He cried when we said this, but we said it just the same.
He grew up the way many youngest children grow up, pampered, adored, and inwardly tortured.
He dreamed of being an actor or a singer; he reenacted TV shows at the dinner table,
playing every part, his bright smile practically jumping through his lips.
I was the good student, he was the bad; I was obedient, he broke the rules;
I stayed away from drugs and alcohol, he tried everything you could ingest.
He moved to Europe not long after high school, preferring the more casual lifestyle he found there.
Yet he remained the family favorite. When he visited home, in his wild and funny presence, I often felt stiff and conservative.
As different as we were, I reasoned that our fates would shoot in opposite directions once we hit adulthood.
I was right in all ways but one. From the day my uncle died, I believed that I would suffer a similar death,
an untimely disease that would take me out. So I worked at a feverish pace, and I braced myself for cancer.
I could feel its breath. I knew it was coming. I waited for it the way a condemned man waits for the executioner.
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