Editor’s Note: This is part 2 of a 3-part series featuring my wife, Sue, who beat stage 4 breast cancer four times in a four-year span. Find out here how she survived after her breast cancer entered her brain. I originally wrote this article Dec. 9th, 2017 and posted it on Linkedin.

December 9, 2017

I awoke to the sound of barking sea lions on a cool, foggy morning on a Pacific Ocean bay in Monterey, CA. It was Aug. 28, 2017 and I was about to begin the most relaxing day with my wife that I’d had in 4 months. Nestled in our ocean-front suite at the posh Monterey Plaza Hotel, it was our 10-year anniversary trip. This day we were planning a couple’s massage at the hotel spa, a drive along the scenic coastline, wine tasting in nearby Carmel and dinner on Monterey’s famed Fisherman’s Wharf.

What made this day incredibly special was the fact that we were even here. It was supposed to be a week in paradise on the island of St. Lucia where a butler would have serviced us on call at Sandals Grande St. Lucian. But our life – and 10-year anniversary plans — changed 4 months earlier causing us to cancel the island dream vacation.

5:37 AM March 23, 2017

My wife Sue was driving on the highway of life in the darkness to her job in radiology at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, MI. Driving her black Ford Edge and singing A-ha’s ‘80’s classic “Take on Me’’ she slowed to stop at a traffic light at Woodward and Coolidge roads, about a half mile from her work. Her foot slipped off the brake. “That’s odd,’’ she thought.

Four hundred, thirty-five days and 48 seconds after being ruled cancer free from stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, Sue walked stoically through the hospital halls. An 18-year veteran at one of metro Detroit’s largest hospitals, Sue was a lead on its new radiology image viewing computer system. Implementation of the new system weighed heavily on her mind and that was her concern now. Nothing else, except her husband and 2 college-aged step-kids, mattered. As she walked by herself and with co-workers, she stumbled a few times over her right foot that day. Just being clumsy.

In July 2015, Sue was diagnosed with stage 4, Her 2 positive breast cancer. Her doctors expected her cancer to be knocked down by 50% at best, but with her treatment of chemotherapy, anti-cancer miracle medications Herceptin and Perjeta, positive thinking, my humor and the healing hand of God, the cancer was reduced by over 90% within just a few months. Miraculously, it completely disappeared in the middle of January 2016.

The cancer was gone.

Three, then four, then six consecutive bone scans confirmed that it was gone. Elated, Sue and I celebrated life with trips to Germany, New Orleans, wine country in Traverse City, MI, Las Vegas and half the state of Arizona, including Phoenix, Sedona, and the Grand Canyon.

And we got a puppy with the biblical name of Noah, named after a man who built a boat designed by God who survived a flood while the anguish and sins of a sickened humanity drowned. Noah seemed to define our life. Life was good. Life was strong. Life was fun. Wine tasting was our relaxation and wine-down time as we called it. Our life was planning the next adventure. 

Over the next couple weeks, Sue’s stumbling turned into a pronounced limp. I bought her a cane. Her oncologist Dr. Naveed Aslam ordered Sue to get an MRI of her spine and brain, stating that her limp from her right foot most likely was a pinched nerve in her back. But, it could also be that her stage 4 breast cancer had returned and gone into her brain, affecting her right foot.

That was impossible, we thought, especially after what we went through 2 years before. That was not going to happen.

On April 24th I drove my wife to her MRI appointment at the same hospital where she worked for the past 18 years. We prayed to God on the way that her condition was only a pinched nerve in her back.

12:07 PM April 25

Fifteen hours since Sue’s MRI, I was at my home office when my beautiful wife called my cell. One advantage of her working in radiology is that she can check her own test results. I knew she was calling to say her MRI result was only a pinched nerve in her back.

Her tears streamed through my phone when I answered. It had the weight of a brick and trembled in my hand as my body morphed into a cold sweat. The sound of whispered, wrenching pain filled my ears as Sue talked softly from her office filled with her co-workers.

“Tom

I checked my MRI results…

the cancer…

has gone to my brain.’’

