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Michael Vlasman Start Date: Jan 4, 2026 - End Date: Jul 3, 2026
  • Ecuador
  • Vietnam
  • Australia

My Travel Story

by: Michael Vlasman Start Date: Jan 4, 2026 - End Date: Jul 3, 2026
NOT TODAY, CANCER
The Vlasman Family Journey

By Maribeth Vlasman
May 2025 – December 2025

***

DEDICATION

To Mike
My rock, my advocate, and my best friend. Thank you for holding down the fort, for the late-night ER runs, and for loving me through the baldness, the sickness, and the tears.

To Maddie and Mitchell
You are my "why." Your resilience, your hugs, and your ability to keep life normal (and keep me laughing) gave me the strength to fight harder than I ever thought possible.

To My Childcare Families
Thank you for trusting us, for the meal trains, the videos, and the patience. You are more than clients; you are family.

To The Prayer Warriors
For every card, text, meme, and prayer whispered on my behalf—you carried me when I couldn't walk.

***

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Call (May 2025)
Chapter 2: The Battle Begins (June 2025)
Chapter 3: Losing Hair, Finding Strength (July 2025)
Chapter 4: The Darkest Valley (August - September 2025)
Chapter 5: The Surgery & The Miracle (October - November 2025)
Chapter 6: Healing and Hope (December 2025)
About the Author

***

CHAPTER 1: THE CALL
May 2025

A year ago, if you asked me to describe how I would feel in the summer of 2025, I would have said words like... Proud, Excited, Emotional, Busy, and Adventurous.

Madeline, our daughter, would be graduating high school, traveling to Marquette where she and I would attend her college orientation. Mike, Mitchell, and Pat (my Mother-in-law) would scope out the area in mid-June. We’d spend weekends enjoying our "Happy Place" at Sandy Pines, taking a family cruise to Belize, Honduras, Mexico, and the Bahamas to swim with the dolphins, hold sloths, and so much more. Then in August, we would be moving Maddie into her dorm.

Fast forward to May 2025. Now I added the words... Anxiety, Fierce, Fear, Determined, and Fighter.

After my April Mammogram, I was called to set up an ultrasound at Lemmon Holton. I wasn't concerned at that point since back in 2018 I had a biopsy on my right side which was benign. I was monitored and nothing more became of it.

May 7th
I went for my ultrasound. At the end, the doctor came in and did another exam while explaining her concerns on the ultrasound and what she saw herself. She explained that there are two types of breast cancer. 85% of people can feel a lump while the other 15% can't.

I was in the 15% category.

Instead of having one lump, I had a "trail of lumps" in my very dense breasts that showed up on the ultrasound. She then asked if I had time to meet with a surgeon that same day. An appointment was made a few hours later with Dr. Paulson to be evaluated and to have a skin punch biopsy of my right breast. When I saw Dr. Paulson, she mentioned my ultrasound results surprised her compared to her exam. She decided not to do the skin punch biopsy (a good thing), and I would be called to have an MRI completed ASAP.

May 10th: The MRI Nightmare
My MRI was scheduled for 11:15. Everything was going well until I was placed in the machine and somehow (it's still under investigation) I felt a bad jab into my left side then extreme pressure and pain, like being crushed on my left then over to my right side. I cried out in pain, was pulled out immediately, and couldn't get off the table fast enough. I felt dizzy, could barely move, and was shaking.

The tech asked if I wanted to go to an X-ray or if I could try the machine again. I did want to go for an X-ray, but also wanted to try again since the next appointment offered to me was June 16th—more than a month's wait. The tech suggested she remove the cushions to lower my body more, which I agreed to. Now I was to lay on a cold, hard board. As I tried to get repositioned, I just kept telling myself I needed to push through to get the test done.

As soon as I was set, the tech looked and said, "You won't clear the machine and will be injured again."

You can probably imagine my thoughts and confusion. How could she now see that I couldn't clear the machine?! Why wasn't that caught prior when the approx 3-inch cushions that raised me were still attached to the board?! These machines hold up to 350 lbs I was told, and I am nowhere near that.

