(worry)

I am nervous because I know tomorrow will be the start of a rough cycle.
There is nothing I can do.

A family friend wrote recently to check in and send love, and also share an amusing story she had about a friend who, while enduring chemotherapy, had all of her nose hair fall out and was left with an annoying case of constant runny nose. Last night when Brendan walked in to the theater with a pocket full of kleenex that is what I expected, and my eyes shot up to his eyebrows to make sure they were still there.
They were. He is just fighting a cold.

Fighting a cold (worry) right before the biggest immune suppressing round of treatment (worry).

There are moments when I have to look twice before I recognize Brendan. I quickly adjust, but the first time he enters my field of vision, it takes a millisecond longer to recognize that the tall, thin, bald guy is my brother.
Tonight I was looking over old Tumblr posts, and saw the original one I posted for the start of this blog. I held my fingers up between the screen and my face, closing one eye, covering Brendan's hair to see if my version of bald Brendan actually looked like bald Brendan.
The jury is still out on that one.

Light the Night

Light the Night is a much bigger production than the Lymphomathon - live music and a VIP tent with alcohol and other luxuries, they had a seemingly endless supply of food (pizza) to give away, other free things, there were far more people, and of course - our light up balloons. Carriers of red balloons were supporters, carriers of white were survivors, and carriers of gold carried them in memory of someone lost.

The walk was a nice 2 miles out of Grant Park towards Roosevelt, through the museum campus, along the lakefront (with a beautiful teal skyline view). We had a militia of 20 for the walk, all looking beautiful in our bright purple shirts.

Saturday began early, it was moving day for my cat and I. Brendan and Dad were the heavy lifters, carrying and maneuvering the bulk of my furniture through narrow doorways, hallways, and elevators. Only once, while doing a final scan of the apartment we were leaving, did I see Brendan stop and close his eyes for a moment, swallow hard, and breath in deeply. He responded to our concern with nonchalance - that he was fine.
We arrived in Grant Park, on the corner of Columbus and Balbo a little after 5:30 and it was already crowded with plenty of people, and there were no tables to be found. We registered quickly, got our balloons and shirts, made a sign, and eventually located a spot to set up camp with a handful of chairs. Brendan, Dad, and I tossed a football around before the team started to show up - Brendan throwing it in perfect spirals long distances to my awkward dog-bitten hand. I dropped 98% of the passes. To add to my display of athletic prowess, I proceeded to throw the ball back with a wobbling, warbling clumsiness.

The walk started at 7, and we spent the first few minutes of it fighting to keep our respective balloons up, shining brightly, and not bumping in to heads and other balloons. Then onward through the night we traveled.
There was a team that ended up just in front of us at the end of the walk, and who had set up camp near ours before. Their shirts carried the name of their hero, and two dates - the most recent being 9/3/10. They carried gold balloons.
"I never want to carry that gold balloon." I said staring ahead at the cluster of them in front of me.
I don't, and there is a part of me that actually believes I will never have to - because Brendan just carried my couch and my bed and my tables and bikes and heavy boxes...twice. Because Brendan, while carrying a white balloon, refused all other identifying offerings that he has cancer. Because Lymphoma is something that Brendan will be able to beat the way he beats a cold. Because I cannot begin to imagine...

We ended the night in a circle around a fire built in Dad's yard. Smores were made, drinks were had, dogs were mingling, and we were being so very loud and laughing so very hard and making a ruckus until roughly 1:30am on a perfect autumn night. This morning, I can still smell the fire in my hair.

Thank you to everyone who walked, who donated, and who loved and laughed with us all night.

Hurricane Hodge

Light the Night is tomorrow night, and our world seems a little different than it did in August. Brendan is in the eye of the storm of his treatment, Dr. Rose promises that it will get hard again - and that it will get hard soon. His white blood cell count falls and rises. He lives as if he doesn't need to rest. We worry, some times we get scared - but we're mostly just proud of him.

I was bitten by a dog last night, shrill little puncture through the muscles that control my thumb. My hand throbs and aches - and each time I summon my voice to yelp or sharply inhale with a wince I scold myself for being selfish.

My grandmother is a photographer of sorts - thousands of pictures of mostly nothing of importance, nothing spectacular. While weeding through them my Dad found a handful that are striking - beautiful and intricate lighting. Smiling, grinning images of our past. Warming and heartbreaking pictures of our family. The one above is of Brendan and I.

The two of us drove down to Urbana last weekend to see the Illini/NIU football game. Brendan forgetting sunscreen for his majestic bald head and thus wearing my zip up hoodie over it like a cape. During the drive I finally asked him when he would be scanned next - to see how things are working. He told me they would do it after chemo was over, that they would use the next scan to dictate the next phase of his treatment. This Thursday was the 6th week - the halfway mark. Next week is going to be a hard one - two rounds of poison. The return of side effects.

Mom got a bunch of car magnets for us, and had little refrigerator ones made too. A purple ribbon and a green ribbon for the cars, and a green circle that says "My Brother is my Hero". She has enough ribbon magnets to decorate a fleet of vehicles - so if you'd like one, let us know! She got them to hand out to anyone willing to show their love.

He takes it in stride. We are getting better at taking it in stride.
We will be taking 2 miles worth of strides tomorrow night - Light the Night in Grant Park.

It's not to late to join us you know...!

Vignette

Brendan: I'm bald now, I shaved my head

me: shaved it shiny and smooth?!

Brendan: yup...lil stubble now

Brendan: gotta go get poisoned, ttyl

me: HA! okay good luck!

