My family was sitting in the waiting room. We were waiting to hear of Tyler. An agonizing fear had settled in my chest. It clawed at my throat. My eyes were starting to flood with tears. I brushed them away and looked at my parents. They stroked my hair and tried to reassure me, but I could see the fear in their eyes too. I could see their lips shudder. They were afraid too.
It had started three years ago, when the cancer was only mild. When my brother was four years old, his eyes started to bulge and get black around the edges. Sometimes Tyler could not move a specific body part like his arm, or leg.
My parents took him to the doctor, and what we discovered changed our lives forever.
The doctors did a bunch of tests on Tyler. They needed a blood and urine sample, and they took a bit of tissue for testing. The doctors felt around his body and found a tumor just below his belly button. When they were done, the doctors walked to us with grave looks on their faces.
It turned out Tyler had neuroblastoma cancer. Surgery would have worked, but the tumor had spread to his lungs.
So Tyler was put under chemotherapy. His beautiful chestnut-brown hair was falling out, and he couldn’t stop puking. The doctors told us it was a minor side-effect of the treatment.
Tyler was in treatment of chemotherapy for three years. Then the doctors told us we had another problem. Tyler was developing another cancer: acute myeloid leukemia (AML) where too many immature white blood cells were being made. Tyler had to remain at the hospital to receive intense chemotherapy.
One day I was holding Tyler’s hand in mine when the doctor came in and told us, “Tyler has a very rare case. The cancer has completely taken over his lungs.”
I was about to ask what that meant. I stopped when I saw my mom’s face. It was white as a sheet, and her lips were shuddering.
“Thank you,” my father said.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor spoke, and then left the room.
We took Tyler home. He sat on the couch, not eating, just staring at the TV. I held his hand and shook it. Tyler looked at me with wide eyes.
“Why?” he whispered.
“What?” I looked up. “What did you say?”
“Why me?” Tyler murmured. “Why do I have to die? It’s not fair.”
Hot tears rushed down my face. I clutched his hand desperately. “I know,” I said softly. “It’s not fair.”
“I mean, I haven’t even had kids yet!” Tyler said. “How come I never even get to get married?”
I kissed Tyler’s cheek and made him some soup. It was my special kind. Tyler spooned it into his mouth. His lips were so dry. It was the first time I noticed.
The soup was the first thing he’d eaten in three days.
Every night, I tucked Tyler into his old bed. We had given him some new sheets because he didn’t take chemotherapy anymore. No point.
Every time I switched off the light, I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. As I lay in my own bed, I was so terribly afraid that Tyler would die in his sleep and I would never get to say good-bye. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, crying all over my sheets. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I leapt out of bed. I went to Tyler’s room and crawled beneath his covers and slept with him cuddled under my arms. He felt so small and helpless.
Pathetic. As if my presence could keep him alive. It worked though, I was asleep within minutes. The next morning I always found Tyler breathing.
A week after we brought Tyler home, he quickly began to get weaker and lost control of several limbs in his body. That was when we decided to grant Tyler’s last wish: the beach by our house.
We hadn’t been there since Tyler was diagnosed so I don’t even know if he remembered it. As a family we just sat there on the beach, looking at the waves crashing in and feeling the warm sand under our feet.
That night, I lay with Tyler and felt his last breath go out of his small body. As soon as he stopped breathing, I didn’t feel any sorrow or pain in my chest. Instead, I felt a sort of relief lift off my shoulders. I looked at my dead brother. He didn’t seem like such a small, helpless child anymore. He looked peaceful, released from his suffering. I hated myself for it, but I also knew that I had been somewhat released too.
Tyler’s funeral was two weeks later. I didn’t cry, I didn’t wish it was me. I was happy Tyler was able to move on and I knew that he would be much happier where he was now than being back here.
For awhile, I wouldn’t eat or sleep. I lay there in bed thinking about Tyler and everything tasted like that special soup I made. I slept in Tyler’s bed every night. I crawled under the covers way deep at the foot of the bed, and cried. Weeping under the dark. My tears never seemed to run out.
Then I thought about all the other kids still suffering in hospitals and I cried some more. But the world never rewards you for crying. The next day, I made a donation for them.
I found a field of dandelions close to our house. They were Tyler’s favorite. I picked one up and let it go to flow away in the wind. I made a memorial for Tyler, and let him flow out of my heart. I wouldn’t mourn for him anymore, but I would never forget my seven-year-old brother that died because of cancer.