would my younger brother be cured if I find out his lung cancer earlier ?

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My younger brother is gone.

33 years old.

Late-stage lung cancer.

Even now, I often think, what if things had turned out differently if we had discovered it sooner?

But the cruelest thing about life is that there are no "what ifs."

Some missed opportunities are pains that can never be recovered.

At first, he just had a cough.

He coughed for almost two months.

Not the kind of cough that's completely unbearable, just a persistent, intermittent cough that just wouldn't go away.

He saw several doctors.

Some said it might be a post-COVID-19 sequela.

Others said it was just a sensitive trachea, and that medication and observation would suffice.

He also saw a traditional Chinese medicine doctor.

The answers were similar.

Everyone thought, "He's young, it's just a cough, he'll get better with rest."

We thought so too.

Because he was only 33.

Who would have thought that the words "late-stage lung cancer" would fall upon a 33-year-old?

For some reason, I suddenly thought, "Since I'm fine anyway, why not get a CT scan?"

That one thought changed our entire family's fate.

After the scan, the doctor's expression changed.

He wasn't as relaxed as he had been in the previous consultations.

The doctor simply told him, "Go to a big hospital; this needs further confirmation."

When he came home that day, he actually tried to appear calm.

He said it might just look a little strange, and that a thorough check-up at a big hospital would be fine.

But I could tell he was actually terrified.

The next day, he went to a large hospital in the city.

Examinations, blood tests, imaging, consultations.

The final result came back: late-stage lung cancer.

At that moment, our whole family was stunned.

My mother sat in the chair, repeatedly asking the doctor, "He's so young, how could this happen?"

But the doctor couldn't give us a comforting answer.

After the diagnosis, he immediately went to Taipei.

We thought that big hospitals have more resources; perhaps they could offer better solutions.

During that time, we clung to life like a last rope, placing all our hopes on tests and treatments.

Later, we had genetic testing done.

The result was a rare mutation.

The doctor said there were targeted therapies to consider, but they weren't covered by health insurance.

The out-of-pocket cost would be over ten thousand yuan a month.

That's no small sum.

Even more cruelly, even if we gritted our teeth and took the medication, there was no guarantee of effectiveness.

My brother was quiet after hearing this.

He didn't curse, nor did he break down.

He just lowered his head, calculated for a long time, and finally said, "Forget it, let's just do chemotherapy."

I still can't forget that "forget it."

Because it wasn't that he didn't want to live.

It was that reality forced him to consider money even before he wanted to live.

After chemotherapy started, his health deteriorated rapidly.

Nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and general weakness.

The person who used to stay up all night playing games, eating late-night snacks, and running around everywhere, now gets breathless even after walking a short distance.

He used to love to eat.

Especially beef noodles and fried chicken.

But later, he would frown even at the smell of oil, saying his mouth tasted bitter.

Once, I accompanied him to chemotherapy.

He sat on the hospital bed, watching the IV drip slowly.

Suddenly, he smiled and said to me, "Look, don't I feel like I'm recharging?"

I smiled too.

But after laughing, I turned away and cried.

Because I knew he just didn't want me to be too sad.

He was incredibly resilient.

When his body ached, he said it was okay.

When he vomited until he was too weak, he said he was used to it.

But I could see he was getting more and more tired.

It wasn't the kind of tiredness that could be relieved by a good night's sleep.

It was a complete drain on him, inside and out, from the illness slowly wearing him down.

For a period of time afterward, he stopped chemotherapy on his own.

Not because he gave up.

But because his body simply couldn't take it anymore.

Many people ask why he didn't continue.

But only those who have witnessed the side effects of chemotherapy firsthand know.

Sometimes the treatment itself is another form of torture.

He said he didn't regret it.

He said everyone has their own choices.

Whether it's a big city or a small city, whether to continue treatment or pause, others will always have different opinions.

But his body is his.

The pain is his.

He said, "I don't regret any of the decisions I've made."

At that time, I really wanted to tell him not to be so calm.

I wanted him to cry, to yell, to complain about the unfairness.

But he simply accepted it calmly.

In April 2025, he went back for a checkup.

The report came back, and the doctor said they had found brain metastases.

At that moment, I felt like my whole world had collapsed again.

After he went home, he researched a lot of information. He looked at treatment methods, side effects, and other people's experiences.

As he looked, he suddenly put down his phone and remained silent for a long time.

I asked him what was wrong.

He said, "I just feel like...how did it come to this?"

Those words were soft, yet they weighed heavily on me, making it hard to breathe.

After the brain transplant, he started experiencing dizziness more frequently.

Sometimes he spoke slowly, sometimes he forgot things.

When he noticed this, he would laugh awkwardly and say, "My brain's shut down."

But I knew he must be terrified.

Afraid of slowly losing control.

Afraid that one day he wouldn't even be able to speak properly, wouldn't even remember his family.

In his final days, his lucid moments became shorter and shorter.

He often lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Sometimes I would sit beside him, and he would suddenly say, "Actually, I really don't want to die."

Hearing those words, I almost burst into tears.

Because from the time of his diagnosis until afterward, he had always acted too rationally.

His rationality made us forget that he was simply someone who didn't want to leave this world.

He was only 33.

So many places he hadn't been.

So many things he hadn't done.

He hadn't had a proper relationship where he wasn't afraid of tomorrow.

He hadn't truly experienced life without worrying about medical bills.

He hadn't lived the "simple but comfortable" life he used to talk about.

The day he left was quiet.

There wasn't much struggle.

His breathing gradually became lighter, like he was finally tired enough to rest.

I held his hand, repeatedly telling him, "You've worked so hard."

But deep down, I was screaming, "Don't go."

Stay with us a little longer, please.

But he never opened his eyes again.

My brother, who had been coughing for two months, only to have his illness discovered by accident during a CT scan.

The person who said he didn't regret any of his decisions, still left.

While sorting through his things, I saw a lot of data stored on his phone.

Regarding lung cancer, rare mutations, brain metastases, and treatment side effects.

He read every single article, even saving screenshots of many parts.

That's when I realized.

He wasn't fearless.

He was just trying his best to find a way for himself.

I want to tell everyone:

Don't delay treatment for a persistent cough.

Don't keep assuming it's a lingering symptom, don't think you're immune just because you're young.

If a cough persists for several weeks, or is accompanied by chest pain, shortness of breath, weight loss, or coughing up blood, please get checked out.

Sometimes, a single imaging test can truly change a person's fate.

Don't wait until your body pushes you to the brink to realize it has already sent out signals.

Brother, you said you don't regret it.

But it breaks my heart.

I feel sorry for you, so desperate to live, yet forced to make choices time and again by reality and illness.

If there's a next life, I hope you won't be sick again.

And that you won't have to suffer because medicine is too expensive.

Don't make saying "I don't regret it" sound so heartbreaking.

Just be a normal person.

You'll catch a cold, you'll get better and then go eat.

You'll cough, but just a normal cough.

Then live a long, peaceful life.

Long enough that we've all grown old.

Long enough that you can slowly make up for the days you didn't have time to finish in this life.