Hearing my wife sob on the phone, I stared blankly out my office window.

Speechless.

Barely audible to me, an A-10 Thunderbird jet roared overhead on its way landing at Selfridge Air Force Base 3 miles away with a pilot on a different battle mission than mine and Sue’s.

I stared blankly at something not there outside our newly-built home. I looked to the floor. Noah stared at me with a confused look as tears ran down my face. He jumped into my lap, sniffed my nose and blinked.

….and started licking my left ear.

I snapped out of 30 seconds of anxiety-induced paralysis. Sue was saying something, but I interrupted and told her to call Dr. Aslam’s office, get an appointment that day and come home. We needed to fix this now.

We met with Dr. Aslam that day at 4:30 pm, who confirmed the MRI results that Sue’s breast cancer had gone into her brain. The images showed a tumor the size of a quarter in the left side of her brain in a region affecting her right foot. She also had a very small 8 mm tumor in the back of the right side of her brain. Strangely enough, while it was in her brain, it was her breast cancer.

“Can it be treated?’’ I asked Dr. Aslam.

‘’Yes,’’ he said with an encouraging, comforting smile. That is Dr. Aslam – he has a caring, generous, empathetic demeanor that calms your soul. “Most likely with surgery and then radiation.’’

I looked Dr. Aslam in the eyes and asked who he would recommend if his wife was having the surgery: Dr. Daniel Fahim.

Hit with a hammer again

We got home and went to dinner with our neighbors Mike and Cassie. We didn’t say a word about the news that we learned earlier in the day. We ate dinner, had some wine and laughed as we do with them. We went to bed trying to process news that we only learned 10 hours earlier. We laid lifeless. We were going through this again. Holding hands, we fell asleep praying to God.

It was different this time learning that Sue’s cancer had returned. Two years earlier when we first learned of her breast cancer it was devastating news because it was so unexpected, and it hit us like a hammer. But this time, we knew that it could come back somewhere even though we had labeled Sue as being cured of cancer. The fact that it returned in her brain was shocking and left us terrified. 

“Is this the beginning of the end for me?’’ Sue asked me that night.

“Sue – don’t ever think that again. No — it’s not. Let’s keep our faith and God will heal you again and get us through this,’’ I said. “We move forward, stay strong and beat this again with God’s healing hand.’’

The next day we went to work – to our jobs and to begin the process of saving Sue’s life.

Sue had her maintenance chemo treatment that Wednesday, which she has every three weeks — for life. Through a 3-hour infusion, anti-breast cancer medications Herceptin and Perjeta work together as a one-two punch to keep her type of cancer from spreading. For almost 18 months it has worked in her body.

But here is the unfortunate truth that we learned. While chemo, Herceptin and Perjeta affect the body and keep away the cancer, it doesn’t affect the brain. So, if you are reading this and are a survivor of breast cancer, make sure you are getting regular MRIs of your brain because a regular bone scan doesn’t map your brain. It can save your life.

Immediately, our life was put into high gear.

I barely knew what the next day was, but it was busy, having appointments with the brain surgeon and radiation oncologist Dr. Inga Grills, who would monitor a procedure after Sue’s surgery called Gammaknife. This is a non-invasive “surgery’’ performed over 80,000 times worldwide every year and is successful at stopping brain cancer in its tracks from multiplying any further. Gammaknife is successful and it works. It is a lifesaving technology. For Sue, Gammaknife would be used to treat the cavity left behind by the tumor removed by the brain surgeon and the tiny 8 mm lesion.

Meanwhile, Dr. Fahim’s resume looked like someone who was a 30-time Jeopardy game show champion.

With medical degrees from the University of Michigan, Baylor School of Medicine, Princeton and Harvard, he sounded like someone who could perform brain surgery and recite a Shakespearean play in 7 languages.

10 AM Thursday April 27

I had recently acquired a handicapped sticker from the State of Michigan for Sue. We parked in the one remaining handicapped spot at Dr. Daniel Fahim’s office on Northwestern Highway in Southfield, MI. It doubled as a physical therapy office for people who had gone through spinal and brain surgeries to rehabilitate.

