Installment Seventeen

Taylor wasn’t doing much better when we went to see him the next morning.  Dad took me this time – I don’t think Mom could have handled seeing something as bad as the day before happen to him if it did.  He was laying on his side, slightly curled into a fetal position, his cheeks still red with fever.  His blankets covered him from the waist down though he wore a bland hospital gown; his arms were visible, and much thinner than they had been months before.  Dr. Peterson told us that his blood count still had yet to return to save levels, and the immunosuppressive therapy was brutal, but it would help the new bone marrow do its job.  I don’t think dad really knew what to do at first, as we just stood there, looking at him.  When he finally spoke it was simple, but it was something.

"Hi Jordan,” he said softly, scraping chair legs across the floor as he pulled one up beside the bed and sat down.  He took one gloved hand and took Taylor’s, gently running his thumb across the back.

“Dad…” Taylor whispered.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, and Tay barely shook his head.

“Not good,” he answered.  “My stomach hurts… a lot.  It seems like I’m throwing up every other hour…”

“It’ll get better,” Dad said quietly.

“I…don’t know if… I believe that anymore.” Things had gone so wrong for him, I could understand how he couldn’t really see a good side to it, couldn’t see the possibility that it would get better.

“Come on now,” Dad said softly, “don’t talk like that.”

“We all miss you at home,” I offered quietly.  He looked at me, his blue eyes an open sea of resolute sadness.

“I miss everything,” he whispered, “even the arguing…  Anything is better… than this.” The oxygen tube was still under his nose, and I assumed it would be there throughout the treatment.  Dr. Peterson was going to stop by before we left and explain a bunch of things to dad about Taylor’s treatment, and the side effects.  It didn’t take a genius to see my brother was suffering; it was all over the media – even people who didn’t know him were seeing it, and the fan mail was incessant.  It was crazy.  There was so much of it that I can’t even tell you what the old house looked like; we had all the fan mail and teddy bears and flowers and balloons sent there – all addressed to Taylor.

But the fan mail was of lesser concern.  We were with Taylor right then, and he was all that mattered.  Shanna had called again that morning to see how he was doing, but I didn’t have any news for her seeing as I hadn’t been to see him yet, so she was going to call back later that evening.  There was a priest that usually came around – I really think he was Taylor’s sanity in that hospital.  Instead of talking to a “professional” about what he was going through, he talked to Father Maguire instead.  It was easy for me to tell that Taylor was losing his faith, and Father Maguire was helping him hold onto it for the time being.

The next thing I realized: Taylor was crying softly, and dad was trying to comfort him.  I’m not sure what happened.  “I wanna go home,” he cried softly.  “Daddy I can’t do this anymore…”

“You have to be strong,” dad said softly, gently stroking his forehead with his fingertips.  “You have to hold on and keep fighting, Jordan.  This family needs you.”

That statement was so completely…  I don’t know the right words for it.  True doesn’t do that statement justice.  We more than needed him.  With everything “fixed” between all of us and him, we needed him to be the brother he wasn’t for so long, and we understood at the same time that right then he couldn’t be.  It was more important for him to concentrate on fighting for his life.  I think sometimes that Taylor knew what people were thinking, because ironically enough, right after that thought flittered through my head, he told us that he didn’t think he could win this fight.  And I thought about that day in his room, when he told mom and me that the prognosis for his type of leukemia was six to twelve months including treatment – six to twelve months to live…  It didn’t seem like it, and I may not have made it clear, but six months had already gone by since the time he came home and that moment in the hospital; I had spent my entire summer vacation already, and it was already three months into the next school year – and I had decided to let mom school me; I couldn’t concentrate in school with what was going on with Tay.  The realization that time was running out just made me cry.  I knelt down beside his bed, and put my hand over his and dad’s hands.

“Please Tay,” I whispered.  “Please don’t stop fighting.  We need you – I need you…  You can’t leave us – you can’t leave me.”

What I said must have been that poignant, because I made myself, daddy, and Taylor cry.  He reached his free and trembling hand out to touch my face.

“I’d never leave you, Avie,” he said softly.  “I’ll fight… until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

“You’ll always have something to fight for, son,” dad said softly.

Tay fell asleep after that, of course after he got sick again.  He was exhausted, and that was more than obvious every time we went to see him.  He needed his rest and we had to get back home, so we thought it was the best time to leave.  Ike and May were supposed to stop by and see him later that evening anyway, and then Zac and Rachel.  He was going to need rest, and we needed it too, but not before we talked to Dr. Peterson.  Dad had wanted mom to be there when he got the specifics, but I think he really understood why she couldn’t be there.  She was afraid; what we saw the day before… it really did something to her.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said to dad, gesturing for us to sit with her.  “I know you’ve been waiting to hear about Taylor’s progress, and the treatment and how it’s affecting him.”

“Why is it doing this to him?  Shouldn’t he be getting better by now?” He asked.

“That’s… actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” I didn’t like her tone of voice; something in her tone of voice said ‘bad news’.  “We started the immunosuppressive therapy to stop his body from rejecting the bone marrow his brother donated; the problem is that his body is still rejecting it.”

“What?  Why?” Dad replied.

“I don’t know; some people don’t respond to treatment the way they should.  And on top of that, I think your son is having some of the worst luck with side effects that I have ever seen.  Almost every side effect for both medications has been hitting him hard.  Just yesterday he suffered a seizure from the Cyclosporine.  Now I left the decision up to Taylor, but over the next two weeks if the treatment doesn’t start taking effect – working properly – it may be best to stop.”

