Dawn

Mike woke up yesterday afternoon! I’m elated to be writing these words. The words thank you don’t even begin to cover our gratitude for the prayers. There’s still an extremely long road ahead of us, but this is a hopeful step in the right direction.

How It Happened

On Monday, Mike had a plateau day. Nothing changed, good or bad. It was a hard day and one without hope as I explained in my last post. Mike was uncommunicative, completely blank, and mostly unaware of his surroundings. I was terrified that this was his new normal state and there was no coming back from it.

Early yesterday, he seemed more facially expressive, but was still unable to speak or even concentrate enough to formulate a thought. As the day progressed, he got more facially responsive and aware of his surroundings. He was even able to say an “uh-huh” or a “nuh-uh” several times. He had to have a head MRI to definitively say whether the encephalopathy was neurological or metabolic. Mike is extremely claustrophobic and has never successfully completed a full MRI which required him to have his head inside the tube. He has been able to tolerate lumbar MRIs only when they insert him into the tube feet-first. Because he couldn’t consent to any medical care in his condition, I agreed to the MRI, hoping that his current state would help him be relaxed enough to stand the scan because it was so important.

He knew everything we were talking about and was adamantly shaking his head no when the nurse asked him if he was ready for his MRI. But we didn’t have a choice. It was for his own good to have the scan. He went on down and his amazing nurse managed to find the right combination of anxiety meds and her personal presence to offer comfort to him so that he had a successful scan. The MRI was completely clear! No evidence of brain or neurological damage whatsoever!!!!

After he came back from the MRI he was even more expressive with his face and body language and so I said “I think you can talk. Say something. Say anything. Tell me ‘hi’.” With the faintest whisper of a person with the dry mouth of someone who hasn’t spoken in a week and has a suction tube down their throat, I heard the most glorious “hi” I’ve ever heard! I realized his mouth must feel like sandpaper, so I moistened it with a mouth swab. He hated that, lol! So, then he said “water.” I told him I didn’t think they would allow him any water yet because of the tube and he whispered “then get me a beer!” It is now in his medical chart that his first words after encephalopathy were a request for a beer! That is quintessential Mike Wine. Humor after scaring us all to death!

What Now

He’s still in the ICU. He’s receiving intravenous nutrition to help rebuild his strength. He’s allowed ice chips and sips of water and thin liquids. He will probably be moved to a regular room to be further monitored before he gets to go home, but he’s got a day or two of ICU accommodations yet before that happens. His metabolic function has to improve first because lots of things are off balance. There’s a huge puzzle of nutrition to solve to get his body processes back in shape and get him absorbing the nutrients he needs.

He also still has growing cancer within his body and will need further treatment. We know for certain that any future treatment will be happening at Duke, but we don’t yet know the timeline or the nature of the treatment. We’re not sure if the medical oncologist there will keep him on the same combinations of chemotherapy, but adjust the dosage or swap out the one he potentially reacted for something else altogether. And that’s all before high dose/transplant. Like I said, a long road ahead.

How I’m Doing

Obviously, I’m so happy to be sharing this good news. It’s been so long since we’ve even heard any good news, it’s nearly surreal to be sharing something positive. This was nothing less than a miracle from God. He definitely answered all our prayers to remind me that he loves me with this huge improvement.

My spiritual and emotional state is still apprehensive, though. I’m tentatively rejoicing while still waiting for more bad news to come from somewhere. There’s probably a little PTSD wrapped up in those emotions. I guess I could say I’m cautiously optimistic. But I’m also quite frightened by all the unknowns that still hang out there. All I know to do is to keep preaching to myself. I haven’t stopped doing that, even when it has caused more pain than relief. Preaching the gospel to myself is the one thing that hasn’t changed throughout this whole journey. When everything around me is chaos and grief during this truly dark night of the soul, the gospel is always there, waiting for me to take hold of it and remember Christ. The gospel always works, even when I don’t feel it. My theology hasn’t suffered, but my faith has wavered a ton. God promised he doesn’t change and that’s sometimes what terrifies me most about him, while at the same time gives immense comfort. It’s hard to fully describe, but I know many of you have felt the same in your own dark nights of the soul. I pray something I say can offer you comfort, even when my own story is full of gloom, despair, and agony (that was a nod to the variety show HeeHaw, y’all! I left you clip below for your entertainment.)