As we take this weekend to remember and honor my dad, it feels impossible to digest how quickly this disease claimed his life. For those who wish for a more detailed description of what transpired over the last few weeks, please continue reading. If envisioning him in a hospital bed is too painful, please allow yourself to skip this part.
I know I speak for many when I say it is difficult to understand how such a strong yet calm, cool, and collected person could succumb to a disease in the blink of an eye. But cancer does not care. As he said in his final days to me, with the matter-of-fact expression I will always love and miss, “Maddy, it’s okay. It’s just bad luck. I’m not scared of dying, I’m just not excited about it.” His perspective throughout his brief hospitalization gave us the strength to face it alongside him.
I was in PA school 3 years ago when Dad emailed me results from an ultrasound and biopsy of a lump on his neck. His doctor reviewed the results and felt it was something they could safely monitor rather than operate on immediately. Most thyroid nodules are benign, and the more common types of thyroid cancer are generally very treatable.
Fast forward 3 years, and Dad could tell it was growing. In April 2026, he sought evaluation again and was referred to an endocrinologist, who arranged for an ENT surgeon consultation. He chose the best thyroid specialist on the list, located in Salt Lake City. Throughout the summer, the nodule got bigger, but slowly, and he had no symptoms. The surgeon discussed the plan with him, and he was scheduled for elective thyroid surgery in November. He still felt well and was comfortable with this plan.
In August, our family had an exciting month. Elly, Caden, some friends, and their significant others met my parents in California to watch my brother complete his first half Ironman. An engagement between my sister and Sam also got thrown into the mix, which Dad got to witness and photograph. From there, Dad and Mom took off to explore Northern California. Near the end of those two weeks, Dad started to have what seemed like mild viral symptoms.
Early September, he progressively worsened. He was still feeling generally unwell and also started to experience difficulty swallowing and hoarseness as the mass in his neck visibly grew. After a trip to the ED on September 2, with an updated CT scan and labs, he scheduled a follow-up with his surgeon. They moved the surgery up from November to September 22.
At that point, his symptoms could still be explained by a large thyroid mass, and neither his endocrinologist nor his ENT surgeon had concern that this was the rare, aggressive type of thyroid cancer we would later discover. He was still eating, talking, breathing, and performing his daily activities.
After about a week of struggling to feel well and with the mass continuing to grow, on September 14, my parents made the decision to drive to Salt Lake early so Dad could have better access to his surgeon in case he needed surgery or emergent care sooner. They got an Airbnb where Dad continued to worsen, with increasing difficulty eating, sleeping, and talking. He was in touch with his surgeon and team, and they were concerned, but the working assumption was still that his symptoms were from the increasingly large thyroid mass compressing the structures in his neck. When he began to experience shortness of breath, they ordered updated labs and another CT scan for surgical planning.
On Friday, September 18, everything changed. My parents got a call with the results from the scan. It was his surgeon instructing them to go to the ED immediately. The mass had rapidly grown and spread beyond his neck and lymph nodes to his lungs. This was just 2 weeks after his previous CT scan, with significant changes in that short amount of time. He also had a large collection of fluid around his lungs that was contributing to his shortness of breath.
He was admitted to the ICU that night. Biopsies were repeated along with many other tests, and a chest tube was placed to drain the fluid around his lungs. On September 19, biopsies came back revealing the crushing diagnosis we had all feared at this point: anaplastic thyroid cancer (ATC).
This cancer is extremely rare and extraordinarily aggressive. It accounts for only 1-2% of all thyroid cancers, and the mortality rate is 98-99% with a median survival of 3-5 months. Unlike most types of cancer, ATC is automatically considered stage IV. Because Dad's cancer had already spread to his lungs, he was stage IVc, meaning it had spread to distant organs. The disease can progress incredibly quickly, often over the course of weeks to months. His surgeon’s best guess was that his existing thyroid mass (benign or malignant originally) had rapidly mutated into this type over the last few weeks, but it is impossible to know exactly when this happened.
The cascade of genetic testing and discussions about treatment options started amongst many specialists at Huntsman Cancer Institute, where he was admitted. Everything was expedited behind the scenes, but the wait felt brutal as Dad and Mom awaited results and treatment options ranging from bad to worse.
On September 20, the genetic testing they had hoped would identify a BRAF V600E mutation, which could have opened the door to targeted therapy, came back negative. Although more testing was still underway, this was the first major indication that treatment options were going to be extremely limited. Calls to us and other immediate family members went out, and we kids got there ASAP to see our parents and be together.
The week of September 21 was an odd combination of waiting around impatiently for results and wanting to savor every moment with Dad. Our family had some beautiful conversations, laughter, and tears throughout his last week. Dad’s mom, Karel, his sister, Brenda, and brother-in-law, Matt, all flew in to spend time with him.
Although there were some beautiful moments, Dad knew the mass was rapidly growing. On Thursday, September 24, we found out that the remaining genetic testing had not opened up any meaningful treatment options. Meanwhile, he was clinically worsening, and the tumor in his lungs caused a pulmonary hemorrhage (bleeding into his lung tissue) that could not be stopped. It was time to call in hospice and make him as comfortable as possible for his final moments. They estimated days to hours before his body would surrender.
Although we were shocked, Dad knew all along that it was going fast and doubted his probability of making it out of the hospital. He has always been a little too realistic, and almost always right.
That evening, we all got to have meaningful conversations with Dad one-on-one. I think we can all agree he expressed things we would not have heard him say otherwise, and it provided a profound sense of closure for all of us.
After some hilarious Dilaudid hallucinations Thursday evening, we thought he might drift off for good during the night. It was a relief to see him at peace and unplugged from the lines, wires, and leads. Ironically enough, he looked more like Dad than he had all week. We even gave him some Italian Ice.
On Friday, during a music therapy session with a lovely gal we will never forget named Indigo, he sat up awake and lucid to the song Amazing Grace. He promptly asked for his computer and phone, and answered remaining texts and emails—readers on—until he could hardly stay awake. This exemplified the selfless and loyal man that my dad was all the way until the end.
He passed away peacefully Saturday, September 26, around 12pm. He did not suffer and was surrounded by Mom, me, Elly, Caden, Joel, and Sam. We all watched him take his last breath. It was beautiful, tragic, and terrifying.
Although none of us know how to move forward after losing the backbone of our family, we will always be reassured by the way in which he left us. In true TJ fashion, he got his to-do list done, he didn't have to endure a prolonged course of treatment with a very poor quality of life, and he was surrounded by his family.
We will miss him so much. Although these events are a shock to the system, we are greatly appreciative of the amazing medical team who took care of him until his last breath at Huntsman Cancer Institute at the University of Utah.
Sometimes, despite receiving good care and living a perfectly healthy life, the best people are dealt a rotten hand. I wish my dad wasn't that person. But whenever feeling angry towards his diagnosis, just remember he would almost certainly ask, “Don’t you guys have something better to do?” as he did on his last day as we watched him die.
Thank you for supporting our family, and we will all keep Dad alive in our memory. If you have any medical-specific questions, you can reach out to me (Maddy) or ask Dr. Google, but please refrain from asking other family members to relay the story again. We will need some time to accept that this wasn't all just a weird dream.