“But if you stop…” I started, but didn’t finish.

“If we stop the immunosuppressive therapy, his body will destroy the new bone marrow.” She said almost sadly.  “Then… there isn’t anything else to do.  I asked him if he wanted to try radiation, but he said no.  If we stop the immunosuppression, and the rest of the new bone marrow is destroyed, all we can do is let the cancer run its course.”

“That is totally unacceptable,” my father said.  “I won’t sit back and just let my son die!”

“Mr. Hanson, with all due respect, it isn’t your choice; it’s Taylor’s, and he’s made his decision.  If this doesn’t work, there isn’t anything else to do.  We just… wait.”

“Taylor doesn’t want the radiation?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” she said softly.  “Frankly… I don’t blame him.  Look at what he’s been through and put yourself in his place; would you want to do it?” She had a point, and I hated it.  Taylor had every reason under the sun to refuse radiation treatment, and every reason not to.  He had a family that loved him, friends that loved him, a girl in New York City that plainly loved him, and he was ready to just quit because it was hard.  It didn’t hit me then how selfish I was being; it only hit me how selfish he was being.

When we got home I went straight to his room, threw myself on his bed and cried.  I don’t know how long I was in there before Zac came in, but when he did, it was so hard to tell him what I had found out.  And when I did he was in as much disbelief as I had been, and he cried too.  He held me while I cried, rocking me gently, telling me that it would all work out, and everything would be ok.  I didn’t believe a single word.  And after that, I couldn’t bring myself to go see Taylor for almost another week.  It was easy to see after that how worn he was; this was wearing him down day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.  If it kept wearing him the way it was, there would be nothing left to even wear at all.  His strength was quickly becoming a fraying thread.

The end of that second week was one of the worst.  When we got to the hospital mom and dad went to see Taylor, but I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so she gave me money to go down to the cafeteria and eat.  I was down there for a little while, but I wouldn’t say more than fifteen minutes, and when I came back, I wished I hadn’t.  Mom was standing beside his bed, just looking down at him, and she was crying while he slept.

“Mom?” I said quietly.

“There’s nothing else left,” she cried softly.

“What do you mean?” I asked; my voice sounded small even to my own ears.

“It’s all over, sweetie,” she cried softly, shaking her head slightly.  “There isn’t anything else that can be done for him.”

“But…” I looked at him.  He looked so frail…  “What now?” I asked quietly.  I wasn’t accepting this… was I?

“We just wait for it to… stop.” I knew what she was saying, and God it hurt – it hurt so much.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“He went to the chapel,” she answered.

I stood beside her looking down at Taylor.  “How is he?” I asked, now unable to control the tears burning my eyes.

“He’s dying, baby,” she said softly, “he hurts.” She wiped her tears, still standing there, looking down at him.

“That can’t be right,” I said quietly.  “Mom, it has to be a mistake.”

“Avery,” she looked at me, nothing but painful, teary, naked truth in her eyes.  “There’s no mistake.  He’s just… too far gone.  There’s no way to beat this.” She took my hands as the tears rolled down my cheeks, and we both sat down in the chairs beside his bed.  “Baby, the bone marrow transplant didn’t work – you know that.  There’s too much cancer; it’s too strong, and it’s spreading too fast.”

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head, unable to stop my tears.

“Baby, I know this hurts; I know,” she whispered tearfully.  “He’s my son, and I’ve been watching him suffer for the last six, almost seven months.  And now…” she looked at him and back at me.  “Now I have to learn to let go… I have to watch my baby die.” Her voice had become so quiet as the tears ran down her cheeks.

“This isn’t fair, Mommy,” I cried.

“I know…” she cried softly, and pulled me into a hug; we stayed that way for some time, and then she pulled back and kissed my head.  She took a deep breath, composing herself.  “I think you should know what the doctor said – I’ll tell your brothers and sisters when we get home.  The next month or so is going to be rocky; he’ll be getting better and worse at the same time.  He’ll be getting better because he’s recovering from the treatment, but the cancer will be getting worse.”

“So… what do we do?”

“Nothing; we just help him when we can, and be there for him.  He’s coming home at the beginning of next week – as soon as he’s strong enough.”

My brother was dying.  There was no way around it, no lying to myself, no denying it.  Taylor was going to die.  How does someone deal with that?  How do you deal with knowing someone you love is going to die soon?  I didn’t know how to deal with it, and I wasn’t sure I would have if I could.  I got up and started to back away.

“Avie, baby, where are you going?”

“I… need… to go somewhere.  I… the chapel.” I managed to get out.  I needed my daddy.

I ran as fast as I could, crying, to the chapel, praying the whole time that my dad would still be there.  When I got there he was kneeling in the front pew, hands together, praying for what I knew was his son’s life – a prayer that would never be answered.

“Daddy…” I said weakly, but it was enough.  He turned around to face me.

“Avie?”

“Daddy…” I cried, and ran to him.  He took me in his arms without question, sitting in the pew with me, holding me while I sobbed uncontrollably.  “I don’t want him to die, Daddy,” I cried.  “Please, make him fight.”

“Oh Avery,” he said softly; I could hear the tears in his voice, and didn’t need to look at him to know they were in his eyes.  “I can’t do that.  I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I can’t.”

“Why is God doing this?” I cried into his neck.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know anything anymore.” I knew how he felt.  Who knew what anything meant anymore?  Why did a twenty-three year old young man have to be dying of cancer?  What was the point or purpose of it?  Did God have control over this or not?  And if he did why was he letting this happen?

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