I rolled over and buried my head in my pillow, tears stinging my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I was feeling miserable, so miserable. My head was pounding, my throat was burning, and I was feeling so achy and fatigued that I could barely drag myself out of bed.
But that wasn’t the real problem depressing me and crushing my spirit to the point of tears. I was feeling so guilty and discouraged, so disappointed in myself. After spending almost every waking hour absorbed in the care of my critically ill brother, just what my mother needed was another patient to take care of. How could I have been so careless, so arrogant to think that I could keep up with my busy schedule without it doing me in? So here I was in bed, and my mother was insisting on playing the role of my private duty nurse, even though I was a twenty-one-year-old college student.
I rolled over again and repositioned the pillow. No matter how tightly I squeezed, it wouldn’t block out the thoughts swirling through my head. My mind kept re-enacting the events of the last couple of years. I had graduated from high school and left immediately to join the international performing group, Up With People. I hadn’t given much thought to missing my brother when I was gone. Up to that point, we hadn’t been very close. I’m ashamed to admit that I hadn’t been a very good big sister to him, probably because he had stolen my cherished position of “baby” of the family. My mother had given birth to four daughters in eight years, then eight years later, she finally gave birth to a son who, understandably, stole the spotlight. That year I carried a picture of my brother Jim, dressed in his blue Cub Scout uniform, with me wherever I went. I often pulled it out of my wallet and gazed at his unruly blond hair and mischievous grin. I missed him more than I could have imagined.
After my tour, I moved back home to attend the local community college. By this time, my sisters were all married and out of the house, so it was just my parents, my brother, and me. My brother was in the sixth grade then, and I discovered that he really was a nice guy after all, and a lot of fun to be around.
Though my studies and my part-time job at the YMCA kept me busy, we found time for some healthy sibling rivalry. Jim had gotten an electronics kit for Christmas, which he craftily used to play the mischievous brother. More than a few times when I was up late studying and drinking cup after cup of tea with my books and papers sprawled over my desk, a buzzer or a tape recording of scary noises would go off under my bed. He never caught me off guard at night with his electronic pranks, but he took me totally by surprise one night when I got home late. I almost walked into a live wasp which he had cleverly hung on a fishing line from the light in the center of my room.
It was in April of that year when Jim showed his teacher a small lump at the base of his neck just under his Adam’s apple. His teacher told him to show the school nurse, and the nurse called my mother. “It is probably nothing to worry about, but I would recommend getting it checked out,” she said.
The pediatrician seemed equally unalarmed and said to come back in three weeks if it was still there. By the time three weeks had passed, it was visibly larger. The doctor’s demeanor was grave on the return visit. He ordered a chest X-ray and blood work and said he would call us with the results.
The dreaded phone call finally came late Friday afternoon. One of the doctor’s assistants called and told my mother the X-ray showed a huge mass in his chest and that the doctor would be calling with more information on Monday. This was the beginning of one of the most stressful weekends of my life. My mother spent most of the weekend calling anybody and everybody, trying frantically in vain to find someone who could help her find more information about what was going on with her son.
Behind closed doors, in hushed tones, we made phone calls to notify our sisters first, then the extended family. We also spread the news that we needed prayer, building a network which would sustain us in the months ahead, all the while trying to act as normal as possible for Jim’s sake.
First thing Monday morning, the doctor called my mother and told her that he had referred my brother to the children’s cancer unit at Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse, about an hour’s drive from our house. Before the end of the week, he was admitted to the hospital for extensive testing. Soon he was diagnosed with stage three Hodgkin’s Disease, a cancer of the lymph system. Since it was a fast-growing type, he was prescribed a year-long aggressive program of treatments which included alternating blocks of chemotherapy and radiation with some breaks in between to build up his strength. The news was devastating to all of us. In a few short days, Jim had been thrust from his carefree boyhood life of running and playing with the neighborhood kids and playing pranks on his sisters to a world filled with hospitals, needles, and surgeries.
Without time to process what was happening, we were forced into survival mode. Nothing mattered except helping Jim pull through this. If my parents had let me, I would have cancelled my summer plans to work with my best friend at a mission in Kentucky. I begged them to let me stay home with my brother, but my parents insisted I go through with my plans.
I stopped by the hospital to see my brother one last time on the way to the airport. He had just had his spleen taken out and was still attached to tubes and machines. Though I know he was in a lot of pain, he managed to flash me one of his famous mischievous smiles. That smile gave me the encouragement I needed to get on the plane.
The summer passed with very little contact from my family. My mother did, however, send me a picture of Jim graduating from sixth grade. He looked pale, and his hair was thinning, but he had managed to smile into the camera. That mischievous grin I missed so much!
On my flight home at the end of the summer, all I could think about was getting back home to see my brother. My friend’s parents picked us up at the airport, a two-hour drive from our house, and dropped me off at home. It was late at night by then, and my parents met me at the door. “Jim’s white blood cell count is low, so he is supposed to be isolating,” my mother said. Jim must have heard the commotion, and he came running down the stairs grinning and waving at me as my parents tried to block him from getting too close. How that beautiful grin encouraged my heart!
I started my second year of college, returned to my job at the YMCA, and resumed my many other activities. Squeezed between school, work, and other obligations, I played the role of the strong, cheerful big sister.
Jim was continuing his treatments and was too sick to go to school, so the school district sent him a tutor. I would help him with his homework, and sometimes I would even do it for him. One of the special projects we did with him was to set up an old-fashioned incubator which required hand-turning the eggs twice a day. Turning the eggs was something he could do even on a bad day, and it gave him something to look forward to.
My busy schedule started to take a toll on my health. My mother saw it coming and suggested I quit my job. Being the headstrong young woman that I was, I didn’t take her advice. After months of late nights and early mornings, here I was in bed, diagnosed with mononucleosis.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on my door. I figured it was my mother bringing me more soup. I ignored it as I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, trying to regain my composure. Another knock on the door, but louder. “Come in,” I weakly answered. I was surprised when my brother walked in. He was on a break between treatments and was looking better than I had seen him in a long time.
“Hey, sis,” he grinned at me as he obviously hid something behind his back. “It looks like you need something to cheer you up.” He pulled two baby chicks from behind his back and put them on my pillow. Many people would have been disgusted to have filthy little chicks put on their pillow, but I accepted it as the token of love that it was, expressed the best he could in his thirteen-year-old way. He stepped back and looked at me, still grinning. This time I didn’t interpret his grin as mischievous – there was so much more to it. It was a look of satisfaction and pride. And it was clear to me that he was truly enjoying the moment. After being cared for by others for so long, finally the roles were reversed, and he was able to be the giver. In fact, he proudly took on the role of being my private duty nurse for the rest of the week, giving my mother a necessary break and giving me some much-needed encouragement.
I am grateful to say that Jim finished his year of treatments and not only survived but has thrived ever since. He is currently a software engineer and is involved in his church and in the community. God has blessed him with a beautiful wife, two lovely daughters, and a son-in-law, and anyone who has been blessed to know him would agree that he is one of the nicest guys you will ever meet.