I hoped like hell that it would be easier on little Carter, but I seriously doubted that would happen.
1993 rolled on the way it had before, with no real differences from what I remembered. Would I have known differently? Back on the first go I never really noticed some of what was happening, because it didn't mean anything to me at the time. The bombing of the World Trade Center in New York took on a whole new meaning when I considered what would happen in 2001. Pentium computers came out, with an amazing increase in power and speed over the old 486 models. We promptly replaced the stuff at the office out of my own pocket, not wanting to wait another five years for the government to get around to it. Around the world it seemed like the planet was going to hell in a handbasket, just like before.
Congress-wise, we spent most of 1993 working on the upcoming Contract with America with the Heritage Foundation. I was spending at least one, if not two, days a week over there reviewing progress on all ten items. Like Marty had foreseen, every lobbyist in town was sticking his nose in on things, 'consulting' about how to 'improve' our legislation. The budget and entitlement reform bills especially promised to be clusterfucks of improvements! It had to be done, but it was like a sausage factory – you really don't want to see what goes in!
Carter's chemo proved to be every bit as awful as could be foreseen. That poor little boy spent his ninth birthday puking his guts out after a session of chemo. By then he couldn't keep hardly any food down, and had lost all his hair. He would puke and cry, puke and cry, but he was a fighter, that's for sure.
Sometimes it would get too much for his older brother, and we would take him for a weekend. Bucky was a good kid, but it could be incredibly stressful. All of a sudden, Carter became the focus of the whole family. If Bucky wanted to go somewhere or do something, it might not happen, or it might be cancelled, depending on Carter's condition. It can make a person resentful. Bucky was a good kid, and helped a lot, but it was trying on him. He wasn't crazy like my brother, but it's only human to get angry about the attention. He tried to keep it from showing, and would stay with us occasionally to let off some steam by riding with Charlie around the property.
At the end of the six weeks he was off chemotherapy, but would be monitored by weekly visits to his oncologist at Johns Hopkins. A week later, when Carter began feeling better, and could start eating again, Marilyn and I packed the bunch of them into the G-IV and sent them off to Hougomont for a week.
The first blood work on Carter after the chemo came back hopeful, but not great. Subsequent tests after they came back from the Bahamas weren't even that positive. The cancer was slowing, but not gone. A second round of chemo was needed, with stronger medicines and a longer period. That started in May.
The strain on the Tusk family only increased that summer. Both of Tusker's parents died in June, his father of a heart attack, and his mother from heart break. She simply lost the will to keep going, and passed away in her sleep. We helped as much as we could, like the rest of their friends. I was one of his father's pallbearers. Tessa and Carter missed that funeral because Carter was taking chemo that day. That was really tough on the family. Tessa and Tusker were arguing a lot after that, but held it together for the sake of Carter. Marilyn and I could only stand on the sidelines and offer moral support.
Our big summer party that year was July 24, a Saturday. The Tusks came to it, like always, but you could see the strain on them. Carter had just started a third round of chemo. Tusker and Tessa were keeping a brave face up when around him, and they never said anything to anybody other than that he was getting better, but it was like they were whistling as they walked past the graveyard. Carter was down to skin and bones by then, and rather than sit outside with the others, he was propped up in one of the recliners in the living room.
One of us would always be with him, spending time with him so he didn't feel like he wasn't being included. We were having the party catered again, so Marilyn and I could circulate, but at one point in the afternoon, I had a chance to sit down with Carter and talk with him. Most of the time, when he was around, one of his parents were hovering, but now, it was just the two of us. I sat down in the chair next to him and asked, "How you doing, Carter?"
"Okay, I guess.", he said, quietly.
Something didn't sound quite right, so I asked, "You want to talk, Carter? Anything I can help you with?"
He looked at me and asked, "Can I ask you a question, Uncle Carl?"
"Sure, whatever you want."
"Will you tell my parents I'm sorry after I die?"
I think a bomb could have gone off at that point and I wouldn't have noticed it. Then I realized he was looking at me very seriously. I couldn't just laugh this off. "Why do you ask, Carter? Do you think you're going to die?"
He nodded. "I'm not getting better. Mom and Dad won't say anything, but the chemo isn't working." He gave me a wry look, and finished, "I mean, they keep taking me to the doctor's office and I'm not getting any better. Aren't you supposed to get better after going to the doctor?"
I smiled and nodded. "That's the general idea."
"Well, I'm not getting better, am I?", he stated.
I was slow in answering, but Carter was serious, and he wasn't joking about this. I shrugged and nodded. "No, you're not."
Amazingly, the little boy's face lit up at this! "Thank you! Everybody around just keeps telling me bullshit!" Then his eyes opened wide and he clamped his mouth shut. "You won't tell Mom or Dad I used a bad word, will you?"
I laughed at that and patted him on the knee. "Your secret is safe with me. So, what do you want to do? Do you want to stop seeing the doctors?" What the hell was I going to do if he said yes?
"No." Carter shook his head. "I tried to talk to Mom about it once, but she just got angry at me and told me I was getting better. Why does she get angry like that?"
"Well, she's not angry with you. You mom really loves you. She's just scared. She's really trying to convince herself, not you, that you'll be okay. I think that if she were to tell herself that you might not be getting better that would be the same to her as giving up, and parents never give up on their kids."
"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Anyway, I didn't want to make her cry any more. She cries so much anyway." He looked at me and shrugged. "I don't think it will be for all that much longer anyway."
I didn't know what to say to that. I just sat there with him, and he continued, "So will you tell them I'm sorry? They're always crying and arguing now, and Bucky gets it, too. If he makes a joke or says something Mom and Dad yell at him, too."
"I promise."
"Thanks, Uncle Carl."
I stood up. "Can I get you anything?"
"Nah. I'm kind of tired. I think I'll take a nap."
"Okay." Then, before I left him, I said, "You know, you're not dead yet! You might just pull through. Won't you feel silly then about this!"
He smiled at that. "See you later."