The Most Dedicated Northeastern Couple Fighting Cancer | Patient Story

The summer of 2022 was somewhat special for her. Filled with great hope, she and her husband, who had late-stage colorectal cancer, boarded a train to the capital.

Traveling between Peking University Cancer Hospital and Beijing Friendship Hospital, she had to wake up at 5 a.m. every day to prepare two main meals and two supplementary meals, carrying lunchboxes and transferring between two buses for a four-hour round trip.

That year, as the pandemic raged, she was not allowed into the ward. She could only stand hundreds of meters away from the inpatient building, looking up at the 19th floor.

Her husband would appear at the window on time, waving to her. After surgery, he couldn't stand for long—less than a minute.

For nearly two months, that was their only "meeting" of the day.

Her name is Lunlun, from Shenyang. Many in the patient support group whom she has helped affectionately call her "Sister Lun."

Her husband is Song Lei. Sister Lun likes to call him "Mr. Song," saying he is the person in the world who treats her the best.

Today is April 18. According to their plan, they were supposed to celebrate Mr. Song's 46th birthday together.

But on March 16, in early spring when the wind and snow had not yet cleared, after a grueling 4-year and 4-month battle and 6 hours of resuscitation, Mr. Song finally left peacefully, yet with reluctance.

Having walked through this long winter, Sister Lun shares the story of her and Mr. Song.

The following is compiled from Sister Lun's own account.

—————

Author | Lunlun

Editor | Wujiu

「 I 」

My connection with Mr. Song began 30 years ago.

I was 14, and he was 16. I was in seventh grade, and he was in ninth. Our families lived three buildings apart, both children of a coal mining community.

On the day of my middle school entrance exam, he wore all white, and I wore all black. He ran past the exam hall door, then turned back to stand at the entrance and watch me.

He was usually quite introverted, or as we say in the Northeast, "quietly mischievous." I am extroverted, and over the years, I've always been the one protecting him. But that day was magical; he approached me first. Perhaps fate is something that defies explanation.

During the summer vacation of my eighth grade, I took a month of tutoring classes. For half a month straight, I dreamed of him. In my dreams, he stood in the water or on a dam, while I watched him from the shore.

I felt this was an early omen; sooner or later, I would have to save him.

Later, our group of friends often hung out together and became sworn siblings. His buddies teased and encouraged us, and before long, we were together. Even though we attended different high schools and universities, we never lost touch.

My mother initially disapproved because his family wasn't well-off. But after so many years together, I couldn't bear to let him down. Eventually, I secretly took out our household register and registered our marriage with him.

On May 20, 2009, he told me it was the most handsome day of his life. He could finally be with me openly and legitimately.

Mr. Song wasn't one for sweet words. His only way of expressing love and gratitude in his life was: "Thank you for your hard work, my dear wife!" But as long as he was there, I felt incredibly secure. If I got into a fight, he'd be right behind me to pull me out; if I was about to lose my temper, he'd silently hand me a wooden stick.

「 II 」

After marriage, we both gradually returned to our hometown. I thought life would be smooth sailing, but fate really loves to play jokes.

In 2021, two major events collided. On September 30, I slipped on the stairs during a work event and fractured my left foot. On November 24, during his promotion assessment and democratic vote at work, I accompanied him for a colonoscopy due to prolonged diarrhea, and he was diagnosed with low rectal cancer.

As soon as the scope went in, I saw the tumor encircling four-fifths of the lumen, less than a centimeter from the dentate line. My heart sank: This is definitely not good. The doctor squeezed my hand twice, and I understood.

After the exam, the doctor sent him out and kept me behind, telling me directly that the tumor was at an advanced stage. I held back my emotions, went out, and told him, "Tomorrow I'll find someone to help us. We'll go to a more authoritative place for a check."

That afternoon, after dropping him off at home, I sat alone in the car and sobbed uncontrollably for two hours. I'd cry for a while, make a call to contact someone, cry again, and make another call.

He had a family history of cancer. His aunt passed away in 2019 from colorectal cancer with liver metastasis, and all his grandparents had cancer.

