And I was right. It came. But it missed me. It struck my brother.
The same type of cancer as my uncle. The pancreas. A rare form.
And so the youngest of our family, with the blond hair and the hazel eyes, had the chemotherapy and the radiation.
His hair fell out, his face went gaunt as a skeleton. It’s supposed to be me, I thought.
But my brother was not me, and he was not my uncle.
He was a fighter, and had been since his youngest days,
when we wrestled in the basement and he actually bit through my shoe until I screamed in pain and let him go.
And so he fought back. He battled the disease in Spain, where he lived, with the aid of an experimental drug
that was not—and still is not—available in the United States.
He flew all over Europe for treatments. After five years of treatment, the drug appeared to chase the cancer into remission.
That was the good news. The bad news was, my brother did not want me around—not me, nor anyone in the family.
Much as we tried to call and visit, he held us at bay, insisting this fight was something he needed to do by himself.
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