Related story: A collector of lives

By MARK ARSENAULT
Journal Staff Writer

I wrote the essay "A collector of lives" the night my brother Ryan, nine years younger, was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

An essay on cancer had been in my head for three years. I tried to write it when my father was diagnosed two years ago, but my first try came out long, dry and awful, and I gave up.

After Ryan's diagnosis last month, I wrote it from scratch in an hour.

How did I write the story? I don't know, really.

When bad news strikes my family, we immediately make fun of it. When Ryan told me he had testicular cancer, my response (I swear to God!) was this: ``It takes a lot of b---- to admit that.'' Ryan later deadpanned to his doctor: ``Boy, I'd give my right n-- not to have cancer.'' (Which, in surgery the next day, he did.)

Never has cancer been so aggressively laughed at. It sure beats wailing into a towel, which I also tried.

I suppose the essay became my outlet for thoughts too mushy to express orally without jeopardizing our care-free facade of confidence, which my two brothers and I propped up with more rude testicle jokes than a class of junior high boys could invent in a month.

So I wrote the thing for myself at home, unsure if it would ever see publication, or if I'd even offer it. (Who knew it would soon run in that classy spot on the editorial page reserved for such dignitaries as Truman Taylor?)

Anyway, as I think about the writing, with hindsight, here are three things I'm glad I did:

1. Kept it short, short enough so that Ryan's situation could be reserved for a big wallop at the end.

2. Kept the frequency of the words I, me, and my to the absolute minimum -- it's a first-person piece, but it's not about me.

3. Heeded editorial page editor Bob Whitcomb, who suggested one small, very wise edit.

For the record, Ryan's recent CAT scan was very positive. He's headed next to radiation, and I'm collecting glow-in-the-dark jokes, if anybody has one.