He told me his biggest regret in life was not listening to me and getting a gastroscopy and colonoscopy earlier. When his aunt passed away in 2019, his brother went for screening, but he just stared at me and refused. If he had gone then, it could have been caught early.

During our first consultation with Director Zhang Jingdong at Liaoning Cancer Hospital, he frowned and said, "With such a clear family history, you should do genetic testing first."

I was completely bewildered because the surgical department said we could proceed to surgery after neoadjuvant therapy. Director Zhang looked at me for a moment and said, word by word, "You still need to do it."

I called the attending physician to relay this, and he said, "You're stage IIIa, it's not necessary for now." So I settled down to proceed with neoadjuvant chemoradiotherapy.

For 28 radiation sessions, I drove him on crutches while he sat in the passenger seat holding a water bottle. At the hospital, people offered me a seat every day, but no one asked if he needed one.

But by the 15th or 16th session, he had to start wearing diapers. The bathroom was only a few meters from the door, but he couldn't hold it.

We waited with high hopes for the preoperative assessment in March, but the report starkly read: "Multiple low-density shadows in the liver with peripheral enhancement."

「 III 」

Developing liver metastasis while undergoing neoadjuvant therapy meant the treatment was almost ineffective.

We hugged each other at the west gate of Liaoning Cancer Hospital and cried for half an hour. After crying, I made the two most correct decisions of my life. First, immediately get genetic testing and transfer from surgery to the Second Gastroenterology Department. Second, search online for colorectal cancer support groups, where a patient known as the "most handsome in the Panda Group" and nicknamed "Big Smart" pulled me into the "Panda and Friends" patient group.

From then on, we embarked on a grueling but straightforward 4-year and 4-month treatment journey.

The second time I brought a bag of films to see Director Zhang, a tall, slender, and delicate female doctor with glasses sat beside him. They didn't even wait for me to take out the films; they analyzed the images bit by bit on the computer. Director Zhang said, "I found two clear metastatic lesions." The female doctor said, "Three. There's another tiny one at the junction of S5 and S6."

Director Zhang smiled at her with affection and appreciation, like a strict teacher looking at a brilliant student. He was testing her. That was my first meeting with Director Dong Qian. Though I was nervous inside, I knew I had found the right person.

Director Zhang told me, "Don't rush. Your husband is still young. Let's try an aggressive regimen, take a chance, and let the bullets fly a bit longer. From now on, you'll be under Director Dong's care."

We started with the strongest regimen: three cycles of FOLFOXIRI triple-drug chemotherapy combined with bevacizumab.

During this time, the genetic test results came back: KRAS, NRAS, and BRAF were all wild-type, but there was ERBB2 (HER2) amplification, along with a BRCA2 germline mutation.

This mutation indicated high malignancy. There were no guideline-recommended drugs, and all potential options were out-of-pocket. It was a devastating start.

As expected, the follow-up showed that while the liver metastases had shrunk, the primary rectal tumor was progressing, with increased surrounding exudation and worsening anal tenesmus and pain.

After discussion, Director Zhang and Director Dong decisively switched to a regimen of FOLFOX combined with cetuximab and trastuzumab.

After two cycles, the tumor shrank significantly. It was this off-guideline decision that bought him a precious window for surgery.

It was during the pandemic, and almost all hospitals were turning patients away. When other local hospitals heard about liver metastasis, not a single door opened for us.

Only Director Dong's team, despite the ward being completely full, insisted on admitting us.

For that month and a half, our world was limited to the hotel near the west gate and the gastroenterology ward. But the young nurses would come daily to administer IVs and dressings, joking with him: "You look a bit plumper today, and your spirits are better. If you don't behave, I'll push the needle in harder tomorrow!" The tedious and unbearable chemotherapy became much more bearable amidst their laughter and chatter.

「 IV 」

After two cycles of medication, the lesions on Mr. Song's liver showed no obvious activity, and the intestinal condition stabilized.