We were led to a patient room and met with Dr. Fahim and his assistant. On a computer monitor, Dr. Fahim examined Sue’s MRI of her brain and studied it for a long, silent minute. He had a straight poker face with no emotion except for some subtle nods.

He turned to us.

“The good news is I can definitely remove this tumor. The bad news is that it’s in an area of the brain that is very challenging. I’ll cut away until the point that I don’t do any damage to the surrounding tissue.’’

I asked him if this is successful and if he can get the whole tumor. He looked down at me wide-eyed like I just asked Shakespeare if he could write a play.

In surgical terms, this guy WAS Shakespeare. I just challenged a U of M-Baylor-Princeton-Harvard grad.

Oh My.

Dr. Fahim explained that due to insurance, surgery would be a week or two away – and sometimes longer — due to insurance delays, but he would try hard to get it sooner.

Two hours later we were in the office of Dr. Inga Grills and her team, who described to us the Gammaknife radiation procedure that Sue would go through about 3 weeks after her surgery. They would affix a square cage to her head and place a helmet on top. Intense, invisible radiation beams would blare through holes in the helmet and strike the area of the tumors and stop any further growth. Eventually the residue would flush out of her body. I asked if we could keep the helmet afterwards as a souvenir, but I didn’t have $50,000 on hand to pay for it…. Not THAT kind of helmet. 

Friday was a busy day. While I was at my downtown Grosse Pointe office at OpenSystems Media, my wife was 3 miles away working at Beaumont Hospital on the shores of Lake St. Clair. Through some miracle, Dr. Fahim’s office was able to schedule surgery for 3 days later — Monday, May 1.

The timeframe between learning that Sue had the tumors in her brain and the scheduled surgery would be just 144 hours. That’s not a lot of time to prepare.

The weekend for me was just like any other waiting for your wife to go through brain surgery to remove her breast cancer. Aside from my wife, I turned to a good combination: God and wine. Both calmed my nerves. Together that weekend, we powered through season 6 of Game of Thrones and comforted each other. 

City of Stars

We awoke at 3 am Monday, May 1 for Sue’s noon surgery. Standing in our driveway, maybe it was my sleepless eyes, but I couldn’t get over how brightly the stars were shining that morning from our home in Chesterfield Township, MI. They were radiant against the darkness of space. Before we left, I followed one streak across the sky and made a silent wish.

We got to the hospital and Sue checked in. Within 5 minutes she was taken to a room to prep her for brain surgery. This was going to be the biggest challenge of our lives together and I was scared. She went in nervously smiling, but was brave.

I remember when she was first diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, Sue said to me, “I wish they could just cut it out of me and it would be gone.’’ This time I said, “The great news is Sue, this time they can just cut it out of you and it will be gone.’’

I waited for my mom to arrive and for a nurse to take us to the surgical prep room where Sue would remain until surgery. I was trying to download the newly released musical movie La La Land on my iPad through the hospital’s normally reliable WIFI and it was loading very slowly. Mom and I were going to watch it at the hospital.

She arrived and we went back to see Sue in her prep room, who looked apprehensive, but very adorable in her hospital gown. Surgery was 2 hours from now. La La Land was only 7% downloaded. Things were moving slowly and surgery was already delayed by an hour. This was going to be a very long day.

I held Sue’s hand lovingly and tightly as we talked, laughed and prayed while she laid in her bed in the small surgery prep room. At 1 pm, a team of medical personnel came into the room to take her to surgery. The room started spinning. I weakly stepped away from her bed, slowly releasing Sue’s hand, and broke down crying. I quickly blamed it on allergies and a nurse handed me a tissue box. I told Sue I loved her. They wheeled her away in her bed to surgery. Her life and my memories of her were in the hands of Dr. Fahim.

La La Land was only 18% downloaded.

Sue remembers me breaking down, then being wheeled from the surgical prep room to the operating room. The medical team made her move from the stretcher to a very thin OR table. It was a bright room with lots of machines, lights flashing and bells dinging. No artwork was in this room.

