One day he came home and told his mother, "Mom, my tongue hurts." He showed her a red sore the size of a half-dollar on his tongue, with a hard white core. "We’d better get you to the doctor," she replied. At the hospital the doctor performed some tests. A few days later, Sean was lounging around the house watching TV, when the phone rang. He heard his mother answer in her bedroom, like she always did. A few minutes later, he heard his mother’s muffled sobs through her closed door. He went into her room, and softly put his hand on her shoulder. "What’s wrong, Mom?" "Son, you have cancer in your tongue," she sobbed. They went back to the hospital, where Sean was shocked to learn he had to have most of his tongue cut out. He would never be able to talk again. He was 18 years old.

"Can I still run in the track meet on Friday?" he asked the doctor. The doctor said okay. After, Sean went in for the operation to remove most of his tongue. But the cancer did not go away. In fact, it spread to his jaw and neck muscles. Two more operations would follow. Sean had to have half of his jaw removed, along with part of his nose, and many neck muscles on one side.

At age 19, Sean lay in bed, sad and in pain. His best friend, who had been told Sean didn’t have much longer to live, came down from Chicago to see him for the last time. On first seeing Sean, he fought back tears, thinking of the great times he’d never get to have with his childhood friend. The next day, as they visited, he said, "Sean, what if we took a photo of you like this?" But Sean shook his head, glaring, and wrote down emphatically, "No, not like this!" He was overcome with shame and embarrassment at the idea. But his friend persisted, "What if many teens could see the photo, and learn the truth about what chewing tobacco really does?" Sean reflected on this for a while. Finally he allowed this picture to be taken, with his track medals pinned to his chest. It’s his gift to you.

His friend got another idea. "Sean, what if, by some miracle, you could get a message to other teens? Do you have any words you’d like them to hear?" And Sean nodded — because without his tongue he could not talk — and he gestured for pen and paper. His hands trembled and his eyes welled as he began to write, perhaps in part from the pain he was in. He struggled to write these words, as his message to you: "Don’t dip snuff."

And not too long after that, Sean died — sad, disfigured, and in unspeakable pain.

The story of Sean Marsee is available in greater detail through any local branch of the American Cancer Society. Ask for their free reprint of the Readers Digest article about him, and also their brochure on chewing tobacco.  …