A Year Remembered, by Jeri Sutherling

As I sat in the outpatient recovery room watching the nurses scurry back and forth taking blood pressures, I wondered how my family would get through this tragedy. I could not, would not, cry in front of my brother. A routine exam discovered the lump in his abdomen. I knew the prognosis of pancreatic cancer was bad, but the nurse inside of me began making lists of things to do and people to call. His doctor came and told me I could go in. I put on a neutral face, walked in, stared at Larry’s 6 ft. 2 inch frame sandwiched into a 5 foot hospital bed, and began the longest year of my life.

He stared at me with an expression that told me he knew. I reached for his hand, swallowed back my tears and said, “We can beat this Larry. I don’t care what they told you.”
In his macho bravado, he laughed, “That jerk told me to go home, and get my legal papers in order. Surgery might be a possibility, but only if it hasn’t spread. Funny thing is… I feel great.”

While waiting for him to be discharged, I paced back and forth worrying about what to do next. As a critical care nurse for 20 years, I knew that time was of essence with this particular type of malignancy. It took only a second before the organized professional in me took charge. I went to the pay telephone in the sterile hospital corridor, picked up the receiver, and called the radiology department. In a very quiet and controlled voice, I told the receptionist that I needed a stat spiral Cat Scan. She made the appointment without question as to who was ordering the test. I had circumvented at least a week in the red tape of medical no- where land. The next call I made was to the surgeon to schedule a consultation. As long as I had tasks to be done, then I could function. I felt the blood starting to warm my body and my step quickened.
I told the nurse to take my brother to the discharge ramp, while I went to get the car that would carry him home.

I found explaining the diagnosis to his wife very difficult. Ignorant about disease and Western medicine, she immediately pulled out a book on herbal remedies. Being educated in medicinal herbs, I explained that we needed more effective treatments. Then suddenly, an idea came to me. As a scientist and doctor, my husband might be able to get Larry into an experimental drug trial. My brother needed to consent to be a guinea pig in order to be cured.

Their new house, barely christened, now became a prison. The ecstatic couple had moved in only three weeks prior to the dreadful news. They’d waited eighteen years until they could become homeowners. Now that their dream was finally realized, their cute little house was quickly becoming a financial burden. While waiting for the day of surgery to arrive, we played Crazy Eights, and tried to be upbeat. The surgeon assured me that waiting 3 weeks would not diminish the patient’s chance of survival. In my heart, I was sure he was wrong. Delayed diagnosis and treatment for pancreatic cancer meant certain death.

At first, my brother was vehemently against taking any action. He, with his gallows humor, provoked me, “I’ll just paint my pictures and count down the days. Why try to change my fate?” His artistic talents adorned the walls of the new house. Recently he had computerized his photographic pictures on 7 ft. by 7 ft. canvases. Using acrylic paints with the tiled images, he created unique modernistic paintings. His agent from New York called, and left a message while we argued softly. “Although statistics are slim, some patients’ live 5 years with the surgery,” I briskly quoted his surgeon. After much debate, my exhausted sibling decided to give life another try.

Larry complained about the cocktail of electrolytes and laxatives required for surgery for the following day. I hung up the phone, and put away the dishes when the phone rang again. The voice asked for Mr. Nichols. Confused, I replied, “I believe you are looking for my brother. You have called me by mistake but can I help you?” The surgeon identified himself, and then quickly got to the point. “We are canceling your brother’s surgery tomorrow. We think we found a metastasis in his lung. After reviewing his x-rays this afternoon we saw a questionable spot. It may or may not be something.” The shock made my knees buckle. I sank into the closest chair. “What do you mean may or may not be something? Why cancel the surgery after we waited for weeks? Why tell us this now?” My words wavered at first, and then grew loud with anger. The emotionless voice ignored my questions, and continued with instructions instead, “Your brother will need a biopsy of his lung. Please make an appointment with this pulmonary specialist for a consultation.” The tears blinded me as I punched in the numbers to my husband’s office. My throat felt tight and dry as I begged him to come home immediately. Next, I made the most difficult phone call of my life… to my brother.

Larry spoke with short breaths as he reiterated the message that I was already too familiar with. He struggled to come to terms with what the doctor had told him. While silently swearing at the insensitive surgeon, I reassured Larry that everything would be ok.