On June 17, 2022, we boarded a train to Beijing for the first time. We went to Peking University Cancer Hospital first. After evaluation by the imaging and internal medicine teams, they said the liver lesions showed no obvious activity after previous treatment, and the intestinal lesions had stabilized. We had reached the surgical window, and they recommended addressing the primary tumor first.

Thus, we chose Director Yao Hongwei from the General Surgery Department at Beijing Friendship Hospital, highly recommended in the low rectal cancer group, to perform a sphincter-preserving surgery.

His tumor was extremely low, less than a centimeter from the dentate line. Combined with severe intestinal fibrosis after chemoradiotherapy, an anastomotic leak occurred on the third day post-surgery.

With the pandemic raging in Beijing, the hospital did not allow caregivers. I woke up at 5 a.m. every day to prepare two main meals and two supplementary meals, then commuted between Peking University Cancer Hospital and Friendship Hospital, spending four hours on the road.

All so he could eat on the 19th floor, and more importantly, so I could stand four hundred meters below the ward, wave to him for a minute from afar, and tell him I was there and I was okay.

He was hospitalized for a month and a half. Finding humor in hardship, he said he lost 10 kilograms, I lost 10 kilograms, and it even cured my motion sickness.

However, the anastomotic leak prevented him from receiving chemotherapy for nearly two months, and the HER2 amplification caused the cancer cells to rebound rapidly.

A follow-up one month post-surgery revealed metastatic nodules in the lungs, and two liver lesions regained activity.

After that, we went back and forth to Peking University Cancer Hospital for three liver ablations, one lung ablation, and hepatic artery infusion. Each infusion required 20 to 30 hours of strict bed rest, followed by liver pain, fever, vomiting, and loss of appetite.

He was truly so strong, because of my companionship and encouragement.

I was also incredibly strong, because of the companionship and encouragement from over a hundred thousand friends in the Panda Group.

During those days in Beijing, I met Song Gong, Xiaoxiao, Da Meili, Jianjian, Asen, Mingtou, Sister Harbin, Brother Exclamation Mark, Zhizhi, and Zhouyang. They continuously gave me energy from all directions.

We all pressed forward for the same words from Director Xiao Han: "We don't persist because there is hope; there is hope only because we persist."

「 V 」

In January 2023, imaging showed no active lesions. I thought we had finally fought our way to a temporary tumor-free state.

Tumor-free and able to go home, I got carried away.

After returning home, I consulted Director Zhang on behalf of another patient. After the consultation, he asked about my family. I talked endlessly, my joy overflowing. He seemed hesitant, then pointed to the posterior wall of the anastomosis on the scan and said, "Pay close attention to this area. Follow up in two months. Do not stop treatment rashly."

It was like a bucket of cold water poured over my head. But I knew how terrifyingly accurate Director Zhang was at reading scans. Clinging to a sliver of hope, I had a colonoscopy in May. As expected, the anastomosis had recurred.

We had to go to Beijing again. After a consultation with Wang Xicheng, Gao Shunyu from Peking University Cancer Hospital, and Director Gu Jin from Shougang Hospital, they said a total pelvic exenteration was possible, but it might damage the nerves.

Mr. Song was present at the consultation. He immediately backed out, making his refusal loud and clear. He said he didn't want to be bedridden forever, and no amount of persuasion worked.

So, we enrolled in the clinical trial for Hengrui's anti-HER2 ADC drug, SHR-A1811, completing 9 cycles. Those 8 months were the most relaxed days since his illness began.

It didn't cost much, and he felt good. He was so happy he spent his days eating, drinking, and playing, returning to his beloved mahjong table. We visited Panjiayuan, the National Museum, and Qianmen, and he even accompanied me to a stand-up comedy show.

Unfortunately, a follow-up in April 2024 showed progression in both liver and lung lesions, so we had to exit the trial.

After returning to Liaoning Cancer Hospital, Director Zhang and Director Dong suggested trying small-molecule TKI therapy.

Director Dong is extremely busy. During her Monday morning clinic, she misses lunch 8 out of 10 times. Before she finishes the morning patients, other departments call her for afternoon consultations.

