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Whether my sister was in denial or just an optimist, she downplayed her tumor. Usually, she didn't mention it at all; if she did, it was only to tell me that she was going to beat it.
"I just know it," she'd say. "I've got two kids, and they need a mother."
"I know," I'd answer. "And you're doing great--even the doctors admit that."
Sometimes, when I answered, she'd grow quiet. "You think I'll make it, too, don't you, Nick?"
"Of course I do," I'd quickly lie, fighting the lump in my throat. "You're going to be just fine."
In late December, a few days after Christmas, Micah called, sounding weary, his inflection flat.
"What's up?" I asked.
"It's Dana," he said. "We just got back from her last appointment." He paused. A moment later, into the silence, he began to cry.
"The tumor's still spreading," he said. "Her last CAT scan showed that the new drugs aren't helping at all."
I closed my eyes. Micah's voice was trembling and broken. "They put her on another regimen anyway, but they don't think it'll work. They're just doing it because they know Dana wants to try something else. They say that her attitude has been the reason she's made it as long as she has, and they don't want to break her spirit. She needs to feel like she's doing something to fight it. But . . ."
"She doesn't know . . ."
"No," he said. "When we left, she told me she was sure that this time the chemo would work."
I could feel the lump in my throat, could feel my own tears brimming. Micah continued to cry into the phone.
"Damn, Nick . . . she's so young. . . . She's our baby sister . . ."
I began to cry as well.
"How much longer does she have?" It was all I could do to get the words out.
He took a long breath, trying to get control.
"They don't know for sure. When I cornered the doctor, though, he said that she might have six months," he whispered.
Outside, the world was darkening. The sky was filled with stars and the moon hung white and heavy on the horizon. Leaves rustled in the winter breeze, sounding like ocean waves. It was a beautiful evening, as if all was right in the world. But it wasn't, for with Micah's call, I lost my last sliver of hope.
I didn't realize how much I'd been clinging to that improbable hope, and when I hung up with Micah, I slipped a jacket on and went outside. I walked through our yard, thinking of Dana, thinking of how strong and optimistic she'd been, thinking of her kids, thinking of the future that she would never see. And leaning against a tree, I cried into the wind.
I spent the next two days wandering aimlessly through the house. I'd start something and stop, I'd watch a show for ten minutes before realizing I didn't know or care about what was on, I'd read the same pages over and over, unable to comprehend the words on the page.
Two days later, the phone rang. Cathy was in the final month of her pregnancy, and after answering it, she brought the receiver to my office. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
"It's Dana," she said.
I took the phone, and as soon as I put it to my ear, I heard my sister begin to sing to me. It was our birthday, and I concentrated hard as I listened to her, wanting to freeze the moment in time, for I knew that it would be the last time we would ever do this for each other.
On January 11, 2000, Landon was born. With green eyes and blond hair, he looked like his mother, and I was struck by how small he was in my arms. It had been seven years since I'd held a newborn, and I never wanted to put him down.
Yet I had no other choice. I was being pulled by the feelings I had for my other family, and three days later I flew to California to see my sister. From that point on, I'd begin flying out to California regularly. In every two-week period, I'd spend at least four days with my sister at the ranch.
Because my sister still had hope--and because hope was the only thing keeping her strong--I had to hide my reasons for coming. Though the effects of her tumor were becoming more obvious, she was still sharp enough to notice that I was suddenly visiting regularly, and she would infer the worst. I couldn't do that to her. Her spirits had kept her strong, and I didn't want to worsen the quality of life she had remaining, so in the end I found myself telling her half-truths. I have to do some work in Los Angeles, I'd say, and since it's only an hour away, I'll pop up and see you. Or, I'm meeting friends in Las Vegas, and since I'm so close to the West Coast, I might as well drop in.
"Great," Dana would say. "I'd love to see you."
Micah would always meet me at the airport, and we fell into a routine that didn't change. Micah and I would stop at Zelda's, a gourmet pizza parlor in downtown Sacramento, and share a pizza and beers. We'd talk for hours; about writing and his business, about our sister, and we'd share memories of our childhood. We'd laugh and shake our heads, and grow suddenly quiet as we thought about mom or dad, or what was happening to our sister. I'd sleep at Micah's the first night, and in the morning he'd drive me out to the ranch to spend the rest of my time with Dana.