Revolve in Peace

September is almost half way over, and I can't even remember it starting.
Brendan has discovered the routine in this treatment, and can now predict the highs and lows of his side effects. This is a good week. A week free of nausea and the twice a day pill he would have to take to try and chase it off. A week free of most of the nagging awful feelings that follow him around. There are good weeks like these, and then there are the awful weeks - periods between treatments where the pills are taken in vain. Where there is no adequate defense against the inevitable.
Good weeks are spoiled, of course, by the newest addition to the side effect menagerie: bone pain. Neutropenia - neutrophil deficiency - is a side effect from chemotherapy, and so in response to this, Brendan gets a daily injection in order to attempt to keep his neutrophil count reasonable, healthy, and his immune system capable. This injection has it's own set of side effects however, which include the aforementioned bone pain - which Brendan describes feeling like a deep aching - arthritic. He has only felt it in his jaw and head, but Dr. Rose promises it will soon be dancing through his pelvis, hips, and femurs.

Brendan has been liberated of shaving for 10 days now - as the chemotherapy attacks the most rapidly growing hair first. The hair atop his head is thinning, and he said soon he will just shave it off and be done with it. Dr. Rose says his eyelashes will be the last thing to go - but that when they do, we'll have gotten the beast.
I hope he isn't just saying that.
Each time I talk to him, I want to ask if he has gone through another PET scan, just to see if it is shrinking - if the treatment is working. I never ask, because I assume that this is, of course, a foolish question. To try and visualize progress minutely along the way can't possibly be beneficial. I know it is just the desire - the requirement - to know that there is a justification for my little brother to be enduring all of this. That the thing inside of him is actually shrinking away.

I got a random email from mom a few days ago while I was down in Urbana for Danny's funeral. It was written in all capital letters (oh, mom) and had zero punctuation - which is actually rather appropriate: "I am doing fine most of the time every now and then I get little attacks of anger and frustration over the way chemo is affecting Brendan".
Because there is something wide eyed, desperate, and frantic about the way we all feel about this. We watch, and hear him go through this, but he only "complains" as much as he thinks is reasonable and never as much as he has the right to - or as much as anyone in his situation should.
He just...does it. Brendan talks to me about these shitty things as if they were adventures that oh, of course he faces. He conquers every day with an air of nonchalance and confidence. He swallows pills and pain and sweat and fear and nausea and the world in stride. Any time I ever hear the faintest quiver or hesitance in his voice, it is devoured. He does it because he has to - these are tasks and challenges to accomplish and overcome and he does them swiftly and with an apparent elegance.

The people's evidence 1A: a text message I received shortly after one of our conversations:
"Oh yeah and I forgot to tell you...Dr. Rose was wearing a tie with all the planets on it...and yes it had Pluto."

7 Deadly (poi)Sins

"Well, is it like, shedding? Because I shed - my hair falls out all the time. Maybe you're just shedding?"
"No, I've been running my hands through my hair, testing it since I started treatment - it's only just started coming out."

I know without investigative measures that it isn't vanity Brendan is concerned with - he is worried about looking sick. This is the person who was at work the day he got his wisdom teeth pulled. This is my brother, who fights nausea throughout a 5 day work week helping patients through their physical therapy treatments. He swallows pill cocktails and gets 7 different types of poison pumped through his veins once a week and still dances harder and sings as loud as I do while seeing the Beach Boys play Ravina (best show ever by the way). He goes to the gym every day and drinks twice his body weight in water and looks like the youngest, healthiest, most vibrant gentleman on Earth. No one would ever know. Ever.
Now...they might be able to guess.
Cycle one of his treatment is complete. It has been three weeks since he has started. Less than two months since we found out. Roughly two years he's been harboring it. Some days I feel like I forget the weight of the entire thing - I stare at the bracelet that I tie to my wrist each time I get out of the shower and feel guilty about being forgetful. Today is a day when I feel powerless to stop this thing. I have to imagine that the side effects are only a display of the drugs at work.

Danny Sullivan was my stage manager (a title that does not do him justice) during Lieutenant of Inishmore at the Station Theatre. He has been fighting cancer for years now, and about a week ago, I got word that it had devoured his brain. Danny Sullivan is going to die this weekend. I won't make it down south in time to see him before he leaves. Losing Danny is a tragedy for that small town, for the theatre, and especially for the people who knew and adored him.

I can't help all the dread and fear that is resurfaced lately...or the frustration with how counterproductive it is.
I do know, however, that Brendan isn't going down without a fight - rather, isn't going down. From day one there was no other option, idea, or outcome other than the defeat of this cancer.

Brendan always sends me a draft of his medical school essays before he submits them to the schools, and I proceed to tear them apart, write him new sentences, fix his grammar, and go to town with a metaphorical red pen. The jist of these essays, is a page or so explanation of why he would be an asset to an institution, or the medical community. Granted, Brendan isn't a great writer, but I come down on these essays extra hard because there is no way his words can adequately express just how intelligent and talented and logical and driven and determined and delightful and funny and great he is. There is no way to let these strangers, these invisible judges of our numbers and paragraphs know how fucking lucky they would be to have him going to their school. To have him in the professional world as an ambassador for their educational prowess. Luckier than they would be to have me, that's for damn sure.

I've been having vivid, lengthy, and intruding dreams lately. There is no mystery to their origins and no enigma as to the service they are providing the waking version of myself. The fire is raging. We are walking through it with clenched teeth, squared shoulders, and deliberate strides.


[edit: Around 4pm today Danny Sullivan's battle ended. To Danny...]