Three Weeks With My Brother (37 page)

Micah, of course, raised his hand.

“Can I have my picture taken in one of the crypts?”

Our guide stared at Micah as if he was insane.

“You can if you want to . . . I guess. No one’s ever asked before.”

“Really? How many years have you been working here?”

“Seventeen.”

Micah winked at me. “You know what that means,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I might be the first guy ever to do this,” he said. “After the dead guys, I mean.”

He crawled in, grinning while I snapped his picture.

As we were walking along the cobblestone streets leading from Mdina back to the car, Micah surveyed our surroundings.

“I think Christine would like Malta.”

“How about the other places we went?”

He glanced at me. “You couldn’t drag her to India or Ethiopia. Or Easter Island, for that matter. For her, traveling to foreign countries means going to London or Paris.”

I smiled. “I think Cat would have liked all the places we’ve gone. But since she’s never been to Europe, we’ll probably go there first.”

“When the kids are older, you mean.”

“Of course. With the kids still so young, it wouldn’t be that much fun anyway.”

“You know what we should do? Next summer, we should rent a big house in Italy for a month, and bring both our families out. We can make that our home base, and travel around from there.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“You don’t think that sounds like a good idea?”

“I think it sounds like a great idea. It’s just that I don’t think it’s all that likely. And not just because of my five kids. By then, you’ll probably have another baby.”

“You’re probably right. But we should get some information anyway. I’d bet that most of the people on the tour have been to Italy a few times. We can find out the best place to stay.”

“You really want to do this?”

“Yeah. We should live a little.”

“And you don’t think traveling around the world is living a little?”

He thought about it. “We should live a little
more
.”

I laughed. “Would you ever have believed we actually went around the world together and seen all these places? By our age, I mean?”

Micah shook his head. “Never. But then again, if you think about it, we’ve lived a whole lot of life already.”

After his comment, I walked in silence, remembering.

In early 1998, Micah was running two businesses, working long hours, and making plans for his wedding. Along with Bob, he also took over my father’s role regarding my sister’s health. He began attending all the consultations, and took notes; in the evenings, he would consult the
Physicians’ Desk Reference
and peruse medical journals online, to ensure that my sister was receiving the best care possible.

Micah called me with the news as soon as he got back from the oncologist’s office.

My sister’s tumor, invisible only three months before, had grown to the size of a grape. While it wasn’t as large as the original tumor had been—the size of an egg—it was located deeper within her brain, in an area responsible for both memory and vital motor functions. Because of that, surgery wasn’t an option; there was no way to get to the tumor without causing terrible damage. My sister would be left blind and paralyzed in the best possible scenario; more likely, she would either become a vegetable or die during the operation. Nor, we learned, was radiation an option, for much the same reason. The risk was great, the possible benefits almost nonexistent. Instead my sister would be treated with chemotherapy.

After the initial consultation, my sister would be given a combination of three different drugs that had proven to be the most successful in treating the types of tumors afflicting my sister.

Yet the odds weren’t good. Chemotherapy is essentially poison; the hope is that the poison kills the tumors before it kills the person. While it’s effective in many types of cancer, it’s far less effective in the brain. The blood-brain barrier—think of it as a wall between your brain and the rest of your body—makes reaching the high concentrations necessary to kill the tumors almost impossible to attain. They could, however,
sometimes
control the growth rate of the tumors or, if lucky, even stop the growth entirely.

“So what does that mean for Dana?” I asked Micah on the phone.

“They won’t know anything until after she’s on the drugs.”

“But she has a chance, right?”

“Yeah, there’s a chance, but . . .” Micah trailed off.

“But the odds aren’t good,” I finished.

“They wouldn’t say. All they would tell me is that the regimen she’s going on offers the best chance for her.”

“What happens if the tumor stops growing, but doesn’t actually die?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could they tell you how long the tumor might stop growing if the drug works?”

