On December 23rd, my brother was at our house for the last time. That night was probably the worst night my family and I had ever experienced. My brother was sitting on the couch when things went downhill, and they went downhill fast. I will spare some of the details for not only my own sake but for his as well. He had been unable to walk for a few weeks, but he wanted to take a shower, so my parents carried him upstairs and got him into his shower chair. Within 5 minutes, he told my parents he could no longer even hold his head up. We were unsure if this was another delirium episode, or if this was a real physical problem. My dad called Ryan’s doctor, and he said that if it didn’t pass in an hour, it was time to take him to the emergency room once again.

I had made plans with my friends that night, and my parents told me to go despite my brother’s condition. Though it was always hard to walk away, I knew there was nothing I could do to help, and that Ryan would want me to go. While I was at my friend’s house, my brother was transported to Hershey via ambulance. This would be his last trip there.

When my brother arrived, his doctor had already set up a room for him in the ICU and they began to run tests. There’s a thing called lactate in your body, and while I don’t know what it is, my parents explained it to me like this: if your lactate count is at a two, you’re in septic shock… Ryan was at a seven. His kidneys were failing, his blood pressure was dangerously low, and the fluid that the cancer in his abdomen produced was increasing to the point that he could only use about half of his lungs to breathe. Another CT scan was ordered, and the cancer had spread an impressive amount. He was intubated yet again – they tried to remove the tube three times, and each time he was still too weak to breathe on his own. After the third time, the doctors told my parents that it was time to make an impossible decision. If they were to reintubate Ryan, he would never come off of it – but if they didn’t, he would be moved to comfort care, meaning he would be made comfortable until he passed.

 

At this point, I don’t remember the exact date. But at some point in October, my mom called me at 7:00 am and told me that I needed to come home. My brother had gone into the emergency room at the Hershey Medical Center the night before with level 10 pain, causing the doctors to order a CT scan. When the scan came back, the doctors told my parents that Ryan had an obstruction in his bowel. They told my parents that they now had two options: let him go, or attempt a nearly impossible surgery. As most parents would, my parents decided to attempt the surgery, because giving up just wasn’t an answer.

After locating the surgeon who had operated on my brother before, my family began the waiting process. While this was happening, I was two hours away at school sitting on the roof of my building, covered in snow, bawling my eyes out and waiting for my mom’s friend to arrive and take me to my family (at this point I didn’t have my car up with me at school). About an hour and a half later, my phone began ringing again, this time it was my dad calling me. My heart dropped, and I shook while I answered my phone. Much to my surprise, the doctors had read the CT scan wrong, and my brother was okay enough for me to no longer be afraid of not getting to him in time to say goodbye. We weren’t out of the woods yet, but I knew I would be able to see him alive one more time.

When I got to this hospital, my whole family was there together in the waiting room. A few teary hugs later, my mom told me that while there was no immediate danger, my brother had a serious bacterial infection and would remain in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit for at least a few more days. We had no idea just how bad it would become.

Ryan ended up being in the SICU for around three weeks. He suffered from something called delirium, or “SICU psychosis“, as the nurses on the floor had named it. He hallucinated so badly from the intense pain medication and having gone under anesthesia that he began fighting anyone who tried to treat him and didn’t even recognize our parents. Due to this, they had to intubate him. I made the mistake of going into his room with my parents the one night before I went home, and saw my brother in a state that has burnt images in my mind. Because my brother was young and “strong”, as the doctors told us, despite him having incurable cancer, of course, he struggled to stay under sedation and gave the bed restraints a run for their money as he tried to take the tube out of his mouth.

After visiting home for a little less than a week, I returned to school to try and continue life as normally as I could. In a few weeks, my brother would be home, but it was just the beginning of the end.