Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [97]
“When she recovers,” the doctor said, “she’ll start her antiseizure medication and begin radiation. Hopefully, that will kill whatever was left of the tumor, the parts we couldn’t get to.”
“What if the radiation doesn’t work? What then? Do we do surgery again?”
The doctor shook his head. “Let’s just hope the radiation does work. Like I said, I couldn’t get to parts of the tumor without making her a lot worse.”
“What are her chances? Is she going to make it?”
“It depends on the type of tumor. We’re having it biopsied now. Some tumors are more susceptible to radiation than others. Some grow quickly, and some don’t. We won’t know for sure until the results come in. But if the tumor’s susceptible, the radiation should take care of it.”
“So there’s a chance she can still lead a normal life?”
The doctor shifted. “For the most part.”
We waited, wondering what he meant, and the doctor finally went on. “The antiseizure medication is contraindicated in pregnancy because of possible birth defects.”
The doctor paused. Micah and I glanced at each other, already knowing what was coming.
“More than likely,” the doctor added, “she’ll never have children.”
None of us said anything for a long time.
“When can we see her?” I finally asked.
“Tomorrow. She’s sleeping, and it’s probably best if she rests for a while.”
That night, Micah and I slept in the same hotel room. Or rather, tried to sleep. For the most part, all I could do was stare at the ceiling, thinking about a conversation Dana and I had had on our birthday long ago. “I want to be married, and I want to have kids . . .” my sister had said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. That’s all I want out of life.”
The memory nearly broke my heart.
My sister’s head was heavily wrapped in bandages when we saw her. Mostly she slept, and when she woke, she was groggy. Her gaze was unfocused, her movements lethargic.
“Did it . . . go . . . okay?” she stammered out. Her voice was a whisper.
“It went great, sweetheart,” Micah said.
“Oh . . . good . . .”
“I love you, sweetie,” I said.
“Love you . . . both.”
And then she slept again.
A week later, we had the results of the biopsy. My sister had essentially three types of cancerous cells in her brain: oligodendroglioma, astrocytoma, and gliobastoma multiforme; all are fast-growing tumors that spread in spiderlike fashion; they are only partially susceptible to radiation and chemotherapy. As we learned what we could about it, only one fact about the tumors stood out in our minds.
Though all could be deadly, one form of her tumor was essentially so. After five years the survival rate for those with gliobastoma multiforme was less than 2 percent.
My sister had just turned twenty-six.
I returned to North Carolina three days later, the morning my sister was to be released from the hospital. In addition to learning that she’d need radiation, my sister was put on the antiseizure medication. With her head bandaged, she began the slow process of healing. The guilt I felt about not being with her left me aching for weeks, and I threw myself into work.
Yet, life eked on, bringing with it additional sources of stress. My new boss immediately began exerting pressure on me to perform; Cat and I bought our first house. In the span of three months, we’d moved, changed jobs, bought a house, began the process of remodeling, and worried incessantly about my sister.
That wasn’t all. My sister’s diagnosis was almost too much for my father to bear, and my relocation to North Carolina only seemed to feed the anger and guilt he felt inside. Again, I was the outlet for his rage and sense of helplessness. When I told him about our new house, for example, he responded by tersely informing me that I better not expect any help with the down payment. When he called, he spoke only to my wife; usually I stood by waiting for my chance to visit only to hear Cathy say, “Well,