“When I got on the table, there was a whirlwind of activity around me — hooking me up to machines, lots of people talking and asking me questions like my name and what surgery I was getting. It felt like chaos,” Sue said. “I remember I didn’t have a lot of time to think about what was happening. I mean, they were going to be doing surgery on my brain.”

A mask was put over her face, Sue didn’t like the smell, and she was asleep in seconds.

My brother arrived 20 minutes later and joined mom and I in the emergency waiting room. Sue was asleep now under medication. We went to eat a few blocks away at the Red Coat Tavern in Royal Oak. The left side of my head started hurting at 2:10 pm. I never get headaches. We returned to the hospital 2 hours later and learned that Sue’s surgery started at 2:05 pm. The surgical drill probably started about 2:10 pm into the top left side of her head. Sympathy pains indeed.

Will she walk again? Will she talk again?

Will she be paralyzed? Will she die?

Can I say I love you one last time?

These questions run through your mind as your wife is going through brain surgery. This was not a tooth extraction.

The answer came at 5:30 pm when Dr. Fahim came out to the waiting room with a glowing smile on his face. The surgery was successful, and he was able to easily remove the 3 cm tumor from her brain.

I firmly shook the hand that just saved my wife’s life. Dr. Fahim smiled proudly. He briefly gave me details, then excused himself to prep for another patient’s surgery. Someone else’s life needed to be saved.

Sue was in recovery and I could see her in about 2 hours. La La Land was 52% downloaded.

Without warning, my 20-year-old son Justin showed up at the hospital to visit. He had just driven 3 hours from Central Michigan University — during final exam week — to be there. That was a wonderful, unexpected surprise. Things were coming together quickly and suddenly La La Land was 81% downloaded.

After the mask was placed over Sue’s face, the next thing she remembers was people calling to her loudly to wake up.

“When I woke up, I was thinking — wow I just had surgery on my brain. How did it go? My head feels weird. There were bright lights and commotion and lots of people talking,” Sue said. “I knew I was in the hospital, but I didn’t know where I was. I was thinking, `Where’s Tom? Am I OK?’ “

Shortly after 6 pm, my mom and brother left and within minutes a nurse escorted Justin and I to intensive care to see Sue. I went to her room expecting to see the worst, but instead saw my wife looking like normal, but in a hospital gown with a small hairline, stapled incision at the top of her head. Although hooked up to a network of IVs and monitors, she looked good…. And she was alive.

“Hi honey. I love you,’’ Sue weakly said from her bed. “How did everything go?”

“Dr. Fahim got everything,’’ I said. “He was able to remove the entire tumor.’’

We said a short prayer and thanked God for giving Dr. Fahim the strength and power to successfully perform the surgery and remove the tumor and to heal Sue quickly. Justin and I spent a couple hours with her before she asked us to go home because she needed to sleep.

Finally, at the end of this tremendously long day, La La Land was downloaded at 100%.

Justin and I walked outside the hospital that night at 11:30 pm. I looked up at the clear sky and remarked how brightly the stars were shining. They were vibrant against the darkness of space. I watched one streak across the sky and I made a wish again.

Sue spent 12 days in total at the hospital between the intensive care unit, the neurological recovery unit and the physical therapy floor. Her recovery was extremely remarkable. Immediately after surgery, nurses and I needed to help her with simple tasks. The first 24 hours were the worst — and the nurses warned me of that. It was tough seeing her recover from surgery, but I stayed strong, as did Sue.

By the time Sue was released from the hospital on May 12, she was able to move around with her rolling walker without much difficulty. A neurologist explained that the brain is remarkable and would eventually rewire and repair itself. 

We especially were impressed with the nurses in the ICU who worked tirelessly with Sue and many other patients. They are the unsung heroes at the hospital.

The Recovery Starts

It was a bright, sunny Friday before Mother’s Day. I wheeled Sue from her room at 11:30 am to our car waiting in valet at Beaumont Hospital. Twelve days earlier she was awaiting surgery to remove a brain tumor. I helped her to the car, took her wheeled walker, folded it up and placed it in the back hatch of my Ford Edge. For now, this would be the process of getting my wife in and out of the car.

