He just wanted to live. And we did.
In the small New Zealand community of Mamaku, Shane Luke died at 47 from a terminal brain tumour, leaving behind a wife of nineteen years and four children — a loss that began with symptoms dismissed as stress and ended just days after his final birthday. His widow Sara has turned private grief into public purpose, walking daily through brain tumour awareness month to raise funds and remind others that some 7,000 New Zealanders carry this diagnosis at any given moment. The story of Shane's illness — delayed detection, failed treatments, and hard-won ordinary moments — holds within it a larger reckoning about how medicine meets the unknown, and how communities must carry what medicine cannot cure.
- Months of worsening symptoms — balance loss, headaches, failing eyesight — were initially waved away as stress and vertigo, costing Shane Luke precious time before two brain tumours were finally discovered in November 2024.
- Even aggressive treatment could not hold the disease: the second tumour doubled in size during chemotherapy, a third emerged in March 2026, and Shane chose to stop treatment and live on his own terms rather than endure more.
- Between diagnoses and decline, the family seized what time remained — a Disney cruise, boat trips, barbecues — accumulating ordinary moments made extraordinary by their scarcity.
- Sara Luke now walks five kilometres every day through May, channelling grief into movement and turning her husband's death into a campaign for Brain Tumour Support NZ, refusing to let his story disappear quietly.
- Across New Zealand, stories like Shane's and Tauranga retiree Jon Moody's — whose glioblastoma was first misread as a back injury — underscore how often this disease arrives disguised and how rarely it arrives with good options.
Shane Luke turned 47 on April 10, 2026, surrounded by family at his home in Mamaku. Six days later, he was gone.
It had begun two years earlier with balance problems, headaches, dizziness, and a sudden aversion to certain smells. His GP attributed the symptoms to stress and vertigo. For months, Shane pushed through the fatigue and disorientation, doing ordinary tasks — washing dishes, making a sandwich — through sheer stubbornness. By November 2024, vomiting and failing eyesight forced a return to his doctor. Scans at Rotorua Hospital revealed two brain tumours. Sara wept so hard she could barely see. One tumour was removed at Waikato Hospital; the other was too dangerous to touch. The diagnosis was terminal grade 4 glioma.
Radiation and chemotherapy began in early 2025, but by mid-year a scan showed the remaining tumour had doubled in size. Doctors told him he would be lucky to see Christmas. The family travelled south on funding from the White Matter Brain Cancer Trust. Shane underwent further surgery, then privately funded two rounds of immunotherapy. By October he was hospitalised, and he eventually decided he was finished with treatment — he wanted to live, not merely survive medicine.
For a stretch, he did. The family took a Disney cruise, went out on their boat, had barbecues. Then in March 2026, a seizure revealed a third tumour. He declined further intervention. The end came quickly.
Sara Luke is now walking five kilometres every day throughout May — brain tumour awareness month — raising funds for Brain Tumour Support NZ. She speaks of the organisation's resources as invaluable, and she wants other families to know they are not alone. The walks keep grief from becoming paralysis. She is honouring her husband and their four children by refusing to let his death remain only private.
Hers is not an isolated story. An estimated 7,000 New Zealanders live with a brain tumour at any given time. Jon Moody, a 75-year-old Tauranga retiree, learned he had a glioblastoma after a fall initially misread as a back injury; the tumour on his motor cortex has left him largely confined to bed or wheelchair, cared for full time by his wife Katharine. They have never asked about his prognosis. They take each day as it comes.
Brain Tumour Support NZ notes that over 130 types of primary brain tumour exist — each rare enough to leave patients feeling profoundly alone. The charity's 'brainy beanies' campaign invites crafters to make and donate handmade beanies sold at schools, workplaces, and events. It is a small gesture against a large darkness, but it is something: connection, and the refusal to let these lives pass unmarked.
Shane Luke turned 47 on April 10, 2026, surrounded by family and friends at home in Mamaku. Six days later, he was dead. The brain tumours that had consumed the past two years of his life finally won.
It began quietly, almost dismissively. In April 2024, Luke started experiencing balance problems, headaches, dizziness, and nausea. He noticed certain smells suddenly repelled him. His GP attributed it to stress and vertigo, advised him to monitor the symptoms, and sent him home. For months, he lived with the uncertainty, the fatigue that made even a walk feel impossible, the way his body had turned against him in small, grinding ways. His wife Sara watched him struggle with tasks that should have been simple—washing dishes, making a sandwich—tasks he pushed through because he was not someone who quit.
