An Update on Mike (From Rachel)

“I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my soul shall be joyful in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness…” (Isa. 61:10

“For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory.” (Ps. 149:4)

On Thursday just before lunch, my dad had an appointment with a chemo specialist. On our way there, he remarked, “How crazy would it be if all this cancer stuff went away and we had to tell everyone they didn’t have to pray for healing any more? How neat would that be!” At the Chas Center, I was pleasantly surprised by how far he could go without needing to sit down. The first floor is under construction, and there are long stints with no seats. He did well and there was pep in his step, although he was fatigued when we got to the oncology area.

When the doctor saw us, the first thing she said was, “How much did Dr. Lance tell you?” She and Dr. Lance were considering two types of chemo (I’ll call them type A and Type B). Because of his failing liver (and, as we discovered, failing kidneys) he isn’t eligible for Type A. The doctor told us that if he tried Type B even at a reduced dose, he would almost certainly die from the treatment a couple of days into it. If reduced Type B worked, it would give him weeks to months to live.

She also gave him weeks to months if he chose not to pursue chemo, and let the Lord take him via liver failure. We asked what death by liver failure was like; she said from what she’s seen, it causes confusion and memory loss, you sleep a lot, and then you die. My dad asked about pain, and she said that she was surprised he wasn’t already IN pain, but that most likely meant there would be very little pain if he went this route. “How do I know my liver is failing?” he asked at one point. “Mike,” she said, casting a glance at me, “you are yellow.”

Before we left, she had my dad do new bloodwork to get an updated assessment of liver function to know if chemo B at a reduced-dose pace was an option.

Mike was blindsided by the news of how little time he has, best-case. He allowed a nurse to wheel him to his truck in a wheelchair, and even asked me to drive him home. We heard soon after that his skyrocketing liver failure, as detected in the bloodwork, meant he was ineligible for chemo B at any dosage.

On Thursday evening, around 6:30, my dad asked to be taken to the ER for increasing abdominal pressure. When the doctor came in, he and my dad had the standard “Cancer, correct?” conversation, then he said, “You have about a week to live, from the looks of this bloodwork.” They weren’t able to drain what we assumed was fluid build-up at the ER, despite multiple attempts. They sent him home with some heavy pain meds and had us schedule an appointment for 3:00 PM on Friday. His 3:00 PM appointment was brief. We went in, the lovely ultrasound lady did her ultrasound, the doctor arrived, and he informed us that the reason they failed last night was that there was no fluid buildup in my dad’s abdomen. “That’s all liver,” he said, showing us the ultrasound. “There’s nothing we can do here.”

My dad is home now, sleeping. He is the same man as always – kind, considerate, charmingly patient—but he is desperately tired, and in increasing discomfort. Lifting his hands to type fatigues him, so I’m writing this update on his behalf. This has been a glaringly abrupt transition for us all, especially for him, so we’ve told him about the wonderful emails you’re all sending in (info below if you missed this the first time!), and he’s been blessed as we’ve hoped. There’s a stack of cards on his coffee table for when he wakes up. Your kindness and generosity have been tremendous, to him and to the Durans and to Makiah and I as we all walk through this with my dad. Thank you.

Now that God has been very clear about what is at hand, I think my dad has made peace with dying very soon. There’s no more ambiguity around what to do, which treatment plans to follow, to stay or to go. His quality of life is decreasing with the exponential liver growth; the symptoms he mentioned in his last post (difficulty eating, etc) are holding steady, but compounded by unremitting fatigue and some disorientation. With the new pain meds, he’s a little extra confused and loopy, but still lights up at the idea of visitors. If you’d like to come see him, please reach out to me (contact info below) to set up an appointment. Keep in mind that visits are likely to be brief, and please don’t be offended if you are politely encouraged to wrap things up. Also, please know that if we’re unable to set one up, it’s not that he doesn’t want to see you! Cards, texts and emails are also received with abundant joy.

Here’s the scoop on the email memories mentioned above: when my mom died in 2016, folks compiled fond memories of her into a booklet for our family and friends (what a blessing!). At the time, my dad remarked that she would have loved to read those recollections. We’re putting a similar booklet for your memories of Mike, including everything from pleasant encounters to his hot tips on Christian living that have blessed you. In the beginning, we hoped this would be a surprise Christmas gift; given the abrupt turn in his health, we’ve given him access to a dedicated email account (surprisemikelawyer@gmail.com), and basic paper copies. Please don’t send these to his normal inbox. He is delighted that people have fond memories of him, and this has been a huge encouragement to us all! Thank you. Please keep sending these.

Blessings,
Rachel Guisewite (for Mike)
Rachel.f.lawyer@gmail.com
(360) 812-1367