The Irish Medical Times - Running Out of Time: My Brother's Courage

It would have been my brother's birthday today. He died recently, taken by aggressive lung cancer - 50 days from diagnosis to death. It was (and remains) too heart wrenching to put into words. It is certainly not content for a 'post'. However, like many writers before me, the written word tends to be where I process best. 

I sat down to write my patient focused column for the IMT, and ended up writing a piece that gives a glimpse into what it feels like to physically try to outrun death. 

 Article - Running Out of Time: My Brother's Courage 

To Lochlann, my incredible big brother, who passed away too young, aged 53 - you read everything I wrote and always encouraged me to keep it up. I probably never thanked you enough for believing in me. I will miss your extraordinary generosity of spirit and undiminished optimism, you were one in a million.

If I were to add a message to this burst of personal content it might go something like this - 1 in 2 people will develop cancer in their lifetime, 2 in 2 people will be affected by it. Get checked, get checked, get checked. 

ARTICLE (full text)

Running Out of Time: My Brother’s Courage

My dread of phone conversations probably started about 15 years ago, when my Dad rang me in the middle of the night to tell me my Mum had suddenly passed away. It embedded in me an aversion to the trilling noise of ring tones, in fact, I am relieved that we now live in a world that favours good old fashioned text as the most popular way to communicate. 

Of course, I do engage in the odd phone call, I appreciate it is important to connect, I understand some people fear texting the way I fear calls, and you have to be flexible to their preferred communication. My husband, for example, much prefers a direct phone call than a misinterpreted long text chain. Me, I’m open to misinterpretation. I do permit myself to stay clear of voice notes - that’s not due to PTSD, that’s just because I am over 25 and find them incongruent to my existence.

When my phone recently sprang to life, that familiar fear of bad news engulfed me, except this time I was expecting the call. I watched the name slide across the screen. My heart slipped through my ribcage as I held the phone to my ear.

“You need to come… Now.” instructed the kind but troubled voice.

Like a sleeper agent that has been activated I turned to my husband and told him “It’s them. It’s happening. We need to go NOW!” Within two minutes I was slamming closed a cab door and flying through the city streets. 

As the driver turned into the property’s driveway 15 minutes later, I cast off my coat and bag, anything that would slow me. I knew things were down to the wire and every single second counted. I glanced at my husband, without speaking he solemnly nodded back and started gathering my things from me. Before the car came to a halt I jumped out and started sprinting.

I flew past an old lady in the lobby who span in my wake, looking around her for the emergency. I ripped by the security guard who raised a pointless hand to slow me down. An elderly couple stood hunched against a wall, possibly holding each other up, across from them a young Asian woman flipped absentmindedly through a chart. I weaved through them at top speed, shunting from side to side, like a graceful bull. 

As I tore through the wings of the building, I realized I was running at 150%, a speed I had little hope of maintaining across this distance, especially with a heart condition, yet I had to keep going. My body was already thinking ahead and had employed the valsalva maneuver (holding your breath). I was holding my breath for short periods, creating an air splint that allowed me to run more forcefully, then I would expel the air in sharp whooshing breaths. If it worked for Olympic sprinters, then it was good enough for me. 

I suddenly became conscious of my arms, they were jack-knifing through the air beside me, I was like the Terminator! This was a place of peace and rest, it was only a matter of time before someone stopped the silent spectacle I had become. But the end was in sight, I could see my final turning coming up, I just needed to get to that corner. 

As I shot into reach of the turn, the voice from the phone call earlier yelled out my name. I could see the owner of the voice now. He was running towards me, faster, stronger, intercepting my turn, calling my name again. I tried to keep going, he was slowing me down, distracting me, why was he doing this? He was getting in the way?

I suddenly realized - he wanted to get in the way. My body stopped before my brain did and I looked at him with confusion. He stood close to me, making sure his eyes caught mine as he slowly dropped his gaze, “Sheilagh, I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. 

“Oh God….Lochlann’s dead” I declared, as I began to cry.

My brother had passed away minutes after the Hospice had telephoned me, he was 53 years of age, taken too young by aggressive lung cancer. 

Two weeks previously, myself and my other brother, Colm, had brought him home from New York where Lochlann had lived for 35 years. It was the hardest thing we have ever had to do in our lives, but it was an honour, and it was our last gift to him. He spent his last two weeks on earth surrounded by an endless supply of family and friends. We know at the end he felt very loved and died peacefully in no distress, on his own terms. When family and friends had left the room, he simply slipped away. 

Unlike me, Lochlann loved phone calls, as a commodities trader on Wall Street it was not only how he brokered deals, it was how he connected with others. He was exceptionally optimistic, even through years of dialysis, markets collapsing, and hard times that come to us all, he was always upbeat when he rang home because he felt that was what the moment demanded. Lochlann always rose to face the moment. Even during his challenging stage IV cancer diagnosis, that stripped him of his free will, he held his head high and carried the rest of us through to the unimaginable fate that awaited him. 

It’s very hard for us all to accept that Lochlann will never call us again. 

I ran as fast as I could in his final minutes and I didn’t make it in time - but you can’t out run death. My brother Lochlann lived in the now, he didn’t win every battle he fought, but the darker the situation the brighter his outlook would become. 

At his funeral I read this quote from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird which captured Lochlann’s courage.

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.” 

Lochlann was immensely courageous and an example to us all to believe in yourself, Colm and I won when we got Lochlann as our big brother.

Whether you are the dying, the survivor, or the loved one left behind, life is hard, we are all carrying ourselves with as much courage as we can muster.

For patients, or people anywhere who are struggling, sometimes hope is all you have. Even if you don’t make it, your spirit will survive. 

I know Lochlann’s spirit stays with me always (even when I sprint).

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