It’s been a little over a month since my younger brother in Indiana dropped his cancer bombshell.

Multiple myeloma.

Not curable, but potentially treatable. He never saw it coming.

Joe sounded awful on the phone. When I suggested that I visit immediately, he demurred. Not now, he said. Everything at his end was too chaotic.

When I phoned a couple of days later, I woke him up. Our call was a short one. Joe shared aspects of his routine as a cancer patient. His future a frightening unknown, he was overwhelmed.

Our next few conversations were equally brief. Joe said he had to conserve his energy for the rigors of treatment and the needs of his wife and children.

After each call, I felt the frustration of being 2,000 miles away and so out of the loop. My calls felt invasive. I had so little to say to someone in peril.

I conferred with my sister in Nashville. She felt stymied too. As much as we wanted to bombard Joe with our love, he wasn’t strong enough to handle it.

A Plan B surfaced. We would direct our calls to Joe’s wife, now cast in the role of full-time caregiver. Ellen would be our window to Joe’s world.

I began calling every other day. When Ellen picked up, she painted a portrait of a life in the trenches. Old routines had been junked, she said. The focus was now on pain control, cooking healthy food, keeping medical appointments.

When Ellen didn’t answer, I would leave simple messages. You’re in our thoughts, I would say.

Twice Joe called back. He was more than eloquent about his new life as a patient. When the pain was at its worst, images of Jesus Christ being nailed to the cross overwhelmed him, he said.

These were one-sided conversations. Given the situation in Indiana, it seemed obscenely gratuitous to push information about me and mine.

I once mentioned having returned from jogging and instantly felt pangs of guilt. Joe can’t get out of bed without excruciating pain and I’m talking about having taken a run? Nix the jogging talk, stupid.

While I was obsessing on Joe, Cheryl researched multiple myeloma so she could worry about me. While this cancer isn’t generally thought to run in families, it has struck siblings, she said.

Cheryl recommended that I get a physical, with a bone marrow test for “smoldering” multiple myeloma.

I put her off. It seemed counterproductive to get more involved in this disease than I already was. Then I relented. When I present myself next month to the doctor for a physical, I’ll bring it up.

A week ago I missed one of Joe’s rare phone calls. Cheryl had to fill me in. He’s still waiting to start chemo, she said, but he has a fighting spirit.

And another thing. He wishes we wouldn’t call so much.

I was confused. I may call a lot, but not to Joe directly. And when I call Ellen, I mostly don’t get through.

That’s what he said, Cheryl repeated. He’d prefer less attention right now.

Was he speaking ironically? Maybe you missed the Courtney humor? I said.

Cheryl didn’t think so.

I called Ellen the next evening and brought up Joe’s cryptic message. Are we calling too much?

There’s a lot of uncertainty in Joe’s life right now, she said. He would like it if I could communicate with him in a more normal way.

Normal is an e-mail every month or two and maybe a phone call twice a year. That’s normal, I said.

It’s OK to keep calling her, Ellen said, but perhaps not such a barrage. Joe will call me when he feels up to it.

After hanging up, I pondered the stark contrasts of our situations. Joe and Ellen are adrift on unchartered waters. It’s all they can do to stay afloat.

Meanwhile, from the safety of shore, my sister and I are obsessively scanning the horizon for signs of their safe passage. We want to monitor every moment of their perilous journey.

Now that phone service is problematic, we will have to try other ways to let Joe and Ellen know they are not alone. I will write letters and hope the wind will carry our thoughts and prayers.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com