By November 2024, the symptoms had worsened enough that denial was no longer possible. His nausea had escalated to vomiting. His eyesight was failing. He returned to his GP and was referred for imaging. The scans revealed two brain tumours. Sara remembers the moment the doctors told them at Rotorua Hospital: she was crying so hard she could barely see. One tumour was removed in surgery at Waikato Hospital. The other was deemed too dangerous to touch, its location making any surgical intervention too risky. The diagnosis came back as terminal grade 4 glioma.
What followed was the familiar machinery of aggressive treatment. Radiation and chemotherapy began in February 2025, aimed at shrinking the second tumour. By mid-2025, a scan showed it had doubled in size instead. The treatment had failed. Doctors told him he would be fortunate to see Christmas. The family applied for funding and spent two weeks in the South Island, a reprieve funded by the White Matter Brain Cancer Trust. When they returned, Luke underwent another operation to relieve pressure on his brain. He privately funded two courses of immunotherapy, grasping at options that conventional medicine could not offer. October found him in hospital. By then, he had decided he was done with drugs. He wanted to live, not merely to survive treatment.
And for a time, he did. From his operation through mid-March, Sara says he had a genuinely good run. The family took a Disney cruise. They went out on their boat. They had barbecues together. They accumulated the kind of ordinary moments that become precious only when you know they are numbered. Then in March, a seizure. Another scan. A third brain tumour. He declined further treatment. The end came quickly after that.
Sara Luke is now walking 5 kilometres every day throughout May, brain tumour awareness month, raising funds and consciousness for Brain Tumour Support NZ. She speaks of the organisation's resources as extremely valuable, and she wants other families navigating this terrain to know they are not alone. The walks keep her moving, keep her from surrendering to grief. She is honouring her husband of 19 years and their four children by refusing to let his death be merely private.
She is not alone in this fight. Across New Zealand, an estimated 7,000 people are living with a brain tumour at any given moment. Jon Moody, a 75-year-old retiree from Tauranga, learned he had a glioblastoma in October after a fall that doctors initially misread as a back injury. The tumour sits on his motor cortex, leaving him with motor paralysis. Radiation therapy in November reduced it but did not stop it. Surgery was impossible given its location. Chemotherapy was not recommended. His wife Katharine cares for him full time, confining him mostly to bed or wheelchair. They have never asked about his prognosis and have never been told. They take each day as a blessing and move forward.
Brain Tumour Support NZ estimates that over 130 different types of primary brain tumour exist, each one rare enough that patients often feel isolated in their diagnosis. The charity's awareness campaign, called brainy beanies, invites knitters and crafters to design and donate unique handmade beanies for sale at schools, workplaces, and events like Fieldays. The funds support patient and caregiver programmes. It is a small gesture against a large darkness, but it is something. It is connection. It is the refusal to let these deaths pass unmarked.
Notable Quotes
He genuinely tried because he wasn't a quitter ... even doing the dishes or making himself a sandwich was difficult.— Sara Luke, describing her husband's struggle with fatigue
We just pretty much take every day as a big blessing and get on with life.— Katharine Moody, wife of Jon Moody, a 75-year-old living with glioblastoma
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why do you think Sara decided to walk every day instead of just grieving privately?
Because staying still would have meant drowning in it. The walking is a way to transform her grief into something that moves—literally and figuratively. It keeps her tethered to the world instead of letting the world disappear.
Shane's first symptoms were dismissed as stress. How common is that delay?
Common enough that it's a pattern in these stories. A GP sees fatigue and dizziness and reaches for the easiest explanation. By the time anyone takes it seriously, months have passed. Early detection might have changed nothing for Shane, but the delay meant he spent months not knowing what was happening to his body.
He tried immunotherapy privately after conventional treatment failed. What does that tell you about his state of mind?
That he wasn't ready to surrender, even when the odds had become impossible. He was looking for any door that might still open. That's not denial—that's the human refusal to accept a closed future.
Katharine Moody says they've never asked about Jon's prognosis. Isn't that avoidance?
Maybe. Or maybe it's wisdom. Knowing the number of months left doesn't change what you do with the days you have. Some people need that information. Others find it paralyzing. She chose to live in the present instead of the forecast.
What does a brain tumour awareness campaign actually accomplish?
It does two things. It tells people like Sara and Katharine that their experience is not unique, that there are others walking this road. And it pushes the medical system to take early symptoms seriously instead of dismissing them as stress. Neither is a cure, but both matter.