When my Bill, my husband, entered the house, I deluged him with pleas to find a way to get Larry help. I knew we did not have time to wait for another consultation. My loving husband agreed. After several phone calls to colleagues at the hospital where he practiced, he shook his head yes, put down the phone, hugged me tight and said, “I’ve got him scheduled for a lung biopsy tomorrow.”

The mass was smaller than a pencil eraser. The pathologist called it adenocarcinoma. Because the tumor traveled to the lung, Larry was no longer a candidate for surgery.
The oncologist painted a dim outlook. I immediately tuned him out and planned my own ending.

During the past weeks I’d researched for hours nonstop looking for what might defy the odds. I narrowed my choice down to two treatments. Both were experimental. A new chemotherapy drug protocol tested with good results in Houston, Texas. I felt this would be a good choice since they agreed to let Larry enter the trials and still remain at home in California. My second choice, an autoimmune stimulating drug found in Canada, had just begun testing as well. Since it was not yet known in the U.S.A, I would need approval from the Canadian Food and Drug Administration (F.D.A.) first. Bill agreed to help me. He wrote a tedious investigational protocol to his hospital’s Investigational Review Board. The hospital passed the request in record time knowing how urgent it was to start the drug quickly. I contacted our country’s F.D.A. with the procedure for compassionate use; within 2 weeks, they approved it. The North American company worked diligently with me to get the shipment through customs. Meanwhile, I arranged our trip to Houston. It looked like our bad luck was beginning to change.

Traffic crawled as Larry and I rushed to the airport to catch the plane to Houston. We would stay overnight, see the oncologist, and then return home. “Don’t change your mind now, Larry! Everything is arranged and you can’t have anymore delays if you want to get results.” He snapped back, “I don’t want to spend the last days of my life in another city. I want to be home, with my wife and family!”
I stomped on the break for emphasis, “I told you already that Dr. Sands has agreed to let us do the trial from Los Angeles. All we need is the routine blood tests every two weeks to make sure your counts are stable.” He muttered under his breath something inaudible. “I promise. You’ll be able to take the pills that kill the cancer cells from the comfort of your own bed, and I will give you the autoimmune stimulating shot every other day.” As traffic cleared, I stepped on the accelerator. “We’ll do self visualization, exercise, and a little change in your diet… I know this is the best combination for you!” He glared at me relentlessly before finally saying, “Ok, I trust you, but I just don’t want to think about this anymore, so can we change the subject?”

Larry sat at the kitchen table waiting for his chicken noodle soup to get hot. He reminded me of our trip to Houston and we chuckled. In my increased state of anxiety, I’d left my purse in the taxi with my credit cards and instructions on how to get to the clinic. Exhausted, and frantic, I willed myself to be strong when what I really wanted to do was scream. My brother, recognizing my state of dismay, calmly suggested we go in and explain the situation to the hotel manager. When we did, the manager traced the taxi from the airport, and the lovely driver returned my purse tact. That night gave us many hoots when we were having a bad day.

Larry responded well to his cocktail of meds. The killer drug annihilated the cancer cells, and the immune shot kept him healthy. I arrived at his house daily by 7 A.M. when his wife left for work. It had to be this way in order for them to keep his insurance coverage. His Health Maintenance Organization (HMO) became the supreme word.
We were cautiously excited. My anniversary was quickly approaching. Since everything was running smoothly, I decided to plan a four-day getaway out of town for my supportive husband. I wrote detailed instructions for the shots and medications. I taught Larry’s wife, Janine, how to give them. I left feeling confident that everything would go well.

Utah’s Sundance Resort captured the essence of tranquility. The birds chirped welcome as we drove into the tree-lined parking lot. The receptionist told us to wait with our luggage, and a driver would take us to our secluded dwelling. I kissed my husband hello. I felt we had grown apart during these past months. Each of us, tired from our own stresses of the day, fell into bed every night with only sleep on our minds. Now, my skin tingled with excitement as Bill took my hand, and we climbed in to the golf cart on our way up the mountain.

The weekend refreshed us. We enjoyed walks along candle-lit paths, lay on a blanket one star laden night to watch a summer musical, dined in cozy restaurants, and even spotted a few celebrities while shopping. Driving from the airport, we decided to stop, and deliver our presents to Larry and Janine.

