Finding Joy One Day at a Time...
by Jennifer Kornegay | photography by Big Dreamz Creative
Cancer has been—and still is—a big part of Susan Reed’s life. It’s a fact that’s hard to reconcile with her easy smile that appears so often and is so freely given to most anyone she encounters. Reed is a cancer survivor. Her husband died of cancer in April 2022. And she’s the Vice President of Oncology Services and Administrator at The Montgomery Cancer Center. Cancer’s kinda everywhere Reed looks. So how does she maintain the hope that’s evident in that aforementioned sunny disposition? How does she provide the care and compassion to others facing cancer that her career demands? And what wisdom can she share about outliving the love of your life? JOY magazine recently sat down with Reed to find out.
JOY: What was your journey to your position at The Montgomery Cancer Center?
Reed: I was an accountant working for Price Waterhouse doing audits, and Baptist Health was a client. I spent months at Baptist doing that work, and what I witnessed made me want to be a part of that team. I saw such service. I saw how they shoulder the responsibility to take care of their community, and I felt like I had something to offer that mission. So, I called the CEO at Baptist and said, I don’t know if you have a position open or what that would be, but I want to come work for y’all. They found a place for me, and that was 2010. I was working at a physician’s practice, when in 2015, the administrator at the Cancer Center retired, and they moved me into that role. My husband became a patient here in 2013, so we kinda joked that I was uniquely qualified for the job. It was supposed to be temporary, but here I am. It’s the best job I’ve ever had.
What’s your personal history with cancer?
In 2011, when I was 31, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. At that time, UAB was the closest place offering the surgical treatment and radiation that I needed. The treatments worked, and I’m now 10 years cancer free, so it is really behind me. There are some lifelong implications when it comes to medicines I can take. My salivary glands don’t work so well anymore. So, I do still think about it, but not often. One thing that does stand out though: I sure wish I’d had the resources we now offer at the Cancer Center. Having to go to Birmingham just made everything more complex. I’m so glad we can now help Montgomery patients get treatment here at home.
Surviorship Starts on Day 1 I don’t really like the “lost the battle” analogy when someone dies from cancer. Cancer survivorship starts on the day of diagnosis, so every day you survive, you win; you are a survivor right then.
Tell us about your husband, Darren.
Darren and I met at work; he was the IT guy for Baptist, and I had called the help desk. We got married in December 2011. In spring 2013, he was diagnosed with colon cancer. He was an otherwise healthy 42-year-old. He’d noticed some issues but thought they were just changes due to him getting older or thought maybe he should eat a little better, and he didn’t get them checked out. But when he mentioned them to his primary care doctor, he told Darren to get a colonoscopy, so he did. Before they woke him up, they called me back and asked if we had a family surgeon. I was like, wait. What? Do people have family surgeons? They explained he had colon cancer, and he’d need surgery to remove it. When he woke up, I had to tell him. He had surgery that week, and the surgeon was adamant that we meet with oncologist Dr. Scott McDaniel. We did, and he ordered some imaging scans to make sure the cancer was gone. It wasn’t. It had spread to his liver and lungs. Over the next nine years, Darren underwent chemo and radiation and more surgeries and was amazing through all of it. He was a quiet, private person by nature, but he opened up about his cancer experiences to others, and I think him sharing his story really helped people. He died this past April.
What do you want people to take away from his story?
The face of cancer is changing. Cancer is developing in younger and younger people. You know your body better than anyone else; if something feels off or wrong, pay attention to that and go get it checked out. Darren said multiple times that in retrospect he should have known and could have found out earlier.
How has Darren’s cancer affected your work at the Cancer Center?
Me watching him go through treatment changed how I manage this place. It hammered home that our job here is as much about the caregiver and family as it is the cancer patient. So much of cancer treatment is outpatient today, and that means families are the ones providing so much of the care.
How has losing Darren impacted your outlook on life?
When cancer goes to your heart, it wins; don’t let it. And you can fight back by looking for the joy in every day. It is there, and it may be hard, but you can find it. We both kept working. We traveled and enjoyed great times together. Life is still moving around you, and it doesn’t have to be over before it’s actually over just because of cancer. This sounds odd, but a cancer diagnosis can even be a blessing. It changes your perspective in a powerful way; it did mine. Things I thought were important, I realized, they’re not. I set my priorities carefully now. I choose how I spend my time with a different mindset. Darren’s faith was important too. Never once did he question or say, “Why me?”. Because of that, he impacted so many people with his walk through cancer. He was an upbeat force around people who I know needed that, so there are positives there. And despite what we do here, there is still a lot of joy and hope at Cancer Center. I want people to know that. It is an incredible place providing amazing care. Darren had everything he needed here, and the nine years he got were more than anyone said he would have. He didn’t want to waste a moment of that time though in a car or on a plane, so the Cancer Center let us stay home.
Go easy on yourself. As Darren was coming to the end of his life, I was very distraught by the fact that he wouldn’t eat or drink. I was trying so hard to make sure I was giving him food he liked. A nurse pulled me aside and said, “This is not about the food you are giving him; his body is preparing for the end. You need to let that go.”
Second, just do the next right thing. And what I mean is, you don’t have to know what happens a year from now. You don’t have to know what next month looks like. Just know what you need to do today. You can’t let the future’s uncertainty overwhelm you. You have to accept that it is unknown. Finally, don’t compare your grief to others; don’t judge it. We’re all different.
My Dad, Nathan Hamilton, was a patient at the cancer center. He had a stage 4 glioblastoma multiforme brain tumor. Watching him suffer through that was the hardest thing I have ever experienced. He had to do the maximum amount of radiation following surgery and chemo therapy. The chemo was a breeze compared to the radiation. It burned his face, and it destroyed any of the healthy brain cells he had left. Before the radiation, I still had something of my Dad’s personality. After the radiation, he was almost a vegetable. I wish we had gone with hospice rather than the radiation. Everyone at the cancer center was very nice, but I wish the doctor had told my parents that it would be more merciful to go with hospice. At least I would have had more quality time with him rather than months of extended suffering. I know he would have died either way, but at least he wouldn’t have suffered from the burns and radiation sickness. I still struggle this. Doing the maximum treatment isn’t always the right decision for every patient.