On my first visit, my sister continued to pretend that nothing was wrong. She'd cook and clean, and ask if I wanted to help Cody and Cole with their homework while she napped. We'd have dinner and visit until she grew tired and finally went to bed.
But the progress of her tumor was unstoppable, and little by little there was no disguising it. On each successive visit, her naps began to grow longer and she went to bed earlier. By February, she'd begun to limp; her tumor was slowly paralyzing the left side of her body. The next time I visited, her left arm had grown weaker as well; a week after that, the left side of her face began to lose its expressive ability. Where she'd once occasionally slurred her words, the slurring now occurred with greater frequency. Abstract comprehension grew even more difficult.
My baby sister was slowly losing her battle, but even then, she somehow believed that she would make it.
"I'll be okay," she'd say. "I'm going to see Cody and Cole grow up."
Now, however, when she made comments like those, it was all I could do not to cry. I was an emotional wreck in those first couple of months of 2000. Torn between seeing Dana and spending time with my new baby, I woke each day thinking I should be somewhere else. If I was holding Landon, I'd wish I was in California holding my sister. And when I held my sister, I wished I was back in North Carolina, holding my son. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to balance it all, and I didn't know how long I could keep it up. I barely slept, tears would suddenly spring to my eyes in unexpected moments, and as I forced myself through the day-to-day motions of my life, I was more exhausted than I'd ever been.
When you know that someone close to you is going to die, there's a natural tendency to want to spend as much time with them as you can. As I mentioned, it was a constant struggle to maintain the balance between my current family and the family I'd grown up with. But even if I'd wanted to, there was another reason why I didn't stay in California. My visits--though everyone understood my reasons for coming--changed the dynamics of my sister's house. Guests, even family guests, always alter domestic dynamics. And remember, my sister had a new family of her own as well.
Dana had married into a wonderful situation. Bob's father lived on the ranch in a house a stone's throw away; so did Bob's stepmother and half-brother. Bob's mother and stepfather lived less than ten minutes down the highway. So did Bob's brother. All of them loved my sister, had opened their hearts to her, had accepted her into their lives. And each of them was struggling, just as Micah and I were. And maybe, I've since come to believe, their struggle was even worse than ours.
As my sister's tumor progressed and she lost energy to do everything she'd once done, various members of Bob's family moved in and out of the house, quietly filling the void. Someone would always be there, doing the dishes, washing laundry, helping with the homework. My sister, in her time of need, was never left alone.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I visited with my sister as much as I thought I could, not how muc
h I wanted to. I did this so that Bob's family would have the chance to spend time with my sister, without having me around. They'd earned the right, and in my heart I knew that each of them--especially Bob--also needed time to say good-bye.
I came and went, but Micah continued in the role he'd taken over from my dad. He was strong, steady, and supportive despite his fears, and in mid-March he drove with my sister to San Francisco, where she met with her oncologist. The experimental medication, as the doctors had expected, had had no effect at all. Micah sat beside my sister as the doctor explained that there was nothing left in their arsenals to try; though they could try another chemotherapy drug, there was little hope that it would do anything, other than make her sleep even more than she already was. By that point, my sister was sleeping fourteen to sixteen hours a day; if she had another round of chemo, she'd essentially sleep the rest of her life away.
At the end of the consultation, Micah said good-bye to the doctor. He held my sister's arm so she wouldn't fall, and led her outside.
They sat on the steps outside the medical complex. The day was cool, but the sky was blue and clear. On the sidewalks, people passed by, without a second glance. Cars rolled by steadily, and in the distance one or two of them honked their horns. Everywhere else, life was going on as normal, but for Micah, nothing seemed normal at all.
Like me, Micah was exhausted. Yes, he knew it would come to this. We all knew it would come to this. Yet, just as we all had at our mother's bedside, we'd never stopped wishing and praying for a miracle. There was no logical reason to expect one, but Dana was our sister and we loved her. It was the only thing we could do.
My sister said nothing. Her left eye drooped and a bit of saliva leaked from her mouth. She couldn't feel it, didn't even know it was there. Micah gently wiped her mouth.
"Hey sweetie," he said.
