Oncology Nurse Stays by Patient Until His Final Days

Jill May, a nurse navigator at the Allina Health Cancer Institute in Minneapolis, Minnesota, is nominated for the CURE Extraordinary Healer Award. May has practiced in oncology since 1989 and has been a certified oncology nurse since 1994. This nomination is written in sadness, because it brings back many memories of the three years my husband Rick lived with liver cancer — from diagnosis in February 2020 until his death. It is also written in gratitude for May, our exceptional, extraordinary oncology nurse navigator. I am forever grateful for times too numerous to recall when she provided expert care and comfort to my husband and moral support to us both. In early February 2020, an MRI found a mass in Rick's liver, and a week later a biopsy confirmed hepatocellular carcinoma. At this same time, the first case of COVID-19 in the United States was documented and a nationwide emergency was declared on March 13. It was an awful time, to say the least. At Rick's first oncology appointment in early March, we learned his treatment plan would be led by a hepatologist and a liver team. We were told, "You'll be getting a call Monday morning from Jill May." May, the doctor explained, was the oncology nurse navigator for the liver team. A fire hose of information was coming at us. We felt overwhelmed and alone with a dire diagnosis in a world being turned upside down by COVID-19. At that moment, we had no idea just how important our nurse navigator would be in the years to come. I use the words "we/our/us" because May gave her attention to two people: the patient and the caregiver. Communication was essential, especially in the early going when everything came at us so fast. We had lots of questions. May welcomed them and made it easier to ask and receive information. Shortly after we began working together, she gave us her work email. I was stunned. Could she really do that? Could I really use it? Before being assigned to the liver team, we would call a general oncology office number, get routed to one or more intermediaries, leave a recorded message and eventually get a return call — never the same day. Sharing her email with us demonstrated trust and compassion. It acknowledged we were not just another case or treatment plan but real people whose lives had been upended. Now, at least, we could go about our days without the added stress of waiting and missing an important call back. Being given permission to text or email sounds trivial, but it was not. In the first year after diagnosis, interventional radiology treatments and surgery yielded great success despite the COVID-19 protocols that considerably slowed the scheduling of appointments and procedures. In this time, May coordinated numerous appointments, lab tests, scans and countless other details. She communicated with multiple specialists on our behalf, relaying our questions and providing answers as soon as she had them. By the second year, with the cancer under control, we were chasing the holy grail — a liver transplant. Transplant is considered the only real cure for hepatocellular carcinoma. Complex regulations governing organ donation and transplantation require a liver transplant candidate to be and stay within a narrow set of criteria to qualify. The cancer must be contained and the candidate in good enough physical condition to survive the lengthy surgery and recovery. Rick was within criteria in the summer of 2021 and in August received the call — a donor match had been found. We rushed to the hospital but learned shortly after surgery prep that the donor liver was not sufficiently healthy to be transplanted. Disappointed, we told ourselves that if it happened once, surely another call would come. We did not realize how close we had come and how very rare it is for all the transplant stars to align in your favor. The wait for transplant resumed, but Rick's next three-month scan showed the cancer had returned. He was now out