Now frustrated, in extreme pain and shaking, I was brought to my locker to change, then escorted to the lobby to get called back into the ER Dept. I had a CT scan done which showed a lesion on my liver and bruised ribs. I was given pain meds by IV and sent home. The doctor refused to give any pain med prescriptions and Mike had to get a ride to the hospital approx 40 min away since I couldn't drive.

May 23rd: The Diagnosis
The start of Memorial Day weekend. The call I will never forget. Not only is it cancer, but it's in my lymphoids. Again I was reminded that my kind is rare and hard to find at times with even a mammogram.

My world crashed! I couldn't eat—but when I did I just threw it up. I couldn't sleep. My anxiety level was through the roof. I was mad, hurt, frustrated, and depressed. My mind was racing as I thought the worst.... How will we tell our kids? Will I be able to keep my childcare open? Will I be able to attend Maddie's orientation and help her prepare and move to college? What about our vacation? Will I even survive this?!

May 29th
Mike and I met with Dr. Reddy, my oncologist. We learned more about my diagnosis: HER-2, + grade 2, stage 3B. After her exam, she also stated that she didn't feel the diagnosis was correct, that typically a diagnosis like that would have more inflammation and other key things she didn't see. She said that it was a blessing though since with that diagnosis insurance allows everything to quickly be approved. We called it a win in some ways.

Treatment plan: I will start June 20th with chemo. 18 weeks but only 6 chemo dates.

***

CHAPTER 2: THE BATTLE BEGINS
June 2025

The beginning of June was a whirlwind of preparation. It felt like training for a marathon I never signed up for. On June 2nd, I met with my surgeon to confirm our plan in action. She truly is amazing! She applauded me on my positive outlook and the ability to still laugh and joke. I knew I needed to hold onto that humor to survive what was coming.

The Prep Work
The week leading up to chemo was filled with appointments, scans, and a few logistical hiccups.

On June 4th, I showed up to the wrong building for my echo test. Then, the elevators broke down. I eventually walked across the street in the rain to the correct place. But I made it. The echo went well, and later that afternoon, the chemo port was placed. It took four tries to get my blood drawn, leaving me with a stiff neck and some exhaustion, but the port was in. I was ready.

By June 6th, the bone scan was done to verify the cancer hadn't moved to my bones. The technician used a tape on my arm to inject the dye, which I turned out to be allergic to. The spot became swollen, red, and raw. My allergy list just kept growing, but I was thankful for my dermatologist friend who called in a cream to help.

The waiting game is always the hardest part. By Monday, June 9th, I got the call: My bone scan was clear from cancer! Praise the Lord.

June 10th: Orientation
Mike, Maddie, my mom, and my mother-in-law, Pat, attended my cancer education class with me. Since both moms had breast cancer in their pasts, it was good to have them there for questions. We learned about treatments, side effects, and met the social worker.

The next day, June 11th, I faced the MRI-guided biopsy of the two spots on my left breast. Honestly, I was more stressed about this than other appointments because of the injury I sustained during the MRI in May. My ribs weren't fully healed. It took six attempts to get my IV going for the contrast because my veins kept collapsing, but I got through it. I left wrapped in a compression band so tight that Maddie thought I had already had my mastectomy when she saw me!

Good News: The biopsy results confirmed the spots on the left side were NOT cancer.

June 19th: The Calm Before the Storm
The day before Chemo #1. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, scared, and anxious. But I knew I was strong.

Maddie and I went to "Beautiful You by Profile" in the Lemmen-Holton building to pick out a wig. We had fun trying them on—even a white one just for laughs. We had the best service, many laughs, and some tears. I left with two wigs; one free and one highly discounted. It was another blessing in this storm.

Friday, June 20th: Chemo Day #1
The long, hard start to my treatment plan.

I decided to move my treatment to the Kenmoor location. I had heard amazing things about the community there, plus my mother-in-law's friend, Kathy, runs a non-profit there called "The Lemonaid Cart," giving beverages and snacks to patients.

The treatment itself went okay. I left feeling good, armed with a blanket and snacks from Kathy. One down, five to go.

The Aftermath
By Saturday night, things got rough. I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. My right arm ached—the same side as the cancer—which some said meant the chemo was working.

