Columnist Muriel Stevens: Cancer claims a good man, but memories are healthy and strong

Tuesday, Dec. 2, 1997 | 9:49 a.m.

One week before Thanksgiving, my brother-in-law Martin Susson lost his battle with brain cancer.

The insidious disease struck suddenly last December. It came without warning. One day he was well, the next day he was desperately ill, fighting for his life.

When the diagnosis was made, after a battery of tests that never seemed to be conclusive, it was determined he had a rare form of brain cancer, inoperable, with little available treatment. An aggressive course of radiation would, if it didn't kill him, give him a little time. It was a shock to all of us.

His daughter, Judith, turned to the Internet, searching for a glimmer of hope. Instead, she found just a few lines about the rare tumor that confirmed the doctors' diagnosis. He had at the most, said the medical pundits, a few months. Through sheer determination, and a zest for life that continued beyond the coma that signaled the end, he never gave up. He lived 11 months, more than twice the prognosis. And, in spite of a steady decline, he continued to go out with his family, even when he had to be carried.

No one who knew him was surprised. Throughout his life, whatever his goal, he never gave up. When the news came of his terminal illness it was a jolt. I never thought of Marty and death. He was the ultimate survivor, great at picking up the pieces and getting on with his life. Just five years before he had beaten another cancer (it was not related to the one that ended his life).

It was his decision not to continue chemotherapy after the surgery. The treatments were devastating. When the doctor could not assure him that they would prolong his life or that stopping would shorten it, he opted for quality over quantity. He called me to discuss what he had done and why he had made the decision. If anyone had asked me, I would have bet that he would accept any straw that might possibly buy him time.

Always a gambler, he was now betting he could beat the odds. But for the new illness, he could have.

The friendship we developed over the years was a long time in the making. We had little in common. He was a brash, earthy, world-wise realist. My view of the world was, in those early days, rose-colored and innocent. He was macho to the core. In his world, women, including his wife Hildy, proved their love by going along for the ride, no matter how bumpy. Hildy was the ideal mate for Marty. She had a voice and never hesitated to use it, and she survived the bumps. Shortly before his death they celebrated their 56th wedding anniversary.

The thought of never again having the "discussions" with Marty that over the years had become a favorite form of family entertainment didn't seem possible. We'd argued over everything from politics to cooking for so many years it was expected, even when I went to visit him in the hospital in California, where he lived.

How do you measure the life of a man? If the value of a life is measured by the family left behind, then Martin's life brimmed with uncommon success. His illness forever changed the lives of his family, wife Hildy, sons David and Mark, daughters-in-law Jill and Dana, daughter Judith and her spouse Neal Lewis. Hildy is an award-winning Estee Lauder rep, David is a CPA, Jill is an interior designer, Mark and Dana are lawyers, Judith assists Neal, who is a CPA. There is little spare time in these busy lives. From the moment of Martin's diagnosis they were personally there for him. The devotion, love, and time they gave belied the fact that they could easily have hired others to care for him.

As he became more and more dependent, they became his nurses, attendants, entertainers and supporters. He was never alone. Until the end, there was always at least one member of the family in the room with him. And, they set a marvelous example for grandchildren Shira and Jeffrey Lewis, Michael and Andrea Susson, and Matthew and Sarah Susson, showing the difference between material participation and pure selflessness. It was an example for us all.

It was a beautiful day in Newport Beach when the grave-side service took place. Marty would have approved of the site with its magnificent view. The rabbi's words were brief, but poignant. He spoke of the devotion of the family and how on one of the last days of Martin's life he watched as son Mark interacted with his comatose father. Suddenly, he heard Mark exclaim, "gotcha." "What did it mean," he asked Mark. Even in a coma, Mark explained, hearing is the last sense to go, so he had challenged his father to another of their frequent thumb wrestling competitions. To Mark's amazement, his father responded, pressing his thumb against Mark's.

After the rabbi's comments, David, and then Mark ,eulogized their father. There was humor along with the sorrow as the men recounted life with their father, and their mother, who never missed one of their children's or grandchildren's sporting events and school activities. The steamroller, high-powered businessman his colleagues knew was also a devoted family man. His sons lovingly captured his essence -- even the shortcomings. As a tribute to their father, it was peerless.

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