#14

The little red fish with the worried face is nowhere to be found. Everyone else is accounted for - and even seem more at ease that last time we shared this space. The waiting room is louder this time. A gang of children are screaming at the fish tank, a pack of women are boisterously speaking some language that I don't understand...although it could be english...and a worried woman is sitting alone making constant phone calls. The bumble bee lady is dressed like a spearmint candy cane today - she is yelling far less than she was last week. She remembered me.
Brendan seems far less nervous about this trip in to surgery, and we get a solid half an hour of hanging out and joking until the anesthesiologist - Dr. Martini - injects him with her drug. Brendan quickly goes from normal to glazed over and starts giggling - my laughing makes his worse and they wheel him away with a silly grin all over his face.
The time goes by fast with your nose in an MCAT study book - but when Dr. Buffa (Brendan's surgeon for today) finally came over to talk to me I realized it had been an hour. A longer time than they quoted me as they wheeled him in. He was brief, and told me Brendan was to see him in one week to make sure all was progressing well with this port.
A few minutes later, the bee-turned-candy-cane tells me Brendan is behind curtain #14 - and to go ahead and find him.
I gleefully sauntered toward #14, focused on searching for the curtain number rather than the reality of what would be waiting for me once I got there. I have no illusions that watching my little brother - one of my best friends, my oldest friend - endure cancer wouldn't be hard. I guess I just thought it would get hard once he started treatment - not before.
Naive.
Sitting in a pale, tattered recliner in #14 was a pale, tattered Brendan. I'm sure he saw my smile vanish as I walked closer, and I'm assuming I did a horrible job emitting positivity. His eyes were heavy, his mouth closed in a tight-lipped partial frown, and when our eyes met he winced and sucked in air through clenched teeth. I tried to recover by complimenting the walls his "room" now had (upgrade from just curtains) but he didn't crack a smile. I asked him if it hurt and he didn't respond - just pulled down his smock revealing a new lump in his chest covered in gauze - the port. I winced and made the same air sucking through clenched teeth noise. He slowly asked me to describe how it looked because he couldn't see it - so I took a picture of it with my phone and showed it to him. He mumbled to take a picture of him in the whole get-up, and I took one that he managed a smirk for. I don't know if he knew I took two - but the second one is honest. You can see every ounce of pain.
It's goddamn heart breaking.
Fucking heartbreaking.
We sat in that room for awhile - both of us talking only a little - before an unhelpful nurse finally came around to release him. She mentioned to see Dr. Buffa in a week and I was horrified to realize I had forgotten all about that instruction in the midst of this distraction. So maybe the nurse was more helpful than I initially gave her credit for. Brendan slowly dressed after his IV was removed and I dropped him off at home so that he could pack a bag for Heather's, eat some food, and take some vicodin while I got us some coffee.
By the time I got back, Brendan had devoured his food and had made me a sandwich - he already seemed to be feeling better. Two vicodin and 20 minutes later, Brendan was back to normal - talking and joking while we sat in traffic on the way to Villa Park. I dropped him off at Heather's and promised to join him the next afternoon at Dr. Rose's office when we get the remainder of the test results back.

I listened to nothing memorable on my solo car ride.
A few tears jingled down from frustrated eyes once or twice.
I hadn't been ready for today and I felt guilty about it. I felt useless, and helpless, and irresponsible. I hate that I forgot Dr. Buffa telling me Brendan had to make an appointment in a week. I hate that I have no list of intelligent questions for these doctors about my brother, and I hate - most of all - that it's only going to get harder for Brendan from here on out.
I'm assuming we can only get better though. We will all learn the best way to fight these battles. I am thankful every day for my brother, and that he still lets me accompany him through this even though I'm not the best at it. Yet.