A journalist shares the pain of losing a brother to cancer. Nidal al-Mughrabi

Nidal (right) and Yehya in a Cairo mall when Yehya was getting treatment in Egypt.

Memories are the caretakers of hearts. And their tombs. You might have many siblings, but only one becomes your soul mate. Mine was my younger brother Yehya. Though only 10 years younger than me, I cared for Yehya like my own son. We were so close I sometimes called out his name instead of my son. I still do, since Yehya died.

In 2016, Yehya complained of an ulcer on his tongue. A doctor in Gaza, where we live, prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, but a month went by with no change. A specialist advised that a sample be taken for examination. The results would take two weeks. I couldn't wait. I made the biggest mistake of my life. I spoke to a friend at the hospital who helped speed up the tests. My nightmare began and hasn’t stopped.

Yehya had stage 4 cancer on his tongue. It’s a rare cancer. Yehya never smoked. He was a bodybuilder and a bodybuilding coach. I wept like never before. Not even when my father died when I was 17.

I began dealing with the issue before telling Yehya. Some doctors in Gaza suggested removing his tongue, or most of it. Others suggested I look at treatment options in neighbouring Egypt. A pain in my chest was growing. A doctor told me I needed to release the secret before it killed me. I told Yehya something could be wrong and that we needed to do some checks in Cairo. I thought it would be less difficult if he heard the truth while starting treatment there.

We arranged for Yehya to go to a good hospital in Cairo. My older brother took him because I couldn't take such a long vacation. I spoke to Yehya almost every day, sometimes more than once during the several months he was in Cairo. It takes more than reassuring words to reach someone fighting a deadly disease. I had to be frank with Yehya, sometimes firm, sometimes like a kindergarten teacher.

Radiotherapy was hellish. Hospital staff put a mask on Yehya’s face to protect his skin. He’d bite on a piece of sponge, but nothing could quell the pain. "It’s like hell. It burns my throat and my neck," he’d tell me after each of the 40 sessions he endured. "It’s like hell because it’s burning the disease. Don't worry about the scars. A good plastic surgeon will make you look like Brad Pitt," I used to say, feeling hell inside my soul, burning me from head to toe.

One time I travelled to Cairo. Yehya was waiting to enter the "torture" room as he called it. He’d covered his neck with a scarf to hide his burnt skin. “What did you do to my kid!” I wanted to scream at the doctors. “You burnt his face, his throat! You deformed him!” I had to bury my pain. "You look good," I lied. "All these marks will go with some cream."

Yehya’s doctor said he was cured. I prepared for his happy homecoming. Yehya wasn't so sure. Back home, he threw up blood. I called his Egyptian doctor who said dead cells were being purged. Don’t worry, the doctor said. It happened several times. Two months after Yehya’s supposed recovery, he was a regular visitor at the cancer hospital in Gaza, where he’d stay for days.

I discovered a new person. I knew Yehya was afraid despite his rocky muscles. Nervous. A doctor told me there was no hope. That triggered something inside me. Not just sadness but a desire to get him anything he wanted. No questions asked. I didn’t care if he’d get addicted to painkillers. His tongue was getting torn apart, piece by piece. We told Yehya dead cells were just falling off, but he was losing the ability to talk. I urged his wife, brothers and sisters to be patient.Speak slowly and listen carefully because it irritated Yehya if they asked him to repeat himself. He felt humiliated. I focused all my attention on what Yehya said so he didn’t have to say things again. Playing cards helped keep him engaged. He’d beat our brothers, but I’d beat him and make fun of him, so he didn’t get bored of winning. We laughed.

I got a psychiatrist to help Yehya relax and try to sleep at night. Yehya complained of nightmares, saying people were using magic to put spells on him. The psychiatrist spent hours trying to convince him that this reaction was normal because his body was weakening, and urging him to connect more with others, including his four children. He needed to see his friends more and stop ignoring their calls.

We moved Yehya into Shifa hospital, Gaza’s largest medical facility, in September 2017. He took lots of tramadol painkillers, which are illegal in Gaza without a prescription. Even with a prescription, it’s hard to find.

I prayed, asking God to take Yehya because of the pain he was in. He’d lost so much weight. The bodybuilder was thin now. He couldn't stand by himself. Then, on Sept. 16, 2017, the machines stopped. Yehya had no pulse.

I’m still in pain. Earlier this year, Reuters did a story on Gazan youth suffering cancer. I went to the same hospital to interview a specialist. I ran out without saying goodbye. I understand now what it means for someone to have cancer. I understand their pain. Their sense of helplessness, weakness and despair. I understand why they don’t want to sit with friends or even family, including their children. They love them so much that to do so increases the pain because they know they’ll leave them. Yehya said he felt he was betraying his wife and children. No, I told him. Life doesn't give us all we want. You will see them again.

Be patient with a relative who has cancer. Pay attention to little things, what they say with their eyes, or as I did in Yehya's case, learn sign language. Be generous with your love. Cancer is not infectious so don’t wash your hands after you shake hands, don't use wipes in their presence. Accept their physical state and never speak of death near them because they can already see death. Grant their wishes. Remember, you’re giving them things they’ll leave behind as memories. Embrace those memories. Always tell the truth. They’ll know when you lie. People might believe in miracles, but instead of saying a miracle will happen, get them whatever they think might help their health or suppress those cancerous cells, whether it’s pure honey, herbs or fruit.

I hate the word "cancer". I hate to say it. I wish cancer could be eradicated. But I know this won’t happen. Yehya’s experience taught me to pay more attention to people suffering cancer, to visit them in hospital even if I don't know them. To take part in solidarity campaigns and make donations to get them things they need or pay for their transport to a hospital in the West Bank or outside Gaza. People whose relatives have cancer are also vulnerable. They need support too.

This disease can sometimes be prevented by healthy living. We can promote these things as journalists and as people. Don't underestimate the little things you can do. On top of everything else, love someone with cancer so that if they survive, they can become a beacon of hope for others.

Nidal al-Mughrabi has been Reuters’ senior correspondent in Gaza since 1996. He has covered all major conflicts between Israel and the Palestinians in Gaza since then, including the 2008-2009 Gaza War that killed nearly 1,400 Palestinians and 13 Israelis. Nidal has also closely followed the rise of Hamas in Gaza and its victory in elections in Gaza in 2006. That upended decades of rule by Fatah and sparked bitter infighting that led to a split within the Palestinian national movement. Nidal has been a member of the Reuters peer network since 2018.

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