By Monday, June 23rd, the reality of chemo set in. Foggy eyes, headache, and a filmy mouth. Food started to taste bitter. I tried to eat carrots, berries, and toast, but I couldn't enjoy any of it. By the afternoon, I was drained.

As most people know, I am always on the go. I struggle with asking for help. But following other stories similar to mine, I knew I needed to give it to God and ask for assistance. We set up a Meal Train. This journey has taught me that it is okay to say "YES" to help.

By the end of June, I was asking for prayers to flood in. I developed thrush in my mouth. I hadn't lost my hair yet, but I was exhausted, dizzy, and dealing with constant stomach issues. I had lost between 11 and 13 pounds in a week.

***

CHAPTER 3: LOSING HAIR, FINDING STRENGTH
July 2025

July began with dehydration. On July 2nd, I was at the infusion center getting fluids. I was down nine pounds, but my appetite had improved slightly thanks to the meals friends were delivering.

I managed to visit my childcare center, which made my day. I sat with the older kids and explained my "special triangle device" (my port) and told them my medicine gave me superpowers to have different hairstyles. I told them some days I might be bald, some days spikey, and some days I might wear a wig. The looks on their faces were priceless. One child said, "Wow!"

We tried to maintain normalcy. We spent the weekend at our spot at Sandy Pines for the 4th of July fireworks. But by Saturday afternoon, the mouth, throat, and scalp pain set in.

The Shave
On Sunday, July 6th, my hair started falling out in clumps. Part of me wanted to shave it immediately; the other part wanted to wait.

By Wednesday, July 9th, I made the decision. I did it.

My amazing friend China captured the moment. My family took turns cutting my hair with scissors. There was a moment of panic when the shaver wouldn't turn on (I wish we had recorded my face!), but we got it working.

It was emotional. Mitchell was hesitant to touch my head at first, but as I tucked him in that night, he gave me a hug and kiss and said, "Mom, you're pretty with no hair." My sweet boy.

Our dog, Mario, was confused and barked at me for ten minutes until I spoke to him and he realized it was still me.

The next morning at childcare, I walked in wearing my hat. I showed the kids my head. One little girl covered her eyes at first, but then she looked and said, "I love your hair! Leave your hat off." Tears of joy.

Chemo #2 and Cancelled Plans
On Friday, July 11th, I went in for Chemo #2. My friend Caryn joined me, bringing a berry protein drink from "The Hive" that actually tasted good.

I received amazing news from my oncologist: after just one treatment, the tumor on the right side had shrunk significantly. My bra fit better, and the swelling was down. The prayers were working!

However, the side effects hit harder this round. My family was supposed to leave for a cruise to Belize and Honduras the next day. We had plans to swim with dolphins and hold sloths. We had to postpone. Cancer guilt set in—I felt like I was ruining the summer. But thank God for travel insurance.

The Struggle Continues
By mid-July, I was down 12 pounds. Food was a struggle. I posted on Facebook asking for homemade freezer pickles—the only thing that sounded good—and the community delivered (literally).

The second round of chemo took me down. I had no energy, constant stomach pain, and dizziness. I lost my taste for almost everything. But on July 22nd, I turned a corner briefly. I ate breakfast casserole and pickles, and we took Mitchell to Chuck E. Cheese to beat the rush. I even stayed at the childcare talking to parents for an hour. But I paid for it later, getting sick immediately upon walking in the door.

End of July: A Rollercoaster
As July came to a close, I faced a new setback: my port stopped working. It was clogged. I had to have a PICC line inserted while they tried to clear it with meds.

I was an emotional wreck. Maddie was moving to college in mid-August, and I wanted to be well enough to help her. I asked my oncologist if I could skip a dose to have quality time with her. That idea was shut down. We considered delaying treatment, but in the end, I decided to stick to the plan.

I wanted memories made, but I also wanted to live to see those memories. So, I prepared for Chemo #3, praying for strength, for my port to work, and for peace.

***

CHAPTER 4: THE DARKEST VALLEY
August - September 2025

August brought a mix of relief and crushing difficulty. On August 4th, I received amazing news: my genetic test results were in, and all 48 genes were negative. No mutations found. It was a huge relief to know this wasn't genetic, but the physical battle was intensifying.