We pounded on the door, excited to share the weekend with our best friends. I sensed immediately that something was amiss. Janine pulled us in immediately before we could utter a word. “Larry is really sick,” she said with urgency in her voice. My stomach tightened into a familiar knot. We hurried to the bedroom where my brother lay. I felt my heart quicken. A crumpled yellow mass groaned at me. “He started throwing up right after you left. He didn’t want to tell you he felt bad for fear of ruining your trip.”

We knew there was something terribly wrong. We loaded him into the car, and drove him gently, but quickly, to the hospital. Thank goodness it was only a few miles from his house. Once there, we waited silently, staring blankly at each other, while the doctors ran a series of tests.

We were able to take him home after a few days. The vaccination that he had received a few days prior to our leaving had given him the flu. Since his body was compromised he developed a bacterial infection, and was bleeding from his stomach. The recovery took several weeks. Meanwhile the chemo stopped and the bad cells began to multiply. We no longer touted victory. Much like bacteria’s reaction to antibiotics, cancer cells also learn, by mutating, to outsmart the medication that kills them. We searched for another miracle. Lucky for us, we discovered a kind and caring oncologist who supported our ideas. He suggested a new drug that was being used. He could not promise us that there would be no side effects or that it would be a silver bullet. We no longer smiled, our demeanor defeated, but hope could not be eternally extinguished. We reorganized and started again.

Larry’s face red and blotched screeched hot, but his body shook violently with cold chills. He no longer wanted to even taste my homemade soups or recipes. When he needed to drink fluids I made popsicles out of Kool-Aid. Everything tasted bitter to him and his throat hurt. His 6 ft.2 inch frame at 220 pounds changed weekly. He seemed to melt before my eyes. The once muscular man now looked like a stick figure. He walked from bed to sofa, and sofa to bathroom clutching the walls to keep from falling. The lovely little house became cramped with hospital equipment: IV poles, pumps, bedside commode, and people. Friends called, and arrived from all parts of the country. Larry had established friendship as a priority in his life. Now close acquaintances came just to sit, and talk with him about their crazy escapades as youths.

Every day the torch passed between Janine and me. She took the night shift, and I took the day shift. I left one house, and traveled 5 miles to enter a completely different environment. My husband’s partner of 4 years became increasingly erratic and was now leaving the practice. Instead of parting amicably, he spewed anger and threats. My husband, a peaceful and kind man, already stretched to the limit, now seemed anxious about the future of our medical practice. When we thought life could get no worse, we were saddled with a lawsuit brought by the surgeon we had helped to support, and thought was a friend.

I don’t recall the last time I smiled, an expression long removed from my life since that first hospital day. I remember the nights where I lay awake thinking…and thinking what to do next. When no answer came, I buried my head in my pillow, not wanting to awaken my already exhausted husband, and muffled my sobs. The next morning I rallied once again, sat down and searched the Internet looking for another treatment that would help to make a miracle happen. We chose another chemotherapy drug.

Our days of playing Crazy Eights dwindled. Instead, Larry watched the television like a programmed robot. It was a continuous downer. Everything I heard from the outside world came over the tube. I found it impossible to be upbeat when all I heard was doom, and gloom coming from the droning box inside the living room. My voice whined as well, “You need to drink or you’ll get dehydrated. Can’t you turn the channel to something other than that depressing news? It’s time for your pain medication…” I felt an invisible wall being erected between my brother and me. Weekends, once spent barbequing outside by the pond, were now filled with loneliness, as we all hurried to our separate niches in the house looking for solitude. Janine showed signs of battle fatigue. The daily grind of working, and acting as caregivers, strained our easy going relationship. A year had passed since our anniversary weekend when Bill and I spent time alone. We needed to take a break from the sickness that surrounded us both in our personal and professional lives, but I could not give up even one day from being with my brother. I knew that his days were numbered, and each moment together felt like a small treasure to be cherished.

