In almost three years I haven't missed a deadline with White Line magazine, but last month was an exception.  It's been a long year for my family; one of joys and celebrations, but also one of sorrow and heartbreak.  In July, 2009, my brother, Johnny “Ringo” Gang was diagnosed with throat cancer.  He opted to undergo radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and in November was pronounced cancer free.  The December issue of White Line Magazine carried the story of a cancer survivor.  But that was not to be the end of the story.  Today as I write this article, my heart breaks for my family and myself as I deal with the unexpected loss of my baby brother.  In February, Johnny went in for a routine scan and was told that the cancer was back.  Not only was it back, but it had spread to his liver and lungs and was stage IV (the worst news a cancer patient can receive).  Options were limited; more chemotherapy or an experimental drug.  Radiation and surgery were not options.  So, after much concentration, Johnny made the decision to travel to MD Anderson Cancer Treatment Centers in Houston, Texas for an experimental trial drug.  One month into the drug and the results were devastating.  Mouth sores caused an inability to eat.  Body weight dropped on the average of 10 pounds a week, and the body became very weak.  Calcium levels soared and hospital visits began.  Last month, surgery to implant a feeding tube was completed, but when the surgeon opened up my brother, he realized that the liver was full of cancer and blocking the stomach.  What should have taken 30 minutes to complete, took a full 3 ½ hours.  It was downhill from there and we began to discuss Hospice care.  Like most strong people, full of life, Johnny wasn't ready to give up living and fought to the end.  Even as the body became weaker, the soul strengthened.  But on Friday, May 14, we decided it was time to go home.  Season's Hospice in Ft. Worth, Texas came in to help take care of him.  At first the visits were minimal and I became his primary caregiver along with the help of my husband, Ric, friend, Brian and others who surrounded us in support.  By Sunday, I had decided we could no longer take care of him, and called Hospice to come in for 24 hour care.  On Tuesday, my birthday, I saw the mental anguish and struggle that my brother was fighting, and told the nurses to get him out of pain.  They said to me “we've got control of his pain”, and I responded, “I'm not talking about his physical pain, I'm talking about his mental pain, the anguish over his imminent death and his obvious fear of dieing.”  Compassionately, the nurses responded and promised to keep him so drugged that he wouldn't know what was happening.  After giving those instructions, in tears, I fired up my bike and went for a ride.  The wind in my face dried my tears and the morning breeze calmed my heart.  I returned and found my brother in a peaceful sleep.  Friends, Donna and Jeannie, Brian and Scotty, my daughter, Jeri, and my husband, Ric, all held his hand and talked sweetly about memories to him.

     On Tuesday night, before bedtime, my daughter brought each of my two grandchildren in to say goodnight to Johnny.  She explained to them how important it was to tell him how much they love him, because “tomorrow, he might not be here.”  First, Allura said goodnight, and then ten year old Nick entered the room.  He looked at the sleeping body of my brother and said “Uncle Johnny, I love you”.  There was no response, and in a few moments Nick said “Uncle Johnny, will you be my angel?”  This time, Johnny responded – out of his sleep, he reached out a hand and touched Nick on the arm, and said “Little buddy, I'll be your angel”.  And then he fell back into the deep somber.  Throughout the evening, I sat in a chair beside him and awoke occasionally to hold his hand and whisper “I love you”. 

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