For almost 2 weeks I went home alone at night. I slept in our bed alone for the first time in our marriage. Oddly enough, Noah – who had never slept with us — slept with me every night when Sue was in the hospital. She hadn’t seen him in almost 2 weeks.

We arrived home, I helped her from the car and Sue clunked up the 7 steps in our garage, grasping the hand rail and dragging up one foot at a time. She opened the door for the first time in almost 2 weeks and all 16 pounds of Noah charged at her with tail wagging and tongue lapping.

Sue was home! A mountain of flowers in vases greeted her on our kitchen island. Recovery was the next step and it was a big one because she had to strengthen her right foot enough to walk unaided and drive a car again. Dr. Fahim told us it would be a 2-3-month recovery. At this point she could only walk with a walker. Two months seemed so far away, especially in our new colonial home. Why did we have to build a house with so many stairs?

Miracles do happen

Matthew 8, 1-7 (NIV) Jesus stepped into a boat, crossed over and came to his own town. Some men brought to him a paralyzed man, lying on a mat. ”So he said to the paralyzed man, “Get up, take your mat and go home.” Then the man got up and went home. When the crowd saw this, they were filled with awe; and they praised God, who had given such authority to man.

While Sue isn’t ready to run a marathon, now in December she’s, incredibly, walking about 98% from normal. 

She hasn’t used the walker since late June.

The cane joined the dusty clutter in our basement.

She started driving June 28th.

And she started back at work full time July 3rd.

She had the outpatient Gammaknife procedure successfully about 2 weeks after returning home, which treated the cavity left behind by the tumor and the 8 mm spot.

Thinking back, Sue’s recovery since she returned home went smoothly. That’s easy to say now, but it was 2 days per week of intense physical therapy and occupational therapy at Beaumont Hospital. She worked hard at her recovery. It was not an easy task. She had the drive and determination to get healed and get well. She pushed herself daily to strengthen her mind and strengthen her body.

Since then, Sue as has had three brain MRIs, which all have shown that no more tumors exist in her brain. She had a body scan Sept. 19th, which showed that she has no cancer anywhere in her body. She is evidence of a true miracle from God – and all three of her doctors sincerely believe that. Again, according to her doctors, she is cancer free.

For now, every 3 months she will have an MRI brain scan and every 6 months she will have a full body scan to determine if there is any cancer.

This is our life. It’s not the life that we want, but it’s not a life of fear either; it’s a life of joy that we make with each other, cherishing every moment, every breath and finding spiritual balance. We still are always looking toward our next adventure and knowing, with comfort, that we have God’s healing hand on our side. 

During our time with Sue’s cancer battle we have seen people taken from it. We have seen people who are devastated and living a life of fear, anxiety and dread. But it doesn’t have to be like that.

“If I allow myself to think about it with what I have and what I’m going through I could have an anxiety attack every day and be in really bad shape,’’ Sue has told me. “But I don’t think about it. I think about future things and get excited about things that are coming ahead. I have the best and most supportive husband in the world and I thank God every day for him.’’

I had to include that quote.

Our cancer battle in Sue can come back anytime and we know that. It could come back in 3 months, 3 years or 30 years. I – as the spouse of a cancer survivor – worry and suffer from anxiety every time that Sue has an MRI or body scan. But I have faith in God and his healing power. Thankfully, God has provided us with medicine and treatments that can extend my wife’s life. We have comfort in knowing that. 

One day – like for you and me — life will come to an end – maybe at the age of 85 when we have prayed to God that he lets us live together; or it could come in the next year, in 5 years or 20 years. We just cherish each other and live until we die. After all, life is just a number. Our experiences and memories of life are what matters, not the number.

For now, we continue living our lives and creating our next adventure: California in August, Las Vegas last month, Christmas this month and Italy and Prague in March.

One day, St. Lucia, we’ll see you. My wife and I have a lot of life to live together. Sue isn’t ready to leave yet. And I’m not ready to let her go.