One of the most difficult elements of loving and being with people who are facing a challenging medical diagnosis is being reminded of the separateness of our experiences in life. The Monday after Christmas, my brother had to get up early to head to chemo and I happened to wake up just before he left. We said our good mornings and goodbyes and I watched him shuffle out of the apartment, so much thinner than I’m used to seeing him. I went back to my room and wept. Wept over the fact that he has to deal with this prognosis while I get to go back to my bed. Wept over the fact that there is little I can do to change what is happening or what will happen.

In a twisted way, it helps to remind myself that I, too, will have my own solitary path to walk when I get closer to the end of my time on this extraordinary planet. I mean, we are all on solitary paths all the time—we can only experience our own lives—but it feels most painfully clear when someone is on a path taking them away from the health they’ve always had and there is little to do to help them.

In spite of all that heaviness, the two of us have been having a truly terrific time together. Chatting constantly; he’s been eating the vegan food I prepare, including tofu scramble, and has been surprised at how good it is (or so he says…he is a nice guy and would never say anything rude). I’m reading a book he recommended (American Gods by Neil Gaiman) and we’ve been bingeing on television and movies. A sampling: Midnight Mass; Power of the Dog; Harriet; The Mandalorian; Dr. Strange; The Watchmen series; American Factory; The Ballad of Buster Scruggs; The Book of Boba Fett; Don’t Look Up.

We’ve been out and about walking when Gary feels up to it. On New Year’s Day, we walked around one of his favorite hiking places and strolled along for four miles. We took breaks as he needed them and people watched. Resting to people watch has become one of our favorite activities. We are making memories and I will never again think of Star Wars, saguaro cacti, Boba Fett or Grogu without thinking of my brother.

I leave in a week to return to my loves in Massachusetts. So far, and thankfully, Gary is tolerating the treatment well enough, and my time here has mostly been to lift spirits and help however I can, and to help break the news of his diagnosis to other family members. The palliative care folks at the VA are providing a lot of services, including a ride to chemo should he find he doesn’t feel comfortable driving himself; having someone come and assist around the apartment, if he wants/need it; and a life alert necklace. I’m insisting that he get the life alert necklace before I leave, though I don’t know if he’s taking me seriously. He has friends and a neighbor who check in with him regularly, so I know he has a support group, if only he would be willing to reach out to them more frequently. He doesn’t want to burden people with his situation. I’ve told him that I can come back regularly to help, and that, even though he is alone here, he is not alone at all—he has family ready to be here in a moment’s notice, or ready to take him in should he decide he doesn’t want to be so far away from them.

It’ll be hard to leave, not knowing whether things will be better, be the same, or be worse the next time I come. I’m in a reddit group for pancreatic cancer, and the number of people who lose their loved ones within months of the diagnosis is heartbreaking. But there are others who have stories of people in stage 4 who survived and are surviving. On Wednesday, Gary gets his blood drawn for a genetic test. I’m praying that it comes back positive for BRCA because having a mutation increases the options for treatment. I’m trying to stay hopeful and realistic.