By Tony Ramstetter

        Tony Ramstetter, 41, lives in Union and runs an audio visual firm with his brother, Terry. He and his wife, Lynn, have four children.

        As I approached the third hole on Sunday morning this summer, my wife, Lynn, called my cell. She hardly ever calls when I'm golfing. Before I got out “hello” she blurted, "Beth called — Todd has a brain tumor. I didn't mean to bother you, but I knew you would want to know.”

        She was right, I would always want to know if a loved one was in trouble, but I knew the real reason was she was alone at home with the kids and needed me there to somehow begin to face the unreal.

        Beth is Lynn's younger sister. She's been in the Air Force for almost 20 years and is extremely successful and quite independent. But now she was calling with the most terrifying news of her life. Surely her big sister could offer some comfort, some encouragement.

        Beth is a nurse and has been around hundreds of seriously ill people facing terrible diseases and injuries; she exudes highly trained competence and more importantly, genuine compassion. Her 20 years of training has taught her to isolate the problem, attack it and eventually eliminate it. She has all this knowledge and experience, all these facts and statistics.<

This "thing'

        But her husband is not a statistic. He is part of her — the dry-witted, motorcycle-riding and impetuous balance to her structured life. Todd is as laid-back as Beth is intense. And were it not for a trip to the hospital for an unrelated hearing ailment that cropped up during vacation, Todd could still be walking around, unaware of this “thing.”

        We all call it this “thing” because even some of the best medical minds in the country are somewhat uncertain of what it is. I have learned that they cautiously like to determine what the “thing” is by ruling out what it is not.

        This uncertainty more than anything has rocked Beth's logical world. This larger-than-life problem has left her feeling helpless and scared.

        After weeks of tests and the curious process of elimination that the medical experts used, their best determination was that they are fairly certain that it (this thing) is some form of cancer. But it is inactive and ultra slow growing. It may have been there for years, since birth even. It may never do anything — it may stay the “thing” that was discovered by accident. It may do something, but what that something is, of course is completely uncertain, but hopefully not where Todd's cruel imagination has led him since its discovery.

        So now there is Todd, one part intellectual — interested in architecture, music and nature — and the fun-loving, regular guy who shares my passion for sports and micro-brewed beer. From the first time we met, I enjoyed being around Todd; we almost immediately formed that small fraternity of being married to very opinionated sisters. We eventually fed off each other for the mostly good-natured jokes we would direct at the wives.

Life more precious

        Now my friend Todd must live with the “thing.” He will have it checked every so often, hold his breath and hope nothing happens. I wrote Todd recently and told him this would affect the way I dealt with him. Almost apologetically, I told him I would listen to him more attentively, that I would value our infrequent times together more, but most important, I will let him know how much he means to me.

        Then a week or so later, I'm lying in bed, waiting to fall asleep and the thought occurs to me — almost involuntary I said it out loud — “Lynn, we should treat everybody we care about like they have a tumor.”

        She agreed, and then I said, less inspired, “But we don't.”

        “I know.” Lynn murmured, as we lay awake contemplating the lesson from the “thing.”

        It's a daily struggle to remember this lesson, and although it may never have the effect I would want, I know it has changed my life, at least once a day. Like recently, when driving with my 6-year-old girl, I caught a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror lip-syncing, with such dramatic emotion, to a ballad on a CD. As beautiful and precious as that moment was, something made it more so. Things that in the past would have been merely incidental touch you.

        So, to Todd and Beth, the rest of my in-laws, my good friends, Mom, my bothers and sisters, the miracles that are my four children, and my beautifully complicated wife, I love you. I will try to live the lesson the “thing” has taught me.

        Share recent moments in your life by mail: In My Life, c/o The Cincinnati Enquirer; fax: 768-8330; e-mail: nberlier@enquirer.com.

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