The relationship between my parents and my brother, difficult even in the best times, was strained even more. Larry, a unique and creative soul never fit into their mold of a stable family man. Instead of business suits, he wore jeans and T-shirts. His long, uncut, graying hair screamed hippy era. Rather than put money away for that rainy day, he preferred to invest in the future with electronic gadgets. When my mother announced her trip out to California with her sister, Larry grumbled loudly. My father was unable to travel, and Larry always loved Aunt Jimmie. For some strange reason they got along, even thought she was just as strict as my mother. My aunt acted like a buffer, and my mother and brother accepted this because they both loved her.

I wanted to bring my brother and mother closer, knowing that it would be the last time they could put aside their differences, and accept each other for who they both were. When Larry and I were together prior to my mother’s arrival, we discussed his repressed feeling since childhood. Primarily, the problem stemmed from my mother’s strong belief in religion and my brother’s lack of it. Brought up as a strict Southern Baptist, she dragged us to church every Sunday from infancy on. Drinking, smoking, and partying meant certain damnation. A highly charged testosterone teenager dressed in his Sunday best, didn’t suit Larry. The day after my brother graduated from high school, he joined the Air Force to become a Russian language specialist. The rift between my mother, and him never got resolved. I mediated between the two during his years away, but how would I intercede between them now when they were sitting across from each other?


The roses bloomed even though it was early spring. Although in their late 70s, the sisters still retained their natural red hair. Mom had the fiery temperament to match, or so my relatives used to say. Aunt Jimmie, soft spoken with that unhurried Southern drawl, became the slow wave that ebbed and flowed though out the house. For the first time in a year, I felt relief that someone else took charge. Although there were no outward arguments between my mother and brother, a dark cloud always hovered over the house. Never good at confronting issues with deep meaning, my mother kept busy chattering about her life back home. Perhaps it was just as well that the disagreements of the past did not surface during this week of her stay. Knowing it would be the last time we had together, I asked a friend to take a photo of us out on the patio. It turned out to be a very sad remembrance. My bald, thin, brother slumped in a chair looking angry, and sad at the same time. He sat surrounded by the rest of us, who with our false smiles tried desperately to portray a picture of happiness. The week ended with hugs, kisses, and false promises to get better. I still cherish my picture of the two elderly ladies, standing hand and hand, surrounded by red and pink roses, smiling at the camera as if they had not a care in the world. Their visit added a distraction to the routine of my gloomy, routine days, and so I became depressed knowing that I would once again be the “officer in charge.”

The chaos resumed quickly. Larry required more care. His body failed him terribly. The insurance company refused medicines that would make him comfortable. Once always good at arguing, I lost my will to fight with them. My husband never wavered about paying for the expensive drugs. “What is ours is theirs…” he said. The character of a man is in his deeds. I realize how rare it is to have a husband who can share with others when he is going through financial difficulties himself.

Larry spent more time in bed. Weighing only 103 pounds, I could not take proper care of him by myself. I hired a licensed male nurse to help. Janine became more discontent with the situation. Once we called ourselves sisters. Now few words passed between us. One night as we got sheets from the hall closet and readied ourselves to change Larry’s bed she uttered to me words that I will never forget. “You should have let him have his way. You pushed the treatments on him and made this a year of hell. His death was inevitable. He should have died as he wanted, naturally and without all of these chemicals,” The words struck like a dagger to my heart. I felt mortally wounded. Our friendship ended that day. I not only lost my brother, but I lost my only sister as well.

The nurse, Steve, consoled me and listened to my problems. Both Larry and Janine disliked him because he was a devout Christian. Again, the past childhood issues about God resurfaced. I didn’t care anymore. I knew only that I needed help, and Steve was reliable. He showed up, and worked extra hours if I needed him. Having been a supervisor with a home health agency, I realized how rare those qualities were. It was even rarer to find a male nurse. I refused to fire him because of his religious zeal. My strength waned. My friends thought I might die before my brother. I lived every pain, every angry word, and every fear with my brother. I lost 20 pounds that year.

