By Heather Schultz
I love my life. I am happy and fulfilled in so many ways. And yet just below the surface, I am profoundly sad.
My brother’s life is in danger. The chemo was successful, the surgery went beautifully, his scans have been clear for a year, and Eric has recovered like a champion. But now Eric’s blood marker that indicates the presence of cancer in his body has quadrupled in a short span of time. Although there are other potential benign explanations for this increase, the most likely reason is that Eric’s cancer has recurred.
Eric was initially diagnosed with advanced stomach cancer in October 2010. After five months of successful chemo, he had radical abdominal and thoracic surgery in April 2011. They removed two-thirds of his esophagus, one-third of his stomach, and several cancerous lymph nodes throughout his body. The pathology from his surgery showed only a 1mm cancerous tumor remaining at the original site which the surgeon removed with wide margins of healthy tissue. All the lymph nodes were free of living cancer; only dead cancer cells remained. But once cancer has spread to the lymph nodes, it can go anywhere. We don’t know whether there was undetectable and unseen cancer that had spread to other organs (most likely the lungs or liver, or in the lining of the abdomen). Eric had more chemo after surgery last year to kill off any remaining cancer they may have missed. This is our concern now. After surgery, his survival odds were 50/50, which is far better than the 4 percent he started with at diagnosis.
Today Eric will receive results from his most recent PET scan. Worst case, they tell us his cancer is back. A recurrence will most likely end Eric’s life in a short span of time. Best case, no cancer is detected on the scan. This does not mean that no cancer is living in his body; it simply means it is not far enough advanced for us to measure. So more bloodwork and more scans will follow at more frequent intervals. Thus if all goes well, we are here for the long haul.
Surviving advanced cancer means facing a series of tests over the course of several months and years, and with each test comes the understanding that this might be the day my worst fear is realized: My brother is not going to survive. After five years of clean scans, Eric will be considered cured of his illness.
I will hold out hope for Eric’s survival as long as is reasonable. Yesterday I told my mother, who is struggling mightily with Eric’s situation and who herself is in treatment for cancer, that I believe my brother will live a long life and that he will do something only he can do as a result of enduring this magnitude of suffering. Perhaps he will write a book or give speeches to cancer patients or oncologists. Perhaps he will become a strong voice in advocating for those who fall ill to the same fate.
My brother will do great things as a result of this experience that no one else can do because he is brilliant, and because he is a survivor.
Am I a naive little sister, thinking my big brother can do anything? Yes. Am I an optimist, expecting the best possible outcome until told definitively otherwise? Yes. Am I a skeptic, not willing to embrace the odds because thus far Eric has beat them? Yes. By the numbers, my brother should not even be alive today. Am I a believer in the grace and sovereignty of my God, trusting Him to carry us as far as we are willing to go with Him? Yes.
When Eric was first diagnosed I asked my therapist, “Is it OK for me to have hope?” At the time, the doctors told Eric he would be on chemo for the rest of his life, which would not likely be more than a year. My therapist asked me, “What do you risk in hoping?” Disappointment, I answered. “And will you be disappointed if your brother dies?” Devastated, I said. “Then what do you risk in hoping?” Nothing. Nothing could possibly prepare me for the loss of my beloved brother. And so I choose to hope. And I choose to be happy.
Sometimes I feel guilty enjoying my happy little life. It is not without loss and disappointment, but overall I have a very sweet existence. How can I enjoy a ski weekend with my family while my brother is grappling with the likelihood of his own death and the ramifications to his family? How can I enjoy a favorite meal when I know what a struggle it is for Eric to eat enough to keep up his weight and his strength? It feels callous and uncaring. Yet from the first day of his diagnosis, my brother encouraged me to embrace and enjoy my life. In his selfless concern for his sister, he apologized for heaving such a heavy burden on me on my birthday. This is the kind of brother Eric is. I do not want to live in a world without him. And yet I want to live.
We are the walking wounded. We are the people who go about our day just like everyone else, but with a keen awareness of the tenuous nature of life. This bitter pill has made everything else taste much sweeter. We pick ourselves up and we keep moving forward, because we must. What is the alternative? And after all, there is simply too much to love about today.
Heather Schultz grew up in northern Michigan and has lived in the Champaign-Urbana area for 14 years. Her passions include singing, kickboxing, and volunteering in the community. Heather lives in Savoy with her husband Charles and their 7-year-old daughter Annie.