Michael
F. Susi '81
"The biopsy results were positive; you have cancer."
Three simple words: "You have cancer." I had a feeling it was
coming. Yet nothing prepares you for the numbing of your entire
human essence that those words bring. To this day I'm not sure
if the void that came over me -- I went completely blank, staring
out the office window -- lasted for five seconds or five minutes.
Prior to that dreadful day, my wife, Karen, and I were in the
early stages of starting a family. As the months and then years
went by, anticipation turned to anxiety. Each remedial action
was followed by months of evaluation. First it was Karen's turn:
exams, tests, evaluations, laparoscopic surgery, drugs, etc. Nothing.
Then it was my turn: exams, tests, evaluations, outpatient surgery
to correct a minor problem, etc. Nothing. In an ironic twist however,
that deep desire to bring new life into the world brought me to
the urologist who would later deliver the message that I had testicular
cancer.
It began with a discomfort; my dad remembering a comment I made
as we drove to Monmouth Park in New Jersey while taking some vacation
time with him. Then came the tenderness and swelling. On a Thursday
in early autumn, 1993, as I was delivering training sessions,
it took everything I had to keep from passing out in front of
the group.
During lunch break I phoned the urologist. After an exam later
that afternoon, the list of possible causes he gave me was not
long. While still keeping things open, he did a good job of letting
me read between the lines. I took the hint. At home, I told Karen,
"I think I have cancer."
After no response to antibiotics over the weekend, I was back
in on Monday. I don't recall the exam, but the conclusion was
that I had a tumor. A biopsy was scheduled and performed within
a couple of weeks.
So that is how my life came to intersect the words "you have
cancer." From that moment forward I was thrust into a world of
percentages and avoidance of the dreaded "M" word -- metastasize.
My data indicated about a 50 percent chance that it had spread.
Yet I was fortunate, because, as I recall, it came with an 80
to 90 percent cure rate. Because Karen and I had been struggling
to start a family for some years prior to this, the complexity
and stress of the situation increased tenfold.
After Dr. Laudone presented me with all of the pertinent percentages,
my gut lead me to a rather quick decision. The disease caught
me by surprise with the first shot, but I was going to take whatever
steps necessary to stay one step ahead of it. Rather then take
a wait-and-see approach with monthly scans, I opted for surgery.
The surgery was a lymph node dissection and (as I would come
to know) was fairly brutal. It also came with a 10 or 15 percent
chance that the surgery could leave me unable to have children.
This additional little twist became, I think, a blessing in disguise.
For a period of time, my focus shifted primarily to this child
I didn't have. Sounds crazy, but it did.
A short time into my journey I remember the professional golfer
Paul Azinger entering into his version of the cancer journey.
I recall a quote he gave that went something like this, "For me,
it's a private battle." Bingo! He couldn't have described my approach
any better. Some in this situation need or choose to discuss it
with many people. That's fine; it's their way of getting support.
For me however, the choice was to tell only trusted confidants.
My wife fielded voluminous phone calls from wonderful family and
friends, allowing me to rest and get an occasional break from
the journey. At work only senior management and the HR manager
knew of the diagnosis. Believe me, it was nice not to constantly
talk about the cancer.
While I was spinning in the whirlpool of decisions and emotions,
I received two of the best pieces of advice from two of those
trusted confidants. The first came from one of my dearest friends,
who also happens to be one of the Notre Dame "crew" that, like
so many others, has stayed close through the years. He said, "Zeus
(my nickname), you can only slay one dragon at a time." It's more
profound than you think. His message: "Get better first, then
worry about your 'family.'"
The second, from my dad, was along the same lines. He noted
that if I weren't around, I wouldn't have to worry about a family
at all. "So take care of yourself first," he advised. With that,
I focused on fighting my battle and putting the rest in God's
hands.
The surgery, although arduous, couldn't have had a better outcome.
While still recovering in the hospital, I received the news that
all lymph node specimens tested negative. The ramifications were
significant. First and foremost, no chemotherapy was required.
Also, testing (scans, x-rays, blood work) every six months instead
of monthly. And, as I would learn sometime later, we could still
(theoretically) have a family.
Because the type of cancer I had was aggressive, the first two
years (and especially the first) were significant. If the cancer
were going to move elsewhere, it would move quickly. The week
before the check-ups, I was naturally always a bit more anxious.
But as each pictures and blood work came back normal, my confidence
built. My recollection is that it was around the 18-month check-up
that I broached the family subject. If we were able to conceive
(even though the odds were low), I asked, would I be around to
see the child? Technically, complete cure is deemed at five years,
the "unless you get run over by a car" response was a pretty good
green light.
I received some tremendous gifts from that journey. But after
years of trying and failing, after losing some of the requisite
anatomy, after looking my mortality square in the eye and conquering,
still nothing could compare to the elation upon hearing three
simple words, "Honey, I'm pregnant."
Christine Theresa Susi was born February 22, 1995. To this day,
my dad calls her the miracle baby. Her cries as an infant were
pure joy. "Cries of life," I called them.
Two years later Karen and I would be blessed again with the
playmate we had wanted for Christine. Indeed, Alicia Michelle
and Christine are inseparable. They frequently bring to mind a
quote above my desk at home, "Happiness is a sort of atmosphere
you can live in sometimes when you're lucky. Joy is a light that
fills you with hope and faith and love." Those two little miracles
bring me great joy.
My 5-year follow-up came on a Friday morning. The good news
that I was now officially cured was followed by handshakes and
hugs from Dr. Laudone and his nurse Carol, and wishes for a great
life. Frankly, I already had one.
The first stop I made was at our church. I thanked God for the
miracles in my life and for the fortunate "one and done' with
cancer. In particular I thanked him for the peace, love and joy
it has given me and asked him to help me never lose the great
lessons I had learned. Next I went home and wrote thank-you notes
to the many who supported me.
Finally, coming full circle, I picked up Christine early at
her preschool. She never saw the tears I cried while driving there.
We went to the pond in town and fed the ducks. We celebrated life
on a beautiful autumn afternoon.
* * *
Mike Susi has had no recurrence of the cancer. Christine is now
8 years old and Alicia is 6; their father is coaching them in
soccer.
March 2003
