My brother, Jack, was diagnosed with lung cancer on June 3, 2011. He passed away on July 1. These are notes from my journal during that time.
I want them to give my brother oxygen, but everyone says his oxygen levels are fine. I don't care about "levels". I just know he breathes easier with the oxygen.
And it is terrible to hear his laboured breathing; to see his diaphragm, stomach and chest labour with every shallow breath, to watch as he poufs out his cheeks with his exhalations like a jogger in a marathon, this man for whom sleep is now an exhausting undertaking.
There are cancerous tumours on his lungs, close to his heart, on his ribs. Within days of those discoveries we learn the cancer has invaded his lymph nodes and liver. This gives us some idea of how aggressively the cancer is colonizing his body.
If only there are no complications, he might have a chance. With cancer, they say, you can never tell, so we remain hopeful, the family coming and going, sitting restively by his bedside, then getting up to leave and give someone else the privilege for awhile.
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