“No,” he said. “To be honest, Nick, I didn’t get any answers at all. Not because she doesn’t have good doctors, but because they can’t even begin to make an educated guess right now. I’ve told you all that I know. They say they’ll probably know more in three months when Dana gets her next CAT scan.”

“What are we supposed to do until then?”

“Wait and see what happens.”

“That’s what they told you?”

“In those words exactly.”

After that, our life began to fall into a distinct three-month cycle, almost like a holding pattern. Dana started chemotherapy with Micah by her side. As the poison began to filter into her system, my brother held her hand.

The news about Dana made everything that much harder. Writing was a struggle the first couple of months of the year, and my book tour for
Message in a Bottle
lasted throughout March and April, again stranding Cat alone with the kids. While on the road and away from home, I worried about my sister’s health, and hated the fact that I wasn’t able to work with Ryan.

I continued to write when I returned; in the end, I nearly completed a novel before throwing it out in its entirety. It simply wasn’t working.

As soon as I got back, I started on Ryan’s speech again, facing one struggle after the next. By then, specialists had revised the diagnosis once more—this time to CAPD, or central auditory processing disorder. Essentially, it’s dyslexia of sound; for whatever reason, sounds are jumbled into something like random noise, making speech and comprehension extremely difficult. By then, neither Cat nor I cared what the experts said was wrong with Ryan; we simply continued to work with him.

After a year, he’d finally reached the point where he understood that words represented objects, and Ryan could repeat nearly everything I suggested. Questions were a massive stumbling block. He couldn’t comprehend the idea behind statements beginning with what, who, when, why, or how. For weeks, I spent hours trying different ways to get through to him.

I’d point to a picture of a tree.

“Tree,” I’d say.

“Tree,” he’d repeat.

“Good! Great job!” I’d praise. I’d point to the tree again.

“What’s this?”

“What’s this?” he’d repeat.

“No, no. It’s a tree.”

“No, no. It’s a tree,” he’d repeat.

Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick. On his next birthday, he’d be five years old.

In April, while I was on tour, Dana went in for her next CAT scan, and she called me on the road with the news right after she’d received the results.

“The tumor has shrunk by half!” she said.

“That’s fantastic!” I said.

“Oh, man, was I worried. I was a nervous wreck the last week and a half.”

“I’ll bet you were. I was, too. But this is great news.”

“If it keeps working like this, it might be gone by the next time I go in.”

“Did the doctors say that?”

“No, but I think it will. It’s already down by half. More than half, actually.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said again.

“I’m going to beat this thing.”

“I know you will.”

By May 1998, after hundreds and hundreds of hours, I finally stumbled onto something that helped Ryan understand what a question was. I began to whisper the question, and shout the answer before he could repeat the question.

“What’s this?” I’d whisper, pointing to the tree. “TREE!!!!!!” I’d quickly shout.

Ryan, startled by my outburst, would say “Tree!” almost on instinct.

“That’s right!” I’d cheer. “Great job! It’s a
tree.
”

Gradually, he learned how to respond to some questions; what and who, primarily, both major steps forward, which allowed him to finally engage in basic conversation. To learn
where
would take many more weeks. When, why, or how still eluded him completely. Nor could he ride a bike. Nor could he write with a pencil. Nor could he tie his shoes. Cat worked with him in all those areas, and she showed no less determination than I. She, like I, was determined to help Ryan get better, no matter what it took. Both of us wanted Ryan to be mainstreamed when he started school; we wanted him to attend regular classes with regular kids. We wanted Ryan to be accepted as normal.

But often it felt as if we were running out of time. In a little over a year, Ryan would be starting kindergarten. And the clock continued to tick.

At the end of May 1998, Cat and I spent a couple of weeks in California, visiting with both Micah and Dana. I served as best man in Micah’s wedding, a beautiful event, attended by friends and family. A few days after he returned from his honeymoon, he took my sister in for her next appointment.

