“I think my brother’s cancer is back.”
I remember it vividly. I had decided to sleep in (6:30 a.m.) since it was the last day of a UNDP retreat. My room was your typical Thai resort, complete with bamboo furniture, silk curtains, and lavender tea. I was too comfortable to move. But then the phone buzzed. Thailand is usually twelve hours apart from the U.S. so I was used to being woken early by random text messages from the sisters, or from mom. (Craig was a late bloomer with the texts. Fat fingers, as we liked to tease.) Erin’s text said something about Craig having floaters in his stomach, and that they weren’t sure if it was a parasite, or evidence that his cancer had returned. I remember being a bit slow to register. I stared at the phone and then rolled onto my back for another few minutes of shut-eye. Emphasis on the shut-eye; I never really slept. I remember closing my eyes and mumbling “shit”, but I didn’t respond back. I must have waited five minutes before texting Erin. Once I did, she replied with a text stating that she didn’t have much in the way of information but that Craig was vomiting and in a lot of pain. I remember thinking to myself, “if it’s cancer, they should be able to treat it quickly.” If only.
Later, I joined my boss for breakfast and halfway through the meal, I casually mentioned to him that it was possible Craig’s cancer was back. My boss immediately jumped, letting out a quick “Jesus Christ.” I remember thinking how numb I felt compared to his reaction. The prospect of Craig being sick was something for the horror films – not my reality. I didn’t really process what was going on until I was back in Bangkok. I called my friends to share the news. Yet still, I was in disbelief. When Erin finally told me his cancer was back and that it looked like stage IV, I was stunned. I was more than stunned; I was terrified. I was terrified of losing Craig, my best friend, the person I’ve looked up to my entire life. I’d just come around to the notion of a life without mom. I couldn’t believe we were facing the same with Craig.
The next day, I went to work, and notified my colleagues that I’d be taking an unexpected leave. They were more than supportive, for which I’m truly grateful. A few days later, I was on a flight to Denver. I remember spending a lot of time sobbing with friends before leaving. I kept saying “not Craig, please not Craig.” And at the same time, my backed up grief for Mom came pouring through. I commented to my friends just three days before he was diagnosed that thank God Craig’s cancer had virtually a 0% chance of recurrence. Mom had just fallen and hit her head, and she was showing signs of deterioration. With mom, we needed all the strength we could muster; knowing Craig was in the clear was a relief. Little did we know his cancer was growing all along.
Looking back at pictures, it’s clear that he was probably fighting the disease even then. When Craig visited me in November, he looked sick. He had lost weight and looked considerably paler than before. Even during his visit, he complained of stomach problems and side-splitting pain. I remember conversations with Craig about his cancer, and the possibility that it could be back. His August scan indicated no sign of recurrence, but did show unusual spotting and “lesions” in his liver and lungs. Concerned about the reading, Craig emailed his doctor (not Dr. F.) to discuss the unusual results. C never got a response. (I had the fortune of meeting this doctor not too long ago. His reply: “Wow, so strange. You illness is a case study.” You’re telling me.)
His diagnosis is hard to come to terms with, simply because he had an initial diagnosis of being essentially cured. Mom's cancer was bad, straight off. With Craig, I can’t help but think it could have been prevented had we acted sooner. Unfortunately, standard protocol involves removal of the kidney (nephrectomy) followed by an observation period (i.e. no chemo). Every three months, Craig would come in for a CT scan followed by a doctor’s visit. Only in August did they scale his visits back to every six months. In that time, the cancer grew. Bad timing, indeed.
At the rate his cancer was growing, I'm not sure we would have been able to do anything different had we known earlier. He had complained of organ pain back in November when he visited me in Thailand. I took him to Burumgrad hospital where they diagnosed him with some sort of parasite. I've gone over that month, time and time again. I’ve asked myself “what if” a thousand times. What if we had asked for CT scan back in November? What if we had followed through on the vomiting? What if his doctor had emailed sooner? What if we had been more aggressive with some of his symptoms (random pain, etc.) we could have caught this thing earlier. And Lord, to feel like you've failed.
Yet, had we done so, had we ruminated over his symptoms then, he would have missed some of the best moments of his life. He lived so freely in November, and was able to visit some of the most beautiful places this world has to offer. He lived unabashedly, and without stress -- without the worry of knowing about his cancer. We traveled; rock climbed; snorkeled; talked about relationships; and had an incredible time together. It’s those memories I now cling to.
Craig’s illness is hard to come to terms with. We were just beginning our second lives – our adult lives. For Craig’s second life to come to such an abrupt end brings a kind of pain that is, frankly, beyond words. I feel like I have so much to tell him, but I can’t find the words. We had a nice heart-to-heart yesterday. Still, I feel starved for time, and desperate for more opportunities to tell Craig how much I love him. Cancer has no respect for time. Nor does it have respect for life-long plans. Cancer just plows ahead as if we’re all in agreement that now is the time. And I’m not sure we are. – J
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