Three Weeks With My Brother (38 page)

Slow, not stop. The doctor, in his own quiet way, was telling us that it was only a matter of time.

“But they’re doing everything for her that we would do here.”

When we asked about experimental drugs, the doctor explained that they were experimental for a reason. Efficacy hadn’t been proven. He spent a lot of time talking about quality of life; again, it was his way of telling us that my sister’s chances were not good.

By then, the tumor had begun to take its toll on my sister. Though fine in ordinary conversation, she was no longer able to fully understand the details of the doctor’s explanation, and she frowned at him, missing the nuances entirely.

“You’re doing well,” the doctor said to her. “Actually, I’m amazed at how well you’re doing.”

Again, we understood that he was describing her condition in relative terms; most people with a tumor like my sister’s wouldn’t be walking or talking at all. Toward the end of the consultation, Micah was sitting in the corner, head bowed low. As soon as the doctor left, none of us could say anything. Instead, we sat in silence for a long moment. My sister finally looked at Micah.

“What was he telling us?” Dana asked Micah.

Micah looked from Dana to me, then back to our sister again. He forced a smile.

“He says that you’re taking the right medicine,” Micah answered softly. “They wouldn’t be doing anything different.”

She nodded. “And I can’t have surgery or radiation again?”

“No,” he said. “They don’t think it would help.”

She blinked and looked from me to Micah. “But there’s still more medicine they can give me, right? If the ones I’m on stop working?”

“Yeah,” Micah said. “There are a couple more things they can try.”

“Well . . . good,” she said.

A couple of hours later, we were surrounded by movie stars. Dana had her picture taken with Kevin Costner and Robin Wright Penn, who were both extremely gracious to my sister. But as Dana posed for the pictures, all I could do was stare at her, wondering how much time she still had.

As if to escape the inevitability of what was happening, I began writing
The Rescue
in the spring of 1999. The story, about a boy named Kyle who couldn’t talk, was deeply personal and emotional for me to write; it was inspired, of course, by Ryan, our fears for his future, and the work that Cat and I had been doing with him.

In my spare moments, I spent time with Miles and Cat, while continuing to work with Ryan. Cat had come a long way in teaching Ryan a myriad of skills, and he’d continued to improve at asking and answering questions. Still, I found myself wishing that it would be easier. I wanted nothing more than for something to suddenly click, for Ryan to start learning on his own, simply by absorbing the world around him, as other children did. But nothing ever clicked; working with him was akin to rolling boulders up a never-ending hill. It was incredibly frustrating. I wondered why I’d been given a child with so many problems; there were frequent moments when I was angry at God, angry at what had happened, angry at the lot I’d been given. With Ryan, Cat and I had been robbed of all the joys of childhood; his wonder as he discovered the world, natural affection, his ability to learn on his own.
Everything
about his childhood was a struggle without reward, and I railed at the unfairness of it all. I wanted someone else to do the work, I wanted someone to come in and magically solve the problem, I dreamed of the day that someone would invent a pill to make his problem go away. I was so tired by then; tired of it all, and I’d pray to God, begging him to make my son better. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? I just wanted what our friends had, what our neighbors had, what everyone else seemed to have. I wanted a child like other children.

And then I’d feel guilty for what I’d been thinking. Terribly guilty. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault. It wasn’t God’s or anyone’s fault. And Ryan had worked so hard, harder than any young child should be expected to work, and he wasn’t quitting. We’d been through fire together, and I wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up on him. He was my son and I loved him. And, after all, no one ever said that life was fair; what you want and what you get are usually two entirely different things. With a job to do, I’d begin work with him again.

I had no other choice. He’d be starting kindergarten in less than six months, and there was still such a long, long way to go.

A month later, in April 1999, we found out Cat was pregnant, and surprisingly, my sister’s tumor had stabilized again. Or possibly even shrunk. Micah celebrated his first anniversary a month later, and after I called to congratulate him, he asked: “How’s Ryan doing? I sure do miss that kid.”

Micah always asked about Ryan.
Always.
And he
always
said something kind.