“I’m sure it’s better,” Dana told him on the way in, “I feel great.”

But it wasn’t. Instead, the tumor had grown again. Now it was the size of three grapes, with tentacles spreading out from it.

Dana’s chemotherapy regimen was changed, but we all knew that the new drugs were generally not as effective as the first. Still, there was hope; in one clinical study, one patient out of twelve had been completely cured with the drugs she was now on. We still had reason to hope, the doctors assured us.

To be on the safe side, however, Micah and Dana, along with a couple of relatives, flew to MD Anderson in Houston, one of the most renowned cancer centers in the country, for a second opinion. The doctors concluded that she was receiving the highest standard of care, and that had Dana been a patient there, they would be doing nothing different.

When talking to us, Dana remained optimistic.

“I’m going to beat it,” she would say.

“I know you are,” both Micah and I would reassure her.

Afterward, Micah and I would say the same things to each other. Still, we spoke to each other less frequently that year than we had in the past; one or two calls a week, not the three or four calls that had once been normal. Cat and I continued working with Ryan; Micah was adjusting to married life and working hard; he’d also begun remodeling his home and was spending as much time with Dana as he could.

The phone calls were often painful. Talking to Micah reminded me of Dana, and vice versa. And even though I’d talk to Dana as frequently as I did with my brother, I could never escape the image of something terrible growing inside her, something irreversible.

That summer, drawing inspiration from my sister, I wrote
A Walk to Remember
. Jamie, the main character, embodied all the wonderful attributes of my sister, and all the worries I had for her future. It was the first time I’d ever cried while writing.

In the end, I dedicated it in memory of my parents, and to Micah and Dana.

My sister, though she knew it was about her, refused to read it.

“I don’t want to know how it ends,” she said.

By autumn, my sister’s tumor had shrunk. Not much, but progress nonetheless. She stayed on the same drug regimen, and we bided our time until winter, when she would get another CAT scan. We continued to live from one three-month cycle to the next.

In early December, Micah and Dana, along with Bob, Christine, and the kids, flew to North Carolina to visit. While there, we all dressed in khakis and long-sleeved white shirts, and sat for a family photograph taken on the beach. It still hangs in my living room today, and no matter how long you stare at it, by their appearance, you would never know that anything was wrong with Dana or Ryan at all.

A few weeks later, my sister called me on my birthday and sang to me. By then, I couldn’t help but notice that she had begun to slur words occasionally, and was beginning to have difficulty understanding some things. Still, she remained positive about her condition. But a couple of days after that, she got the results from her next CAT scan.

The second round of chemotherapy was failing. Her tumor was now the size of four grapes, and the tentacles continued to spread. She was placed on a new regimen, with new chemotherapy drugs.

“This is the last of the best,” we were informed. “After this, everything we can try is pretty much experimental.”

There was still hope, however. By then, hope was becoming the only thing we could cling to.

In February 1999, Micah and Dana, along with their spouses, flew to Los Angeles for the movie premiere of
Message in a Bottle
. That afternoon, before we attended the red-carpet premiere, however, we brought my sister to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There, we’d made arrangements for my sister to see Dr. Keith Black, one of the finest neurosurgeons in the country. We wanted to make certain that surgery wasn’t an option, anywhere, by anyone, even if it entailed serious risks. While we all hoped that this latest round of chemotherapy would work, we wanted to keep every conceivable option open.

Micah, Dana, and I, along with a few relatives, were in the room when my sister’s CAT scan was placed against the light. It was the first time I’d seen one of her scans, and Micah whispered that her tumor was easy to spot. Cancer shows up white on the scan, he explained.

When the light was turned on and I saw my sister’s scan, my throat constricted. White seemed to be everywhere.

Still, we asked about surgery, and were told that since the tumor had crossed the midline in her brain, surgery wasn’t an option. When we asked about her chemotherapy, we were told that there was a slim possibility that it could slow the growth in a case like hers.