Maddie’s Departure
This was supposed to be the summer of memories—Maddie’s 18th birthday and her move to Northern Michigan University (NMU). Instead, cancer guilt set in hard. I wanted to be the mom doing everything, but Chemo #3 had knocked me down.

On August 14th, we moved Maddie into her dorm in Marquette. We stayed longer than anticipated, and I struggled through the trip, feeling sick on and off. In a public bathroom, dizziness hit me so hard I had to grab the door hook just to stay upright. But we did it. She was settled.

Leaving her there was emotional. I worried about keeping up with everything back home without her help, and Mitchell was starting his soccer season. I missed my baby girl immediately.

The Physical Toll
By late August, I was losing weight rapidly—down about 20 pounds. Chemo #4 on August 22nd hit me with blurry vision and extreme weakness. My friend Caryn joined me again, and we tried to keep spirits high, but my body was rebelling.

By the end of the month, I was struggling to eat anything. One bite of toast would sit in my stomach all day until I threw it up. I was dizzy, weak, and scared.

September 2025: The Hospitalization
On September 2nd, I finally gave in. Mike took me to the ER, and I was admitted.

They ran every test imaginable—CT scans of my torso and head, a brain MRI. I cried worrying that the cancer had spread. But God answered our prayers: Everything looked normal. The diagnosis? Severe chemo-induced motion sickness. Anytime I moved even five feet, I would vomit.

I stayed in the hospital until September 6th. Despite the misery, I found my humor. I even joked that I should win an award for "The Most Casual Puker." I would be talking to my nurse, casually announce I was going to be sick, do it, and then go right back to the conversation. You have to laugh to keep from crying.

The Breaking Point
September was a blur of misery. I missed my fall scrapbook retreat. I missed Mitchell’s soccer games. I was down 42 pounds. I couldn't drink water without it tasting like metal. My fingernails turned red, my toenails developed black spots, and my eyebrows disappeared.

On September 20th, I wrote in my journal: "I’ve lost my positivity and losing my hope."

I was sick of the belly pain. Sick of the acid reflux. Sick of not being the mom I used to be.

The Decision
On September 30th, after a dark 24 hours of sickness, Mike helped me get to the cancer center. I met with my oncologist, and the three of us made a difficult but necessary decision: We were stopping chemo.

My last treatment, scheduled for October 7th, was canceled. My body simply couldn't take anymore. It was a decision that brought me peace. My tumor on the right side was mirroring the healthy left side almost exactly. The chemo had done its job; now it was time to heal for surgery.

***

CHAPTER 5: THE SURGERY & THE MIRACLE
October - November 2025

With chemo behind me, October was about rebuilding strength. I started Physical Therapy to learn how to walk without dizziness. I started Virtual Nutrition Therapy to figure out how to eat again (I was surviving on about 15 bites of food a day).

The Goldilocks Plan
On October 15th, Mike and I met with the surgeons to finalize the plan. We decided on the "Goldilocks" procedure: a double mastectomy where they would use my own side and back tissue to form small breasts, avoiding implants for now. It was complicated—my diabetes raised the complication risk to 50%—but I trusted my team.

The Pre-Op Scares
The road to surgery wasn't a straight line.
October 18th: A scare sent me to the ER with numbness and low blood pressure. It turned out to be a panic attack mixed with low potassium.
October 28th: A few days before surgery, my labs showed dangerously low protein and calcium. They almost canceled the surgery. But my A1C (diabetes marker) came back at 5.5—a normal level! I had achieved the impossible.

By October 30th, I was cleared. Surgery was ON.

November 4, 2025: Surgery Day
"They can take my breasts but won't take my fight."

I arrived at 9:00 AM. The surgery took four hours. Recovery was rough—it took me nearly four hours to wake up from anesthesia, and I looked like death. But I felt no pain in my chest. By the next morning, I was eating French toast and cracking jokes.

November 12, 2025: The Birthday Wish
A week after surgery, the pathology report came in.

I had been Stage 3B. I had a trail of lumps. But the report showed:
100% Cancer Free.

They took out two lymph nodes—Cancer Free.
They looked for the clip they placed in the tumor—Cancer Free.

