always made me nervous. I hated walking through the crowded halls, trying to shield my arm so it wouldn't get bumped, but luckily, I was usually able to dodge the backpacks.
By Victoria Nahas
When my mom was diagnosed with appendix cancer, I was told not to let her see me in pain or cry for her. And so I followed that advice. The last thing I wanted to do was make my mom feel like she was a burden, or make her think about something that wasn't already bothering her. I didn't want to burden her either.
But throughout her appendix cancer treatment, I learned that allowing myself to lean on her was one way I could be there for her.
My mom's appendix cancer treatment
After my mom was diagnosed with appendix cancer in 2009, she was given 12-18 months to live. I was devastated. Cancer was something that happened to other people. Not my mom. She is my best friend. I still need her here.
By Michele Longabaugh
Like many cancer survivors, my anal cancer checkups are on a set schedule. Currently, my PET scans are every three months. No matter the distance between each cancer scan, I tend to remain worry-free about them between scans.
But those around me tend to obsess over my upcoming tests. They are always asking when I am going to get another cancer scan, whether it hurts or if I am worried about them. I always laugh and tell them I am doing great and there is nothing to fear.
And those words are true up to a certain point in time. I don't worry until after the scan is complete. You know that time span between your cancer scan and when you receive the results? That's when my "scanxiety" sets in.
When my anal cancer scan worry kicks in
Up until this last round of testing, I really couldn't articulate why the angst existed over this when an hour prior to the test I had not a care in the world. You see, prior to scanning I exist in a cancer-free world created by the previous round of tests. That feels good and creates an aura of safety.
Connect on social media
- Patients strut their stuff during holiday parades
- Spotting melanoma in children
- How a PACU nurse helps our patients, one smile at a time
- Survivor raises awareness for breast implant-associated anaplastic large cell lymphoma
- What happens when you send a letter to a patient or your care team?
- Learning to let others help me through a mastectomy
- A day in the life of a stem cell transplant patient
- The silver lining in a pediatric osteosarcoma diagnosis
- I just found out I carry the BRCA 1 genetic mutation, and I'm not freaking out
- Surviving melanoma during high school
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