Author's Note: *tiptoes in, looking furtively around for any readers armed with veggies of destruction.*
Um, it's me. Hi. I come bearing a new chapter. It was getting really loooooooooong, so I decided I needed to divide it up into another 2-parter POV. There's a lot of... internal stuff going on in this chapter. External stuff, too, but a lot of internal stuff. I wanted it to be as honest as possible, so as a result, it's very angsty. It's also very much true to life, IMO, in terms of what someone experiences when they learn a family member has cancer (drawn a lot from personal experience). There will be humor to be had, but in the immediate aftermath, it's a little sticky. So bear with me, please.
Thank you for your patience and your understanding and your willingness to read on. *quickly uploads chapter and scurries back out, because one reader is holding corncobs and this strikes fear into the heart*
Hank
As a doctor, I encounter a fair amount of hero-worship from various individuals, generally ones I happen to pull back from the brink of death. What no one really knows is what an unimaginable coward I can be. If anyone knew the sort of things that go through my head sometimes… Like right now. Right now, I want to do many irrational things. I want to bolt from this room and go hide in a cave somewhere and never look back. I want to punch both of these nice, sympathetic doctors in the throat for dropping their evil news in here. I want to dash into the hallway and scream an astonishing list of obscenities to every human being in this building. I want to shake my little brother and demand to know why he didn't tell me what he was afraid of, why he had to just blurt it out that way when I had been too afraid to mention it, for I had suspected the same outcome. I want to find some way of punishing myself for not being completely honest with him… for being so wrapped up in my own fear, so concerned about keeping him calm and optimistic, that I didn't have a chance to prepare him at all… and for not being able to keep this sinister thing from invading his body. I want to rail at whatever deity decided to bestow cancer on my little brother. I want to physically claw the cancer out of his body and crush it beneath my feet like a bug. I want to forbid Evan to die… ever.
But I can't do any of these things at this moment, because I'm the rational one. I have to maintain that persona and listen to every word the doctor says. Because that's what the rational brother does. It's what I have to do, because Evan doesn't know medicine – I see his knuckles turning white as he death-grips his sheets, wringing every possibility from the "c-word," that awful word that somehow managed to find us again after all these years.
He's thinking about our mother. He's thinking he's just like her. I know it, because I am too, I have been thinking it since last night, and we seem to be weirdly, horribly in sync today.
Evan is not like Mom. He can't be like Mom. I forbid it; it's that simple.
I look at Dr. Bowers, now understanding why she is there. She's an oncologist - that is her "specialty." That is why Kirkland brought her in here. Her eyes have that patented expression oncologists get when they have to deliver those devastating words: You have cancer. How many times has she done this before?
Dr. Kirkland speaks to us through our mutual stupor. "The adrenal gland itself did not rupture, as we originally thought. There was a large cancerous tumor on the gland, and it was the tumor that ruptured, destroying the gland in the process. Given the size of it, it was probably brewing for months." He hands me some of the paperwork in his file, assuming I wish to look it over. But I'm too busy praying that this is treatable. I don't think I can process anything scientific right now, plus oncology is not my area. That really sticks in my craw – that Evan would be diagnosed with something I am not qualified to treat. My little brother is sick with a frightening, serious illness, and I'm helpless in the face of this. Just as I was with Mom. It's like I'm fifteen all over again.
"But the news is good: we got it out," Kirkland continues confidently.
"You're sure?" I ask quickly, before Evan can comment. Can it be? They've gotten it all out in one fell swoop, and it's… going to be ok? Do I dare be optimistic?
"Yes. We removed the entire thing during the surgery. In a weird way, the hemorrhaging episode wound up being a positive thing. The surrounding tissues we biopsied showed no abnormalities. The rupture occurred while the tumor was still confined to the gland, before it metastasized." He addresses Evan. "If this hadn't happened, the tumor would have continued to grow unchecked, eventually spreading into the rest of your body. But it could have been months before you showed any symptoms that would have pointed to cancer."
"Why did it pop to begin with?" I force myself to ask, feeling like something is sitting on my larynx, constricting my throat. Again, cancer not being my area, I am woefully uninformed as to what causes tumors to hemorrhage. Suddenly, it dawns on me that I, the brother with the medical degree, just asked why it "popped." Evan's terminology must have gotten stuck in my head. It sounds funny and whimsical when he says it, but I have a feeling I merely sound like an ignorant noob.
