I recently volunteered at an annual event I always look forward to: Brain Tumor Awareness Day, at Providence Saint John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, California. It’s a subject close to my heart. My husband, Stephen Beech was diagnosed with a brain stem tumor in 2018, and he died in October 2021, after a long and difficult illness. At this year’s event, I was particularly moved by the main speaker, brain cancer survivor, Kenny Chu, a 39-year-old father of two, who was there with his wife, Mimi.
Kenny is one of the most courageous and inspiring people I’ve ever met, full of joy, wisdom, and humor. Here, he tells his story.
— Elaine Lipworth
By Kenny Chu
Funny how life works. January 1 is both a beautiful and tragic day for me. On January 1, 2011, I met Mimi for the very first time at her cousin’s New Year’s party. She was dressed in purple. We went outside, I held her hand, and we looked up at the stars. She was beautiful.
Six years later, on January 1, 2017, Mimi, by then my girlfriend, saw me convulsing in front of her in a busy restaurant and dialed 911. An EMT who happened to be there rushed to our table. Paramedics arrived, and Mimi climbed inside a roaring ambulance with me. I was told later I had multiple seizures at the restaurant and was convulsing in the ambulance. All I remembered was waking up having been magically transported to a hospital bed.
Diagnosed with brain cancer
I discovered I had brain cancer, a grade three anaplastic astrocytoma. I felt heartbroken and hopeless. I had surgery which was followed by a year of chemotherapy, and 30 sessions of radiation. The chemo gave me nausea and the radiation made my hair fall out. Thinking I’d never be well again, I actually wrote a farewell letter to basketball — the sport I love.
Mimi and I weren’t married at the time, but I researched distributing my retirement funds and investigated life insurance policies. I banked my sperm in the hopes of having a family with Mimi one day.
We got married
In May 2019, Mimi and I walked down the aisle. By that time she was a specialty pharmacist, I was a tax director and CPA at Stockdale Capital Partners. I still had brain cancer and was having bi-monthly check-ups.
We went on to have two healthy boys: Rylan and Royce. We spent our weekends reading, playing, going to parks, and grocery shopping. Life was wonderfully uneventful. For seven years there was no evidence of tumor progression.
Father-Son day with Rylan
My parents inspired me
As I’ve navigated my illness, I drew courage from my parents. I’ve often reflected on their struggles and how they overcame them. In 1979, Mom and Dad were Vietnamese refugees fleeing to America in treacherous waters on what looked like toy boats. They spent seven days in the ocean and used a bucket to pour water out of the sinking boat. Miraculously, they landed in America after spending a year in refugee camps with cuts on their hands and empty pockets.
It’s a miracle I was even born.
Mom and Dad traveled across the States and ended up in Covina, Calif., where my sister and I were born and raised. Mom always stressed the importance of having a full refrigerator — and hope in your heart.
Defying the odds
On September 18, 2024 on a routine visit with my neuro-oncologist, Dr. Naveed Wagle, at Saint John’s Hospital, an MRI revealed “interval disease progression,” which meant another surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and started treatment.
The median life expectancy for an anaplastic astrocytoma like mine is roughly five to seven years. I’m in year eight. I’ve now had 31 consecutive MRI scans and there’s now no evidence of disease progression. The hopeful news for the future: I qualify for targeted chemotherapy. There’s no cure for my cancer, simply treatments to prolong life. But I’m staying positive. There’s so much research being done, I’m hopeful there are other innovations are around the corner.
I ran a marathon
While I was still having treatment, I decided to run the Los Angeles marathon in the hope of regaining control over my life. I’ve run marathons in the past, and I wanted to prove to myself I still had the perseverance and stamina. I wanted to build back my courage, which had been decimated from cancer. I knew that if I could complete a marathon, I could do anything.
It was harder than I thought. In the middle of the race, exhausted, overcome with fatigue and dehydration, I called an Uber. But then I summoned my strength, canceled the Uber, and continued running. Somehow, I ended up completing 26.2 miles, crossing the finish line in seven hours.
After the marathon I thought about the similarities between marathons, my parents’ courageous journey and my cancer journey. Living with cancer is like running a marathon. It’s grueling. It’s painful. While you’re running, it feels neverending. But you don’t give up.
Living with gratitude
Even though life would be easier without cancer, I’ve discovered that there’s so much beauty in the journey Mimi and I are on together. Brain cancer has a funny way of reminding me to feel grateful for every oxygen molecule that’s filling my lungs.
I feel grateful for the friends and family who’ve helped me. I’m grateful to my dad who has never left my side, to my mom for pretending she never cries, and to my sister, Jenny, for driving in rush hour traffic from Santa Barbara to see me in the hospital. I’m grateful to Mimi who is always there for me.
For someone who’s struggled with self-worth all my life, cancer has also helped me find solace. I’ve also come to the realization that my brain cancer is less about reaching a better place and more about being present, even if the cancer comes back tomorrow because today is already a miracle.
Spending time with my family,being a dad to my boys and watching them grow up is a miracle to me. Rylan, who is now 5-years-old, loves apples, can count to 100 and bounces a basketball 300 times without stopping. (He’s inherited my passion for the game.) Royce, who’s 3, loves broccoli, knows his ABCs, and can hit pickle balls over into our neighbors’ yard.
Looking ahead
Mom was right. There’s always hope. There’s hope that I’ll see Rylan and Royce graduate college. Maybe I’ll see how beautiful Mimi looks when she’s gray. Maybe we’ll go to Disneyland on my 60th birthday, and in the hot summer we’ll eat watermelon under a shady tree. Maybe one day Mimi and I will retire and travel around the world. Maybe one day our sons will stop asking if I still have cancer.
Maybe there will be a day when I realize I’m cancer free.
I can picture Mimi and I growing old together. We’ll laugh together and enjoy our beautiful life, and the beautiful people in it. I can picture us one day with tears in our eyes reading an email from Dr. Wagle that says: “Remember Kenny, no one can predict the future. You are one of a kind, and your journey is unique.”
With enough courage and hope I intend to make that journey a long one.
