Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [121]
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.
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