"Don't really know. There was no evidence of infection or trauma. We ran just about every test in the book, but at this point, I can't give you a concrete medical reason why this particular episode happened. Sometimes we see things like this. You could call it a miracle if you want. I think that someone or something out there is looking out for you, Evan." Kirkland emphasizes to my brother, who looks like a lost child.
He blinks rapidly a few times. "So… you're saying this is… good?" He manages to utter these hesitant words in a remarkably clear voice.
Bowers steps closer and speaks up now. "It's very, very good, Evan. It's the best news we could have in a situation like this. I would like run a few more tests. Once your circulation and blood volume stabilize, I'll get some more bloodwork, and I'd like to get some full-body scans to make sure there are no other hot spots brewing anywhere that could potentially turn into something further down the road. And you'll need these scans every three months or so for the next few years to make sure nothing new crops up."
"What if you find something on the scans?" Evan asks hesitantly. Clearly, he's scared, but I'm amazed that he's able to ask coherent questions right now – normally, I would expect him to either be babbling incoherently from stress, or retreating into himself and being completely silent. How is it that he is clear-headed and reasonably calm at this moment, while I – the rational brother – can barely speak without sounding like a meathead?
"Well, the next step would be to biopsy the area. Depending on the results, as well as the size and location, we'd see if it could be as easily removed as this one. But that's a worst-case scenario. As Dr. Kirkland said, the surrounding areas that were biopsied during the operation showed no cancerous cells. I doubt we'll find anything suspicious, but we have to check.
"Now, the surgery removed the entire tumor, but regardless of whether we find any other spots, I'm going to recommend a course of radiation. I don't believe chemotherapy is necessary at this point, but the radiation is added insurance, to wipe out any cells that could be lurking around." She looks seriously at Evan, but her voice is filled with confidence. "Your chances of beating this completely are excellent, Evan, and I want this to be a permanent cure for you."
"But it will…" Evan trails off, then seems to change his approach. "How sick will it make me?" Oh, Evan… still thinking of Mom. Wondering if the treatments will wreak havoc on his body the way it did with her.
Bowers answers before I can find my voice. "Radiation won't affect your body the way chemo would. With the dosage you'd be getting, the biggest side effect is fatigue. It'll wipe you out, especially as you near the end of the treatments, and you might possibly experience some appetite changes. But it's not like chemo." She pauses, then puts a reassuring hand on Evan's shoulder, and says in a confidential voice. "I've read your medical history. I know what your mother went through. I promise you, Evan – it's not going to be like that for you." Evan purses his lips and nods in understanding, and I want to kiss this lady for seeing where his – our – thoughts were going and pulling us back to the reality.
Taking a deep breath, Evan raises his astonishingly clear eyes to Dr. Bowers, and says quietly, "When can we start the treatments?" And I almost want to smile. Almost.
Bowers grins and shakes her head. "We're going to need to wait until you've recovered from the surgery… at least a month. But I like that attitude, Evan. That's half the battle right there. Keep that up."
Dr. Kirkland examines Evan's surgical incisions, making sure they're beginning to heal properly. Dr. Bowers schedules MRIs and bloodwork for the following day, and hands me some literature on cancer FAQs. Then, when we have no other questions to ask them, they exit together, leaving us alone in a heavy, drained silence. Evan does not look at me, and for some reason, I can't quite meet his eyes either. Neither of us talks for several minutes. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants, I search every corner of my mind for the right words to say; my thoughts are so jumbled right now, mentally making lists of people to call, questions I should have asked earlier and will have to ask the next time I see Bowers, research I need to do so that I will be in the know, and of course, blanketing all of this is my fear, which still threatens to choke me. Focus, Hank. They said it was treatable. Now I need to snap out of it and be the rational brother. I can't be his doctor, so rational brother is the only role I have now. So come on – start being rational!
