Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Personal Doom Strikes My Immediate Family


This past weekend I received the kind of news that strikes out of the blue like lightning bolt and knocks the wind right out of you. My younger brother is 42-years-old, father of a young son and daughter, and a physician who was recently able to open his own clinic and is just now entering the prime of his medical career. Being much more focused than I as a young man, he decided while still in high school that he wanted to become a doctor. His primary motivation was to help people, and he has always looked down on those among his colleagues who got into the medical profession primarily for the money.

Though sickly as a young child after having been born severely premature, as an adult he's always been in excellent health and kept himself in great shape. We both ran our first marathon together five years ago, before I suffered a torn ACL that put an end to my distance running days. Though his children are still quite young, he ensured that they got plenty of exercise as soon as they were old enough to walk. The family built their dream house in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains, and there is nothing my brother loves more than taking the kids hiking on the many trails that snake through the area.

Back in June, my brother developed a chronic illness that began sapping him of his physical energy. Because he lives in a semi-rural community, the initial diagnosis was that he had contracted Lyme disease. He had been undergoing treatment for that for that past few months, but didn’t seem to be getting any better.

Finally, this past week his doctors decided to give him an MRI. The verdict could not possibly have been worse: the most positive scenario is that he has contracted Multiple Sclerosis, but more likely the verdict is Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, known colloquially as Lou Gehrig’s disease. As I have since learned to my horror, the median survival time from onset to death of this disease ranges from 2 to 3 years. Even if the patient is lucky enough to survive longer than that, they become bedridden and virtually helpless.

Lou Gehrig’s disease is very rare, with only around 5,000 new cases reported annually in the U.S. And here is the real horror, right out of Wikipedia: "because the disease usually does not affect cognitive abilities, patients are aware of their progressive loss of function and may become anxious and depressed." Gee, ya think?

Frankly, a diagnosis of cancer would have been easier to take. At least in many cases with cancer, you still have a chance of survival and complete recovery if it’s caught early enough.

Though we’ve had our spats and fights over the years, my brother and I have been fairly close as adults. He was one of the first people I confided in after becoming aware of peak oil back in 2008. He read the copy of Jim Kunstler’s, The Long Emergency, I gave to him, and fully understands the severe implications of what our society is facing from peak oil and resource depletion. In fact, he remains the only person I can talk to in meat space about these issues without couching my words or holding back my real thinking on the subject.

It all serves as a stark reminder that no matter how much any of us think we have got it figured out and no matter how prepared we think we might be for the future, none us knows how much time he or she has left. You may think you have considered every possible scenario, only to get blindsided by some horrible thing you never even saw coming.

Fate is a cruel mistress that cares not one whit about us as individuals. When your time comes, it comes. There is no court of appeal upon which you can go to beg for mercy, however unfair it all might seem.

19 comments:

  1. @Bill - My wife lost her father to ALS, and another of my close friends lost her mother. Only those who have gone through it or who are going through it now can truly understand your situation. The best the rest of us can do is to offer our hope and prayers for the best outcome possible, whatever that may be.

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  2. "All is mere breath."

    Very sorry to hear about your brother, BH.

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  3. Bill, I'm very sorry to hear this bad news. This is not much of a comfort, but he and his family at least will have some time to make preparations and put things in order. Also this is not much comfort, but he will still receive care and hospice in a still, "somewhat intact heath care system." I wonder what kind of care and support those with ALS will get 20 or 30 years from now.

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  4. Bill, I'm so sorry. Will keep him and his family in my thoughts, for what that's worth. A hug to you.

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  5. That's terrible Bill, I'm sorry. I lost my father to malignant melinoma when I was 9, I know how it feels to lose family, and it is terrible and heart breaking. Best wishes.

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  6. Bill, words fail me, but then words are always useless in these situations. May your heart stay strong as you and your family deal with this terrible blow.

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  7. Aw, bleep, Bill. I'm so sorry. Holding you and your family in my thoughts.

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  8. Damn. I am sorry, also, Bill.

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  9. Thank you for the very kind words of support, everybody. They mean a lot to me.

    I don't plan to interrupt my blogging. As much as you may enjoy reading what I write here, I actually do it first and foremost to keep myself sane in these troubled times. It's an outlet for the pain I feel when observing the state of the world these days. And now there's been just a bit more pain added on.

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  10. Don't know what to say except I am very sorry. I know from personal experience that one's life can be turned upside-down in the time it takes the sun to set and rise again.

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  11. Condolences and thank you for sharing your grief with us, may it lessen the blows in the coming months as things progress.

    I hope you brighten and sweeten the time you have left with your brother and the rest of your family while dealing with this situation.

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  12. I truly am sorry. =(

    You, your brother, and his family are in my thoughts.

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  13. Again, thanks to all. You serve as a much needed reminder that however mad things may appear to be in the larger world, there are still plenty of great people out there.

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  14. Hey Bill, Sorry about your brother. I hope you will be ok as you and your family go through this together.

    David From Louisville Ky

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  15. Bill, I can't add a thing, ... Except I/We love you! Hang in there..

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  16. Bill Hicks, I was just catching up on your blog and saw this today, or I would have offered my sympathy before. My oldest daughter was diagnosed with cancer about 5 years ago. She survived, but I have never been the same. I think perhaps that unthinkable prospect - outliving my own child - in some ways enabled me to recognize the other unthinkables - ecocide and the end of civilization.

    I wonder if you saw this post with an essay by Tim Murray. I found it of great comfort even in retrospect:

    http://witsendnj.blogspot.com/2011/09/coping-with-our-demise-by-tim-murra.html

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  17. @Gail - thanks for that. Though not a parent myself, I've always heard it said that one's greatest fear is to outlive your children. I'm glad your daughter survived that horrible disease.

    I will definitely check out Tim Murray's essay.

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  18. My deepest thoughts and prayers to you and your brother Bill. I am truly sorry to hear such ugly and bad news. God Bless you and your brother.

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