The chemotherapy had completely eradicated the cancer before they even operated. It was a complete pathological response. My 50th birthday was five days away, and this was the only gift I needed.

November 17, 2025: Turning 50
I made it. There were points in the summer when I doubted I would see this milestone.

On Saturday, Mike gathered a few friends for dinner. I put on makeup for the first time in months, bought a new top and jeans (in a size I hadn't worn in decades), and celebrated. I looked in the mirror. I saw the lack of sleep in my eyes, but I also saw limited wrinkles and a whole lot of fight.

I was battered, I was bald, and I was tired. But I was 50. And I was a survivor.

***

CHAPTER 6: HEALING AND HOPE
December 2025

Winning the war doesn't mean the battles stop overnight. The end of 2025 was about navigating the "new normal"—a body that was cancer-free but still recovering, and a heart that was full of gratitude but heavy with emotion.

Thanksgiving Milestones
By late November, things were looking up. We hosted Thanksgiving with my side of the family. For the first time in months, I ate a full dinner and kept it down. I even went Black Friday shopping with Maddie and friends—without a wheelchair!

I also stumbled upon a new mystery. Years ago, I stopped shaving my legs, and the hair just stopped growing. Yet, post-chemo, while the hair on my head was taking its sweet time returning, my leg hair decided to grow back with a vengeance! I heard women complain about facial hair after chemo, but I decided I would happily take the leg hair instead.

My eyebrows were another story. For my 50th birthday dinner, they were drawn on. By Thanksgiving, the temporary tattoos were peeling off. Maddie and I attempted to apply new ones, resulting in an epic fail where I looked like the evil stepmother from Cinderella. We laughed until we cried. It felt good to laugh again.

December Hurdles
December brought joy, but it also brought setbacks.
On December 8th, my belly scan came back clear—no changes since September. A huge relief. But physically, I was struggling with the cold. Without nose hair (another casualty of chemo), my nose ran constantly. Without hair on my head, I was freezing all the time, wearing winter hats inside and layering tank tops under everything.

Then, just before Christmas, I ended up back in the ER.
A temperature of 104.2, COVID, and a UTI knocked me down. The hospital was packed, so after receiving fluids and meds, I chose to recover at home rather than wait for a room that someone else might need more. It meant quarantining during Mike’s 50th birthday, but we got through it.

The Emotional Aftermath
As Christmas approached, I found myself struggling in a way I hadn't expected. I was cancer-free—the best gift imaginable—but I had zero "Christmas spirit."

We didn't put up big decorations. Just thinking about dragging everything out of the closet overwhelmed me. I felt a deep sense of survivor's guilt. Hearing of so many others losing their battles or receiving new diagnoses while I was clearing mine was heavy. I had to remind myself that Christmas wasn't about the decor; it was about the Savior and family.

December 30, 2025: Looking to the Future
My final appointment of the year was a turning point. For the first time, my labs were good enough that I didn't need an infusion.

I sat with my oncologist, and we had a deep conversation about the fear that lingers: Recurrence.
It is the shadow that follows every cancer survivor. We discussed being proactive with scans and tests like Signatera. I realized that my anxiety was stealing my peace, waking me up at night.

As I walked out of that clinic on the last Tuesday of 2025, I made a choice. I would continue to trust the plan. I would take the asthma diagnosis, the Phesgo shots, and the anxiety, and I would hand them over to God.

2025 was the year I fought.
2026 will be the year I live.

I am battered. I am changing. But I am here.

#FightOverFear

***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maribeth Vlasman is a devoted wife, mother, and longtime childcare provider based in the Grand Rapids area. Known for her infectious positivity, her love for Sandy Pines, and her skills as a die-hard Black Friday shopper, Maribeth approaches life with a "can-do" spirit.

In May 2025, she was diagnosed with Stage 3B Breast Cancer. True to her nature, she documented the journey with honesty, humor, and faith. When she isn't spending time with her family or her "littles" at the daycare, she can be found scrapbooking, value shopping, or planning her next family cruise.

She lives in Michigan with her husband Mike, their children Maddie and Mitchell, their dog Mario, and their cat Mocha.
  • Ecuador
  • Vietnam
  • Australia

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