Before I can even attempt to form words in my head, Evan suddenly speaks up. "Well, this is turning into the worst weekend ever! I'd kind of like a do-over." His tone is neutral enough, as if he's been dealing with a series of minor misfortunes such as oversleeping, blowing a tire, losing keys, or stubbing a toe. It blows my mind that he could say something so blasé, trying to be funny after getting hit with this unimaginable news…
But then, isn't that what he's always done? He did it with Mom – reverting to humor when things were at their darkest. He did it for her and for me, as much as for himself. Though at the time I frequently acted annoyed with him, believing that he wasn't taking Mom's illness seriously enough, later on I realized how crucial those moments of light had been for us. I only recently got around to telling Evan how happy he had made our mother while she was sick; that it was about twenty years too late is to my shame.
What winds up finally coming out of my mouth, though, is a strained, barely-audible "When did you start to suspect…?" And I could kick myself. Of all the things I could say right now, I choose that? What the hell is my problem? I couldn't pick something more comforting, something more positive, more encouraging?
Vaguely shaking his head a little, Evan says in a low voice, "I don't know… since earlier this morning, I guess."
"You just sat on this fear all morning long? Why didn't you bring it up before?" The thought of Evan churning over this possibility for hours, not telling anyone, bearing the weight of this worry all on his own – even though I was right beside him, trying avoid thoughts of the exact same thing – how had he done it? Why had he done it?
"Same reasons you didn't, I imagine…" Evan replies. There is nothing accusatory or angry in his voice, but I know now that he had known my fears, had sensed my dread all along. And I'm caught like an escaping prisoner, with a giant searchlight illuminating my cowardice.
I begin to explain. "I didn't want to frighten or worry you unnecessarily. You're recovering from a rough surgery, and I wanted to avoid any additional stress. And I guess I just… didn't want to put it out there." I take a shaking breath, trying to quell the feeling that my emotions are about to explode clean out of my chest. "But I should have… I should have told you. I should have talked to you honestly about the possibility. But I didn't… because I was scared…" So instead I hid. He asked me outright what I thought had caused his hemorrhage, and I pulled an answer out of my ass. Yes, sure, it was a viable diagnosis, but it wasn't the only one, and it wasn't the one my mind kept dwelling on. But I shut away the fear that Evan could have the same illness that took our mother's life, never once considering that he would suspect anything was amiss, and I left my brother hanging in the cold. My little brother… who has cancer. My brother has cancer. My brother… Suddenly, my eyes are on fire. When I speak, my voice is thick, and words tumble off my tongue with no sort of control. "God, I should have… I never… forgive me, Evan. I'm so, so sorry. Oh God, please forgive me..."
To my surprise, Evan suddenly begins struggling to raise himself, pain written all over his face at the movement. Instantly, I'm by his side as I try to push him back down again, my own angst forgotten for the moment. "Evan, stop! What're you doing?"
"I want to sit up-" he grunts, and before I can stop him he pulls off the nasal cannula in frustration. I attempt to grasp his hands before he tries to disentangle himself from any of the other medical devices that are holding him down.
"Quit it! You're going to hurt yourself, you need to be still-"
"No!" He glares at me, not with anger at me, but with eyes bright with desperation and fury that his body has been invaded without his permission. "Hank, I just got told I had a grotty, nasty tumor growing inside me for months which totally tried to kill me yesterday, and I'm scared to death and my big brother is upset. Now I don't give a rat's ass if it hurts, I am going to sit up right now, and you are going to shut the hell up and give me a hug! Damn it, I want love right NOW!" he bellows with strength I didn't think he currently possessed, his pale face flushed. Well, if your sick brother wants love, you give him love, right? Especially when he looks like he might levitate if you make any attempt to stop him.
I raise the bed several inches to take some of the strain off of Evan's sore and swollen body, and then sit carefully down beside him and pull him into an embrace. Though I know it must be physically agonizing for him, he clings tightly to me, and I do the same. It is as though we are kids again, right after Mom had died, when we held onto each other, each of us totaling the other's whole world.
We remain locked together in silence for several minutes, and when I feel Evan shudder with pain, I attempt to pull away to give his body some relief. But he digs his fingers deeper into my shirt and he prevents me from breaking the embrace. "Not yet," he whispers. I feel moisture on my neck, and I know that his tears have finally begun flowing. My own are freely sliding down my face, but I make no effort to wipe them away, because it would mean letting go of him. Neither of us is ready to do that.
