Update - No Words

No words were necessary. The PET scan images graphically showed the verdict. Harold has significant new tumor growth throughout his liver and the rest of his body. We are past the point where medical treatment can offer hope. Our doctor and good friend kindly suggested it was time to transition to hospice care in our home, and wrote the orders. I asked what he would have suggested if this scan belonged to a young, newly diagnosed patient who hadn’t yet endured the rigors of immunotherapy, chemotherapy, brain surgery and gamma knife. The answer was the same: hospice.

We left our oncologist’s office knowing our close association had ended. With that closure I also thought of our surgeon and his nursing staff who have guided us through so much. I marvel that they are able to open their hearts to care, as they clearly do, when experience has taught them they will face many conclusions like ours today.

The next stop was down two floors to radiation oncology. We may be done with chemotherapy and surgery but Harold’s prognosis still allows for palliative care. Radiation treatment was started to treat the tumor near his optic nerve which is causing double vision and without treatment may soon take his sight. And, after viewing the PET scan results, they offered radiation treatment for Harold’s liver. Not as a curative measure but to shrink the largest tumor mass that is now causing Harold considerable pain. So far it is controlled by medication. There is a very slim chance that radiation to the liver may also reawaken a heightened immune response spurred by immunotherapy treatment a year ago. We don’t know how much his continued need for steroids may cancel that effect.

There is marked warmth and caring demonstrated in this department. These offered treatments, though not curative, buffer the emptiness of knowing medicine cannot offer long term hope. But there is another kind of hope that hasn’t wavered. It is a hope in our Savior, Jesus Christ. Last Friday when Harold was in the ER, I called radiation oncology to cancel the treatment he was scheduled to start that day. I had not previously visited the department, but when I called and explained Harold’s situation, the man answering the phone stepped out of his receptionist role to express genuine concern and declared he would pray for Harold; and I could tell he meant it.

This kind of hope, a faith in Christ, is the most powerful tool we have in times of need. It carried us through the long day yesterday. It carried me through calling our children last night and it carries me still as I try to put words to this experience. 

As we drove home yesterday I thought, “This day should be the worst day of my life . . . but it isn't.” I vocalized the thought then posed the question to Harold, “Is this the worst day of your life?”

Past the point of exhaustion and eyes closed to block the jarring of the road, his response was immediate and sure. “No," he replied, "it isn't.” Our son Darren, who had been with us for support, offered the same response. We feel calm. We feel protected. Nothing has changed. We still choose faith.


P.S. Harold has been so weak he has had difficulty eating and drinking. Dinner last night was broth. This morning for the first time in weeks he didn’t feel like throwing up. We “high fived” over being done with chemotherapy and its side effects. Then he said he wanted his special scrambled eggs for breakfast.

“You want me to make scrambled eggs?” I questioned, thrilled he felt he could eat.

“No, he replied, I want to make scrambled eggs!” And he did. This was the first time post surgery he has moved so confidently. He made and enjoyed a full breakfast.