Those last months seemed like endless years. His stomach grew swollen, and if you did not look under the covers you would think a child would soon be born. I recognized him from his soulful brown eyes. I talked more now, and he listened. Those last days are memories that I cannot describe. I never wanted to show him that I had given up, because he looked to me for hope. As he struggled with each breath now, I acknowledged the end of his life was approaching. Still a tormented man about his ideas on religion, he had not resolved his belief in whether or not God existed. He teetered between life and death. We could not discuss beliefs because to him I still represented our mother’s religion. Then one day, he asked for Janine’s sister-in-law Maryam. A lovely and giving person of the Bahá’í faith, she agreed to come. Behind a closed door, words and discussions transferred softly between them. It was after this time, that I saw the change. A quietness that had not existed before now seemed to settle over the house. A different aura came over Larry. He began to smile. The angry scowl that was once etched on his face disappeared. We sat and held hands. He told me he loved me. I no longer squinted to keep the tears from streaming down my face. Much of the time I just talked quietly about our childhood. Being latchkey kids long before the term became popular, he took care of me as a big brother should. My mother told the story of when I was four years old, and how my brother wanted to take me to the playground to show me off as his baby sister. He was eight at the time. My mother dressed me in a frilly polka dotted dress for the occasion. On the way back to the house, I fell and cut my knee, getting blood on my dress. My brother carried me all the way home. Mom said he cried more than I did over that mishap. Another time, I brought letters he wrote to me when he was in the Air Force and stationed in Japan. During my high school years I began to question the worldly issues of drugs and sex. His letters were big brotherly and comforting. I found it ironic that he had been branded the outlaw of the family; yet his letters revealed a rather sage Ann Landers approach to life. I told him I was sorry I had failed to save him. The hardest thing for me to do was to let him go. I knew he was waiting for me to release him from his promise to live. Every night I slept over in the guest bedroom. Janine did not want to be by herself when he passed away. Neither of us wanted him to be alone for a single minute of the day. We hired a night nurse to be with him while we caught short snippets of sleep. It was September 4th. I remember the time well because Princess Diana had just died. I sat by his bed and stroked his hand. I told him how much he meant to me; that he would always be with me and that I would never forget our life together, but now it was time for me to release him. He was the best brother I could have ever wished for. I kissed him goodnight and told the night nurse to come and get me if anything happened.

I barely had time to fall asleep when Larry’s favorite cat Harry jumped on the bed and woke me up. The cat sat on my chest and meowed urgently for me to follow. At almost the same time, the nurse burst in to the room and asked me to come quickly. Janine and I arrived together at the foot of his bed. With one look we knew it was over. There were no tears left for either of us. Guilty with relief, we called the hospice nurse to tell her to set the arrangements in motion. I couldn’t help but laugh when the hearse they sent for his body was a SUV. I saw Larry chuckling down at us as if he was calling the shots until the very end.

Larry didn’t want to be buried or have a proper funeral; yet Janine, and I both agreed that his life needed to be celebrated. Her house was too small to accommodate the vast number of friends who wanted to contribute to his memorial service. Bill and I had a very open and private home that would work well for what we wanted to do. Janine’s cousins jumped right in to help make it perfect. They made collages of his work as an artist and of his life as a husband and friend. His favorite music played in the background and people gathered to laugh and talk about their many experiences with this avant-garde man who died at fifty. As the afternoon sun filtered through the branches of our California oaks, we all bowed our heads and said words of thanks for having known such a good and kind person. It befitted the man who never talked badly of anyone.

It took a year to decide what we would do with his ashes. Janine did not want the urn at her home because it reminded her of death. I did not attach myself to it in the same way. To me it was just a reminder that no matter how much you want something, you can’t always change what is to be. During that year I came to the realization that sometimes death is better than life. I look at things much more differently now that I did in that year. I see that life continues to march forward, and it is the quality of life that is important not the quantity. With my patients, I try to really listen to what they are telling me. No longer do I feel powerful enough to change the cosmic forces, nor do I even want to. The voices of the wind and the chatter of the squirrels make me quiet, for it is then that I feel my brother is close.

And it was after much thoughtful waiting that the decision to set Larry’s ashes free came to me. It was so …Larry. I knew he would love it. Janine agreed, as did Bill. The three of us walked with backpacks miles into the Santa Monica Mountains carrying trowel, water and a seedling oak. We bowed our heads and each said a few words. The small tree represented his life and memories never to be forgotten. The bluebirds chirped chur-lee, chur-lee and quarreled over freshly fallen acorns on the ground. The ending fitted the man; a free spirit who lived life in the moment. I looked up, squinting from the bright sun. I felt his spirit there in this lovely place and realized he would always be with me.