"Hank, I know they said, they said they got it all out of me… but I'm… I'm still scared," Evan eventually says quietly, his voice sort of muffled by my shoulder.
"I know, Ev," I say softly. "I know you're scared; I am, too. You just heard one of the scariest words in the English language applied to you. I'd actually be pretty worried if you weren't scared. But we have to stay positive. Your prognosis is incredibly good."
"Yeah," Evan says feebly, finally breaking the hug. I pull back from him a little, and he takes the opportunity to rub his face, wiping away his tears. He's red-eyed and a bit sniffly, but then I am, too. "But how do they know they got it all? If the tumor is what popped, wouldn't it leak all of the… the, you know… the cancer juice into my body?"
Cancer juice? Um, yick. Sheesh, the things my brother comes up with… That may be one of the grossest things I've ever had the misfortune to imagine. I try not to visibly cringe. "It doesn't work like that. The only thing that leaked from the tumor was blood."
"What if it comes back?"
"It won't." Seeing his next question forming, and not wanting to make the same mistake as I did earlier, I hurry to add, "But if it did, we would treat it again. That's what those follow-up scans are for – to monitor you every few months and make sure no more tumors develop."
"I mean…" he swallows. "I haven't even felt sick. My back had only been hurting for a week, but it wasn't bad or anything. If it hadn't popped when it did, I would have…That… thing was growing in me since… it was all stealthy, and I didn't even know it was there. Geez, Hank, this was like… like a ninja tumor." Evan looks at me with wide, wet eyes. I don't think he means it to sound as funny or as strange as it does, but I can't disguise the twitch in my lip, and the oddness of his words dawn on him, and he gives a feeble chuckle.
Then Evan sniffs, gives a long, shuddering breath, and looks directly in my eyes with a fierce determination burning in them. "Ok," he says, and wipes away the last of his tears. He repeats his "Ok," with his voice now carrying more strength and calmness. "The time for crying is over now. All done. The doctors said I'm going to make it through this, so now is the time to fight it. I'm officially saying it out loud, with you as my witness: I'm beating this thing."
"Yeah, you are!" I grin through my tears, and my worry is replaced with growing pride in my little brother's strength. That's the attitude we need now, so it's high time I pulled myself together as well. "You already have."
"I'm kicking its ass."
"To the curb!" I proclaim, with more fervor.
"I'm going to laugh in its stupid, ugly ninja tumor face!"
"Ha HA!" I sound oddly like Speed Racer, but I don't care. For each declaration of Evan's, I reply with an addendum of support. He's not alone in this. He will never be alone, not as long as I have anything to say about it.
Evan's energetic declarations and his efforts at movement have their consequences. As his adrenaline eventually fades, the pain of his surgery washes over him, and he sinks back into his pillow, with a sheen of sweat adding to the moisture left by his tears. The stress and the heightened emotion of the past hour have completely drained him of what little strength he has. I take advantage of his weakness to give him a little more morphine and readjust the nasal cannula he had pulled away. As I'm doing these things, Evan asks quietly, "Do you think it was Mom?"
Puzzled, I pause. "What was Mom?"
"Dr. Kirkland said he didn't know why the tumor popped. He said someone was looking out for me. Do you think it was Mom?"
I have no idea how to answer this. I don't put much stock in the supernatural, I don't believe in ghosts, and I don't know how plausible it is that after so many years, our mother would reach out from the great beyond and cause her youngest son a medical crisis so that we would discover the cancer sooner. Then again, Kirkland was stumped as to why the rupture had occurred. And… Eddie just stopped by the guesthouse on a whim, even after his calls went unanswered, and was able to save Evan. I breathe heavily. I'm wise enough to admit that my knowledge has limits, and some things aren't answerable. "I don't know, Ev. Maybe you're right." This satisfies him and he seems peaceful.
After my meager ministrations, Evan reaches for my hand once again. "I know you have people to tell…" he says meekly, and I am reminded that Jill and Divya and Eddie don't know about the diagnosis yet. I dread telling them, especially Dad. "But… could you just sit with me for a bit? Just until the morphine kicks in and I fall asleep?"
