Brodie’s story in memory of her husband Mike

My wonderful husband unfortunately passed away from Stage 4 bowel cancer in December 2024 at the young age of 39, only 16 months after being diagnosed and 20 months after displaying symptoms.

It was April 2023; Mike and I both had the flu when he got bloody diarrhoea.  We thought having the flu had irritated his insides. The GP thought it was diverticulitis.

Due to being low risk for bowel cancer, he didn’t see the specialist for three months, and even then, they said it’s likely ulcerative colitis – there is only a 1% chance that it is cancer. Two weeks later they couldn’t even complete the colonoscopy successfully, as the tumour was almost blocking his bowel. Three days later he was in surgery. We thought it would be early stages, as he only recently started displaying symptoms; however, the PET scan revealed it had spread to his liver and peritoneum. The peritoneum metastases were small and appeared to be knocked out by treatment, because they never showed up in another scan. The liver metasteses were significant – approximately 20-25 tumours, which ranged from individual tumours to clusters of them.

The next four months became a stream of scans, surgeries, fertility preservation, chemotherapy education, extreme health and hygiene precautions, fortnightly blood tests and oncology appointments, and organising our life into monthly blocks. Not being able to plan ahead for anything because chemo dates would change based on tests and we would never know how Mike would feel as it would impact him differently each fortnight. This all became even harder with a newborn and learning to be parents, not to mention the decline in Mike’s and my mental health behind closed doors…something neither of us had ever really struggled with before.

In December 2023, only three months after starting chemo, Mike received a NED (no evidence of disease) PET scan. He was downgraded to maintenance chemo, which was so manageable side-effect-wise. Perfect timing for us to have a celebratory Christmas (which, unbeknownst to us, would be our last one together) and then the birth of our beautiful baby girl. Unfortunately, maintenance chemo didn’t work, and it needed to be increased. Fast forward to May 2024, when we were told there was no point in continuing chemo because it wasn’t working well enough and Mike had about six months left to live. Our only option was clinical trials in Sydney. Mike was eligible for three available stage one trials, including one that had only been trialled in rats so far.

A week later, on Mike’s 39th birthday, we travelled elsewhere to receive a desperate second opinion from the head oncologist at that hospital, and it was decided that while not easy, surgery on his liver was possible with one particular surgeon – something that we had been told numerous times was not possible from the specialists here in our hometown. The surgeon was very transparent. He said it was a highly complex and risky surgery, and it also wasn’t a cure, just a shot at prolonging life as a Stage 4 cancer patient.

A month or so later, they wheeled Mike off to surgery for his liver resection. They were going to cut three entire sections out of his liver, plus ‘shark bite’ pieces out of the remaining sections, as the cancer had spread to parts of every lobe. It was estimated the surgery would be between 6 and 10 hours, and Mike would need to stay under anaesthesia for a further 8 hours in the ICU to aid in the healing process and limit bleeding. I reminded myself that the surgeon was confident, knowledgeable, and well prepared after printing a 3D model of Mike’s liver with the cancer throughout to practice the surgery.

The surgery was successful, and tests showed they removed all of the visible cancer, which was confirmed again four weeks post-op. He had to be monitored closely for a few days for signs of liver failure or collapsed lungs, a potential impact of the surgery. It was all smooth sailing. Mike was one determined human – he was up walking as much as he could, introducing our daughter and me to other patients he had met while walking the corridors, chatting to everyone he saw, and trying to brighten everyone’s day with his sense of humour. He even ran out to tell one of the nurses that he’d pooped for the first time since surgery, so that he could have solid foods ASAP.

Two months later, tests showed all was looking well, and he required one more month of healing his liver before he needed to go back onto a different chemotherapy drug to mop anything microscopic up. “Your liver function has never been great,” we were continuously told; so they wanted his liver to heal as much as possible to give it the best chance at coping with chemo again.

That next month, Mike began feeling healthier and more like himself, so we were positive the next check-up would be good news. It wasn’t. It was back in his liver. They did not expect this based on his previous test results only 4 weeks earlier (3.5-4 months after surgery). Mike restarted chemo ASAP.

In November, Mike had been complaining of pain in his liver area for a few weeks and was progressively taking more and more over-the-counter pain meds, which was unlike him. I noticed the beginning of jaundice in Mike’s eyes, and the hospital said to come in immediately. After a number of days in the hospital and numerous tests, they gave us the news: he was in end-stage liver failure. Two weeks later he died peacefully and pain-free in my arms in the comfort of our home.

Mike felt strongly about providing awareness for bowel cancer in young people, and I promised him that I would continue to do this for him. This year, June 2025, marks the first year of the ‘Never2Young Trivia Night’ in honour of him. He loved spending time with friends and family and just having a good time, which led to the trivia night. I vow to make his memory a yearly event, along with the help of some friends.