She always says that patients who get extra appointments rarely have simple cases. Skipping a meal is fine if it means seeing two or three more patients. I often joke if this is her weight-loss secret, but I can't bear to watch her walk away, thin as a lightning bolt.

「 VI 」

During treatment at Liaoning Cancer Hospital, we tried many more regimens.

Erbitux combined with irinotecan and capecitabine, enrollment in an oncolytic virus trial, sintilimab with TAS-102, bevacizumab with TAS-102, pyrotinib, glumetinib, trastuzumab with cisplatin and S-1... We tried almost every drug we could think of. But the tumor kept progressing, and perianal abscesses and fistulas began to appear.

In May 2025, during rounds, Director Zhang said, "Cut a few unstained slides and redo the c-Met immunohistochemistry." He suspected our rapid resistance to every regimen was due to prolonged anti-HER2 therapy activating c-Met overexpression.

The IHC result came back as (1+). I was quite discouraged. I told Director Dong, who frowned and thought for a long time before saying, "I don't believe it." She personally called the pathology department and requested a review.

The review confirmed it: c-Met (2+) at 70%, giving us a clear indication for medication. We tried cabozantinib, and half a month later, his tumor markers dropped by half.

However, the rapid tumor shrinkage also led to more severe perforation and bleeding.

His body began to give out.

Starting in the summer of 2025, his infections grew increasingly severe: perianal abscesses, a rectovesical fistula, and recurrent high fevers. Director Dong contacted the interventional radiology department for percutaneous drainage of the abscess and adjusted the position of his nephrostomy tube.

Dr. Zhou Yang and Dr. Xiao Da came daily to irrigate and apply medication. The smell of the pus in the early days was overwhelming. I offered to do it myself, but they refused.

This wasn't for a day or two, but nearly a month. Until Mr. Song could finally eat, stand up, and smile again, and then I cried. That was the first time I truly felt I was going to lose him.

Later, we tried disitamab vedotin, tucatinib, and inetetamab, but none worked well. In December, we used tegafur suppositories, but the pain was unbearable. We switched to a continuous 7-day infusion of low-dose 5-FU, but the tumor markers kept rising.

In January 2026, SHR-A1811 was included in the national insurance. Though still expensive, his condition deteriorated rapidly, so I gritted my teeth and used it, taking one last gamble.

But I never expected the most dangerous site wasn't the pelvis. I had been guarding against brain metastasis, previously giving him small-molecule drugs that could cross the blood-brain barrier. Later, when his physical indicators couldn't keep up, we stopped the medication. Leptomeningeal metastasis still arrived, coming too fast and too fiercely. I had underestimated the aggressiveness of HER2 leptomeningeal metastasis.

I roughly calculated that the treatment cost about 1.5 million RMB. All anti-HER2 drugs were out-of-pocket: trastuzumab at 5,500 RMB per vial, pertuzumab at 4,950 RMB per vial, and Ailiyi at 6,000 RMB per box. My mother contributed over 500,000 RMB, and to this day, we still have less than 200,000 RMB in debt.

The Shuidichou crowdfunding campaign was to fund leptomeningeal radiotherapy for him. But the funds raised ultimately couldn't be used for it; his condition deteriorated too quickly.

On the Lantern Festival, he was still in the hospital and celebrated with us. He was in good spirits and ate a lot. After March 4, he began to lose consciousness.

Looking back, he only asked me to do two things: buy a ring for his mother, and get a larger bookshelf for our daughter. I fulfilled both.

There were only two things I promised but couldn't keep. First, drinking with him. That bottle of 95 craft beer was brought by Da He; we both loved drinking. I promised him that when he felt better, he could have a bottle. But he kept suffering from nausea and vomiting, and he never got to drink it.

Second, I promised to carry him back to our own home for a few days. Our family of three hadn't been back there since last October. I promised him these two things, but I couldn't deliver.

From the time he fell ill until now, I have cried exactly six times. The first was on the day of diagnosis, the second when liver metastasis was confirmed, the third when he suffered terribly from the post-op anastomotic leak, the fourth when my mother had severe shingles (which she hid from me during Mr. Song's emergency), and the fifth after a severe infection, watching him come back to life.