Not that I had been planning to, but how could I refuse such a request? "Of course, Ev. Now just try to rest, ok? I'm right here."
"Thank you, Hank… for being here. I know this even harder for you than it is for me," (How can he think that?) "and I want you to know, I love you. No matter what else happens."
"I love you, too, Evan." I look down at our hands, because if I meet his eyes again, I won't be able to contain the blubbering that lies just beneath my surface. I know it won't be long before the meds override his stress and anxiety and send him into what will hopefully be an easy, healing sleep. I thank God for the drugs, because with the morning's events, I don't think there would be any way Evan could ever sleep again without them. Rest is what he needs most right now, physically and mentally.
I sit on the edge of his hospital bed, holding his hand as his eyelids gradually grow heavier. We don't say much else to each other, but then we don't need to. I feel as though Evan has forgiven me for not telling him I feared cancer, even though the actual words are not spoken. I quietly resolve to be completely open and honest with him from now on. Even if the subject is difficult or frightening… I underestimated the depth of Evan's perception before. I don't know why I did so, but I did, and it was wrong to believe he would be better off if I left him in the dark. As long as I can help it, I won't ever allow him to be stuck alone with his fears again. He will not fight this alone.
Once Evan's breathing becomes slow and even, I know he is asleep. I wait for just a few minutes, then I carefully get up and leave the room as silently as I can manage. Once out into the hallway, I pull out my cell phone, and hit the speed dial. Divya's voicemail delivers its clipped, professional message to my ear, and as evenly as possible, I say "Divya, it's Hank. Please call me as soon as you get this message." I can't tell her in a voicemail. I'm not even sure I can do it on the phone. As it is, I must tell Eddie face to face... and if need be, sit on him to prevent him from jumping out the window and heading for the hills. I feel my chest getting tight again, and I hurry out to the nearest stairwell.
Once I am certain I am alone, the tears come again. Not gently flowing tears of commiseration like the ones I shed with Evan. No, these are hard, burning sobs churning up from my gut like vomit, threatening to turn me inside out. These are MY tears, my own personal anguish. I'm glad the stairwell is deserted, because I'm crying with noise.
I know I should be grateful that Evan's prognosis is so optimistic. This could have been much worse, on so many levels. With the surgery he is already, like, 80% cured. And if the radiotherapy goes smoothly, this may just be a blip in the radar for him. But… it freaks me the hell out. Even more than being scared, I'm also just plain MAD. This was not supposed to happen. Not to Evan, not to my brother. Not to us. It isn't right or fair or just. Haven't we already paid our dues to this stupid disease? Why did have to be him? He doesn't deserve this!
A tremendous part of me wishes that I had been the one to receive this diagnosis, and not Evan. But I must be careful to never tell him this. First of all, he would kill me for even imagining it, because in such a scenario our roles would be reversed. He would be the one who would have to sit back helplessly, passively, and watch me suffer through it. I don't want that either. Secondly, it would sound as if I believe myself to be stronger than my brother, somehow better equipped to handle it. This is not true. In fact, it's quite the opposite. From what I saw today – the way Evan quieted his fear and tried to infuse me with confidence, the way he asked the majority of questions when the doctors were here, the way he allowed himself to have his moment of weakness before pulling himself together and choosing to be positive; all of this is both the most astonishing and yet the most normal, most Evan-ish behavior I've ever seen from him. The truth is, I was the first one to fall apart, and I am the one who is still falling apart now. I have failed the test.
I keep telling myself it's not like before. Mom was completely different. When they found Mom's tumor, it had already spread, and surgery couldn't remove it all. She needed aggressive chemotherapy at the outset, and it was torture for her. And in the end, it was also ineffective. But Dr. Bowers said that chemo wasn't necessary for Evan. Even if it was, cancer treatments have come so far since Mom's bout, Evan would not necessarily suffer the way she did. So Bowers was right: he's not going to be like Mom. The worst of this is behind us already.
So then, why do I feel so helpless? Why do I feel so weak and useless and… and… crippled in the face of this? I don't want this. I don't know if I can go through it again… especially if… things go wrong. But they can't. I'm just not done with Evan yet.
My brother was right: worst weekend ever.