Over the summer, I continued working on
The Rescue
, working with Ryan, and spending time with Miles. Cat and I marveled at her growing belly, and I woke every morning with the renewed belief that she was the most wonderful woman in the world. We also took another trip to California; our trips out there were becoming both longer and more frequent.

In the fall, Ryan started kindergarten. We spent his first day pacing the house and worrying about him endlessly. We were terrified by the thought of what would happen to him. Though he’d improved substantially, he was still so far behind in so many areas. We worried that no one would like him, that other kids would tease him, that he wouldn’t be able to handle the work. Every day, we waited for a phone call from the school, telling us that it would be best if we enrolled Ryan elsewhere. We prayed for him every single night.

Again, I had to leave town for two straight months, this time while Cat was pregnant. I toured in Europe and the U.S., promoting
A Walk to Remember
. While on the road, I worried about Cat and worried about Ryan. And halfway through the tour, I learned that my sister’s tumor had reversed itself, and was growing once more. Dana was placed on experimental drugs, in experimental combinations, with no promises whatsoever. And so I worried about her, too.

Almost always, interviewers would ask if I felt I’d been born under a lucky star. Or if I thought my life was blessed. I never knew what to tell them.

Throughout 1999, the phone calls between my brother and me continued regularly, and whenever we spoke I began to sense his emotional exhaustion. In addition to taking over my dad’s role in shuttling Dana to and from various appointments, he’d also become my sister’s confidant and cheerleader, all while trying to keep her from knowing how worried he actually was.

Like me, my brother was using work as an escape. His businesses had grown, he had nearly thirty employees, as opposed to six when he’d first started, and he pushed himself hard. He worked weekends and evenings, and by thirty-five, as once had been his goal, he’d become a millionaire as well.

Dana and I spoke on the phone, too, usually twice a week. Sometimes I’d call, but more often than not my sister would be the one to pick up the phone. She loved talking to Cat—they would talk primarily about the kids, and how tiring being a mother could be—and she followed Cat’s pregnancy closely. In moments like those, it was easy to forget there was anything wrong with her.

Whether my sister was in denial or just an optimist, she downplayed her tumor. Usually, she didn’t mention it at all; if she did, it was only to tell me that she was going to beat it.

“I just know it,” she’d say. “I’ve got two kids, and they need a mother.”

“I know,” I’d answer. “And you’re doing great—even the doctors admit that.”

Sometimes, when I answered, she’d grow quiet. “You think I’ll make it, too, don’t you, Nick?”

“Of course I do,” I’d quickly lie, fighting the lump in my throat. “You’re going to be just fine.”

In late December, a few days after Christmas, Micah called, sounding weary, his inflection flat.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“It’s Dana,” he said. “We just got back from her last appointment.” He paused. A moment later, into the silence, he began to cry.

“The tumor’s still spreading,” he said. “Her last CAT scan showed that the new drugs aren’t helping at all.”

I closed my eyes. Micah’s voice was trembling and broken. “They put her on another regimen anyway, but they don’t think it’ll work. They’re just doing it because they know Dana wants to try something else. They say that her attitude has been the reason she’s made it as long as she has, and they don’t want to break her spirit. She needs to feel like she’s doing something to fight it. But . . .”

“She doesn’t know . . .”

“No,” he said. “When we left, she told me she was sure that this time the chemo would work.”

I could feel the lump in my throat, could feel my own tears brimming. Micah continued to cry into the phone.

“Damn, Nick . . . she’s so young. . . . She’s our baby sister . . .”

I began to cry as well.

“How much longer does she have?” It was all I could do to get the words out.

He took a long breath, trying to get control.

“They don’t know for sure. When I cornered the doctor, though, he said that she might have six months,” he whispered.

Outside, the world was darkening. The sky was filled with stars and the moon hung white and heavy on the horizon. Leaves rustled in the winter breeze, sounding like ocean waves. It was a beautiful evening, as if all was right in the world. But it wasn’t, for with Micah’s call, I lost my last sliver of hope.

I didn’t realize how much I’d been clinging to that improbable hope, and when I hung up with Micah, I slipped a jacket on and went outside. I walked through our yard, thinking of Dana, thinking of how strong and optimistic she’d been, thinking of her kids, thinking of the future that she would never see. And leaning against a tree, I cried into the wind.

