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Remembering MyMike – 12,342 Days of Life and Love by Deborah

• June 29, 2025

Introduction

Renal Medullary Carcinoma (RMC) is an extremely rare and aggressive form of kidney cancer, most commonly found in young people of African descent who carry the sickle cell trait. It is often diagnosed in late stages due to vague or overlooked symptoms, and treatment options remain limited.

This is our story—his story. A story of love, fight, faith, and 12,342 days of life lived with purpose.

The Beginning

My son, Michael Brignac—one of my greatest gifts—was born on Father’s Day in 1990. He left this earth at 1:06 a.m. on April 1, 2024, surrounded by love, after a courageous and graceful 15-month battle with Renal Medullary Carcinoma (RMC).

In hindsight, Michael likely hadn’t felt 100% for at least a year before his diagnosis on January 10, 2023. But being who he was, he pushed through—thinking he just needed rest. He mentioned feeling exhausted and experiencing severe night sweats, but we chalked it up to stress and poor sleep. I regret not urging him to see a doctor sooner. He struggled to stay consistent with his workout regimen and had trouble putting on weight. Now we know why. Michael loved working out, running, and Muay Thai. He was active right up until his diagnosis and always encouraged me to stay active too—he was my biggest cheerleader. I’ve recently started working out again, and it’s one of the ways I choose to honor my sweet son.

Diagnosis

During Christmas 2022, Michael wasn’t himself. On Christmas Day, I could tell something was wrong. He tried to stay engaged and enjoy our family gathering, but his energy was off. Still, true to form, he didn’t complain. He went home to begin a vacation but wasn’t able to enjoy it—he struggled to breathe and felt increasingly unwell. We thought it might be a cold.

When he returned to work at our family restaurant on January 3, 2023, he could barely catch his breath. He pushed through the day but struggled to even walk to the back. The next morning, things worsened, and I told him it was time to go to the ER. He drove himself, and I met him there.

Within hours, I knew something was terribly wrong. Scan after scan, worried glances from nurses, doctors coming in and out. Multiple physicians asked him, “Why did you wait so long to come in?” He answered honestly: “I thought it was just a cold and I could handle it—until I couldn’t.” Because of his childhood asthma, we thought it had flared up. But deep down, I felt dread. I called my husband and told him to come immediately.

Michael was admitted on January 4 for further testing. Despite it all, he stayed positive. After a week of scans, blood work, oxygen treatments, and draining fluid from his lungs—he just wanted to go home. But on January 10, a hospital doctor gave us the devastating news: cancer. It had already spread—to his kidneys, liver, lungs, neck, spine, and even his knee.

My husband and I were listening on speakerphone, racing to the hospital as the doctor gently shared the diagnosis with Michael and his partner. I could hear the emotion in her voice. When we arrived, Michael hugged us and cried—but only briefly. Then he said, “I’m going to fight this.” Still, as his mother, I saw it—his heart was breaking. I asked my husband to tell our daughters—I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I held it together in Michael’s hospital room, but outside, I crumbled.

We immediately began trying to get him into City of Hope. Navigating insurance was incredibly difficult. I handled all of it so he could focus on healing. No one should have to fight for care while battling cancer.

At our first oncology appointment, immunotherapy for kidney cancer was discussed. While we were there, our oldest daughter texted, “Make sure they know Michael has the sickle cell trait.” She had been researching. I mentioned it to the doctor, and he said that changed everything. More pathology tests were ordered—and the RMC diagnosis was confirmed.

The Treatment Journey

We prayed, fasted, cried, and hoped—through 15 months of chemotherapy, radiation, ER visits, surgeries, and hospital stays.

I was incredibly blessed to step away from work to care for Michael full-time. While my husband held down the restaurant by himself. Michael moved home to be closer to his care team. That time—just the two of us—was sacred. We had always been close, but these months gave us the space to reconnect in an even deeper way. I will forever treasure our conversations. Michael was kind, intelligent, loving, and nonjudgmental. And I don’t say that just because he was mine—he truly was. Not all our talks were easy. “Mom, do you think I’m dying?” and “Why is this happening to me?”—questions no mother should ever have to answer. And yet I tried.

We are forever grateful to his partner’s family, who helped us connect with the co-director of City of Hope’s Kidney Cancer Program. That doctor connected us with the RMC specialists at MD Anderson in Houston. Though Michael never traveled to Houston, his treatment plan was guided by the experts there.

Eventually, Michael developed visible tumors—on his head, chest, neck, and stomach. Some would burst and bleed. They were difficult emotionally—daily reminders of the cancer’s cruelty. Two were surgically removed from his head, but they returned. He feared losing mobility due to tumors pressing on his spine. Thankfully, though he endured excruciating back and leg pain, he remained able to walk. He met with a surgeon about stabilizing his spine but chose not to proceed—he had already endured so much.

Final Days

Michael’s last ER visit resulted in a one-night hospital stay. He felt safer there—he could breathe more easily with oxygen. The next morning, a lung specialist we hadn’t met came in with two nurses. She sat down gently and said the words no one is ever ready to hear: Michael was dying.

He listened, calm and composed. I sat beside him, fighting back tears, trying to match his strength. The nurses were tearful. After hearing it all, my beautiful son looked at them and said, “I’m sorry you had to hear all of this.” I turned to them and said, “You’ve just met the essence of my son. He hears the worst news of his life—and he’s apologizing to you.”

Later, the doctor asked about the DNR form. Michael hadn’t signed it. I told her we’d prefer not to push the issue and that his father and I would decide if needed.

Coordinating hospice care for my son, hearing that he likely wouldn’t make it through the weekend, calling my daughters to come home, watching Michael smile through pain to say goodbye to his niece—those are moments forever etched into my broken soul.

Reflections

God revealed His presence time and again throughout Michael’s journey. The pharmacist at Rite-Aid who expedited his medications. The lab staff who made sure he never paid out of pocket. The infusion nurses who treated him with such dignity. The two hospice nurses who were nothing short of angels. I’m eternally grateful for their compassion and care.

I pray a cure and early detection for RMC is found soon so that other families don’t have to suffer this way.

I once read: “A mother instinctively protects her child. A grieving mother instinctively protects her child’s memory.”That’s true. And I will do so with every breath in me—until I see my MyMike again.

My heart is learning to carry the unthinkable. I still feel him with me. I hear him in my heart. I promised him I would be “okay,” and I’m trying. But I am far from it. Knowing he is free from pain gives me peace—but the void is unbearable.

I miss everything—his voice, his laugh, his wisdom, his presence. Watching him with his sisters and nieces. Just… everything.

What’s surprised me most about Michael being gone is how much of me left with him. I’m not the same. Grief has reshaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand.

Forever his mi madre,

Deborah