The last time was March 16, 2026. That day, in the Second Gastroenterology Department at Liaoning Cancer Hospital, after nearly six hours of resuscitation, he left me peacefully, yet with reluctance.

Sometimes I wonder, if I had another 2 million RMB, I think I could have extended his survival by half a year to a year. But I truly don't have it anymore.

From age 14 to 44, exactly 30 years. If you talk about a lifetime, it turns out it's just 30 years.

「 VII 」

During his final year of treatment, he spent nearly 300 days at Liaoning Cancer Hospital. Friends from the Panda Group across the country, especially from the Northeast group, visited him almost daily in an endless stream.

When I was at work, they would keep him company, chatting with him and bringing coffee and good food. When I was consulting for others, someone in a mask would slip a coffee into my hand and run off before I could even see who it was.

Mr. Song once told me, "Wife, the single most correct choice you ever made was joining this group. Aren't all the best people you know in this group?"

I said yes.

Beyond the constant care and help, the funds from Shuidichou also helped us cover part of our debt. I truly felt the "Panda speed" and "Panda warmth."

Many people ask why I have so much time to answer questions, consult for others, and know so much. There's no such thing as a "natural expert." It's simply because I've experienced so much firsthand.

Director Han said, "Because I've been caught in the rain myself, I always want to hold an umbrella for others."

Love given returns as love; blessings sent come back as blessings. I also wanted to accumulate merit for him.

To my fellow patients in the Panda Group, I want to say: cancer is terrifying, but don't panic. Calm down, read the group materials, and keep learning.

If you're sad, come to the group and chat with everyone. If you can't sleep, use your knowledge and passion to shine in the group.

The hardest days will eventually pass.

I also want to say to Mr. Song: I will see the world you never saw, and write the poems you never wrote.

The moon on the horizon, the longing in my heart, you will forever be by my side.

「 Epilogue 」

In the eyes of fellow patients, Sister Lun is an incredibly capable woman. To this day, she still helps arrange consultations, answers questions in over 60 patient groups, reviews treatment plans, and connects patients with clinical trials.

Mr. Song was also remarkable. His medical records were densely filled with his treatment journey. Though pain rolled over him, he never complained, always radiating gratitude and kindness.

The two largest HER2 patient groups in the country are within the Panda Group. Some of the treatment experiences shared there were forged step by step through their lives.

[A painting drawn for them by fellow patient Xiao X from the Northeast group]

The day before Mr. Song passed away, Sister Lun brought their daughter, Taotao, into the ward.

Mr. Song was in a coma at the time, unresponsive to calls. Sister Lun took his hand and said, "Taotao is here. She can come again tomorrow. If you want her to visit you, squeeze my hand."

He squeezed it.

Taotao leaned in to talk to her dad, telling him how happy she was at school and what she would bring him tomorrow. Taotao asked, "Do you want to see it? If you do, squeeze my hand."

He squeezed their hands again.

Sister Lun felt he could hear them; he just couldn't speak.

At noon on his final day, Mr. Song's condition deteriorated severely. When his vital signs could no longer be maintained, the doctors removed the tubes supporting his blood pressure and oxygen levels.

They had previously signed a non-invasive resuscitation agreement. At this point, everyone knew he couldn't be saved.

Sister Lun leaned close to his ear, holding him, and said, "Song Lei, if it's too hard, we won't force you to keep fighting."

He seemed to understand. Fifteen minutes later, the line on the monitor went flat.

Watching the person she loved most leave before her eyes, Sister Lun couldn't help but beg the doctors to save him again. The doctor told her, "Sister, don't put him through more suffering. He's in too much pain."

Hearing this, Sister Lun let go.

It was March 16, just one month and two days short of his 46th birthday.

Later, Sister Lun recalled that they had only seriously discussed life and death once. Two months before he passed, she asked him if he had any unfulfilled wishes. He said no.

He said, "Wife, I trust you to raise our child well. I believe you'll do everything wonderfully."

To protect patient privacy, names in this article are pseudonyms. Images containing patient portraits are used with authorization and may not be used without permission.