I spent the next two days wandering aimlessly through the house. I’d start something and stop, I’d watch a show for ten minutes before realizing I didn’t know or care about what was on, I’d read the same pages over and over, unable to comprehend the words on the page.

Two days later, the phone rang. Cathy was in the final month of her pregnancy, and after answering it, she brought the receiver to my office. Her eyes spilled over with tears.

“It’s Dana,” she said.

I took the phone, and as soon as I put it to my ear, I heard my sister begin to sing to me. It was our birthday, and I concentrated hard as I listened to her, wanting to freeze the moment in time, for I knew that it would be the last time we would ever do this for each other.

On January 11, 2000, Landon was born. With green eyes and blond hair, he looked like his mother, and I was struck by how small he was in my arms. It had been seven years since I’d held a newborn, and I never wanted to put him down.

Yet I had no other choice. I was being pulled by the feelings I had for my other family, and three days later I flew to California to see my sister. From that point on, I’d begin flying out to California regularly. In every two-week period, I’d spend at least four days with my sister at the ranch.

Because my sister still had hope—and because hope was the only thing keeping her strong—I had to hide my reasons for coming. Though the effects of her tumor were becoming more obvious, she was still sharp enough to notice that I was suddenly visiting regularly, and she would infer the worst. I couldn’t do that to her. Her spirits had kept her strong, and I didn’t want to worsen the quality of life she had remaining, so in the end I found myself telling her half-truths.
I have to do some work in Los Angeles
, I’d say,
and since it’s only an hour away, I’ll pop up and see you.
Or,
I’m meeting friends in Las Vegas, and since I’m so close to the West Coast, I might as well drop in
.

“Great,” Dana would say. “I’d love to see you.”

Micah would always meet me at the airport, and we fell into a routine that didn’t change. Micah and I would stop at Zelda’s, a gourmet pizza parlor in downtown Sacramento, and share a pizza and beers. We’d talk for hours; about writing and his business, about our sister, and we’d share memories of our childhood. We’d laugh and shake our heads, and grow suddenly quiet as we thought about mom or dad, or what was happening to our sister. I’d sleep at Micah’s the first night, and in the morning he’d drive me out to the ranch to spend the rest of my time with Dana.

On my first visit, my sister continued to pretend that nothing was wrong. She’d cook and clean, and ask if I wanted to help Cody and Cole with their homework while she napped. We’d have dinner and visit until she grew tired and finally went to bed.

But the progress of her tumor was unstoppable, and little by little there was no disguising it. On each successive visit, her naps began to grow longer and she went to bed earlier. By February, she’d begun to limp; her tumor was slowly paralyzing the left side of her body. The next time I visited, her left arm had grown weaker as well; a week after that, the left side of her face began to lose its expressive ability. Where she’d once occasionally slurred her words, the slurring now occurred with greater frequency. Abstract comprehension grew even more difficult.

My baby sister was slowly losing her battle, but even then, she somehow believed that she would make it.

“I’ll be okay,” she’d say. “I’m going to see Cody and Cole grow up.”

Now, however, when she made comments like those, it was all I could do not to cry. I was an emotional wreck in those first couple of months of 2000. Torn between seeing Dana and spending time with my new baby, I woke each day thinking I should be somewhere else. If I was holding Landon, I’d wish I was in California holding my sister. And when I held my sister, I wished I was back in North Carolina, holding my son. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to balance it all, and I didn’t know how long I could keep it up. I barely slept, tears would suddenly spring to my eyes in unexpected moments, and as I forced myself through the day-to-day motions of my life, I was more exhausted than I’d ever been.

When you know that someone close to you is going to die, there’s a natural tendency to want to spend as much time with them as you can. As I mentioned, it was a constant struggle to maintain the balance between my current family and the family I’d grown up with. But even if I’d wanted to, there was another reason why I didn’t stay in California. My visits—though everyone understood my reasons for coming—changed the dynamics of my sister’s house. Guests, even family guests, always alter domestic dynamics. And remember, my sister had a new family of her own as well.