Last year, my brother was diagnosed with cancer. Immediately, he reached out, assuming I’d have all the answers. Through phone calls, text messages and the Facebook Messenger app, he rattled off questions at lightning speed. I did my best to answer the questions quickly and honestly.

I could hear fear and trepidation in his voice as we talked on the phone, the things unsaid spoke volumes. I did my best to reassure him and offer hope, but it was challenging. His diagnosis wasn’t good. Not only had he been diagnosed with esophageal cancer, but it had also metastasized to his liver and lungs.

He was forced to weigh some heavy decisions. Should he do chemotherapy and struggle through the physical challenges associated with it, or did he opt to forego it, choosing quality of life over quantity? He asked my thoughts and, as hard as it was, I told him the decision had to be his. I couldn’t make it for him. I assured him, whatever he decided, I’d support him.

He chose chemo but after two treatments, he called it quits saying they were too hard and left him feeling terrible.

When a feeding tube became necessary, he reached out again saying he was scared and didn’t know if he could handle it. I reminded him that he was stronger than he thought.

A couple of weeks later, the feeding tube came loose, and he was rushed to the hospital. Sitting beside him, I held his hand and stayed with him as he slept off the anesthesia. It broke my heart to see his body, once strong and vibrant, so weak and frail. He’d lost so much weight and I knew his time was short.

Cancer had shaken our family tree.

My family and I were shocked at how quickly his cancer grew and spread. Within seven months, it had taken my brother’s life.

There was a history of cancer in our family. My maternal…