My brother is dead.[i] He died last Thursday. As you read this, I am in Cleveland to attend to the committal of his ashes.
Despite being closely monitored by the Cleveland Clinic for the recurrence of a cancer that he had beaten against all odds, a different cancer silently struck. Sarcomatoid renal cell carcinoma (RCC) is an aggressive form of RCC and is associated with an awful prognosis. That’s what hit my brother literally out of the blue.
His spine, hips and other distant structures were riddled with metastases. Even though he denied it, his pain was off the charts. In the last month, he could not walk for fear his pelvis would shatter. He was dead in a little less than three months after the diagnosis.
I saw my brother about a week before he died. He was at the Ames Family Hospice House. That place, its doctors, nurses, staff and volunteers, are all a marvel. Even though my brother, a former locomotive engineer and local union chairman, would sometimes demand the nurses allow him to put on his pants so he could go to work, he was afforded maximum cognitive clarity while still achieving relief from his extreme pain. Continue reading
