|
|
|
At the age of 18, I lost my mother, Molly, to cancer. She was diagnosed with cancer during my freshman year of high school. I was 14 years old.
My mother was a beautiful woman, with long, dark hair, and her eyes were a beautiful dark brown. She was a great cook and could bake like no other.
She worked full time as the assistant manager at Lerner’s for as long as I can remember. Of course, that was back in the day when downtown Pueblo was in its prime.
She loved to bowl and participated in a women’s league. I remember spending hours at Bowlero Lanes in the Midtown Shopping Center.
The summer before she was diagnosed with cancer, I had spent the entire summer in Hawaii with my aunt and uncle who live there.
My dad, working two jobs until 1987, and my maternal grandmother were the primary caregivers for my mom.
Watching this horrible disease take its toll on her and everyone else around her was devastating.
Her treatments of chemotherapy and radiation made her so sick, causing her to lose her hair and what little dignity she had left.
She was a strong-willed woman and wanted to survive, but lost her battle to cancer on Nov. 30, 1976.
My mom and her sister Gen married brothers, my dad Ray and my Uncle Arthur (who is married to Gen).
My mom and my aunt were as different as night and day. My mom was opinionated, had a mean streak in her a mile long and loved to socialize — all three traits I seemed to inherit.
My aunt, on the other hand, was quiet, soft spoken and a devout Catholic.
In 1986, my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer. They felt that it was detected early enough and she began her regimen of treatments.
My Aunt Gen and I developed a close relationship, she was everything I always expected from a mother.
We talked on the phone every day, some days more than once.
If I needed a shoulder to cry on or motherly advice, she was the person I turned to.
She was with me during the births of my children, Brandon, Carrie and Hannah.
She stayed in remission until 2006. But then, the disease reared its ugly head again.
She began a regimen of treatments, never once complaining. She always said she felt “real good.”
In November of 2009, all of a sudden, she started to go downhill fast.
On Nov. 5, she called and sang happy birthday to me. She had a beautiful voice.
A week later, on our way to state volleyball in Denver, Lou and I stopped to see her before leaving town.
My cousins and uncle were there with her. She was lying on her bed, she didn’t have her scarf on her head and she was very weak.
I lay down next to her, kissed her and told her I loved her.
When we left, Lou commented to me that things didn’t look good for her. He knew she would never allow anyone to see her without her scarf.
The following week, I received a call from my cousin. My aunt was in the hospital, her doctor was checking her vital organs, he suspected liver failure.
On Friday of that week, another phone call came. Doctors didn’t expect her to live through the day.
I left work immediately and drove to Pueblo, and my uncle, cousins and I spent the entire weekend at her bedside.
Growing up I never witnessed any affection between my aunt and uncle and always wondered if it were more a marriage of convenience.
Seeing my uncle at her bedside, talking softly to her, telling her he loved her and would see her soon, answered my doubts about their relationship.
I left the hospital on Sunday evening so I could return to work on Monday morning.
Early Monday morning, Nov. 26, my cousin called to tell me my aunt had passed away early that morning.
I can’t describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was like my heart was ripped out of my body.
It has been almost a year since I lost my aunt, and not one day has passed that I haven’t missed her, wishing I could talk to her again.
I have shed many tears in the last year and even now as I am writing this.
This dreaded disease has affected so many lives. I know that the research and treatment has come a long way since 1973.
If we all contribute in some way, maybe we can have hope for the future that a cure will be found.
At the age of 18, I lost my mother, Molly, to cancer. She was diagnosed with cancer during my freshman year of high school. I was 14 years old.
My mother was a beautiful woman, with long, dark hair, and her eyes were a beautiful dark brown. She was a great cook and could bake like no other.
She worked full time as the assistant manager at Lerner’s for as long as I can remember. Of course, that was back in the day when downtown Pueblo was in its prime.
She loved to bowl and participated in a women’s league. I remember spending hours at Bowlero Lanes in the Midtown Shopping Center.
The summer before she was diagnosed with cancer, I had spent the entire summer in Hawaii with my aunt and uncle who live there.
My dad, working two jobs until 1987, and my maternal grandmother were the primary caregivers for my mom.
Watching this horrible disease take its toll on her and everyone else around her was devastating.
Her treatments of chemotherapy and radiation made her so sick, causing her to lose her hair and what little dignity she had left.
She was a strong-willed woman and wanted to survive, but lost her battle to cancer on Nov. 30, 1976.
My mom and her sister Gen married brothers, my dad Ray and my Uncle Arthur (who is married to Gen).
My mom and my aunt were as different as night and day. My mom was opinionated, had a mean streak in her a mile long and loved to socialize — all three traits I seemed to inherit.
My aunt, on the other hand, was quiet, soft spoken and a devout Catholic.
In 1986, my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer. They felt that it was detected early enough and she began her regimen of treatments.
My Aunt Gen and I developed a close relationship, she was everything I always expected from a mother.
We talked on the phone every day, some days more than once.
If I needed a shoulder to cry on or motherly advice, she was the person I turned to.
She was with me during the births of my children, Brandon, Carrie and Hannah.
She stayed in remission until 2006. But then, the disease reared its ugly head again.
She began a regimen of treatments, never once complaining. She always said she felt “real good.”
In November of 2009, all of a sudden, she started to go downhill fast.
On Nov. 5, she called and sang happy birthday to me. She had a beautiful voice.
A week later, on our way to state volleyball in Denver, Lou and I stopped to see her before leaving town.
My cousins and uncle were there with her. She was lying on her bed, she didn’t have her scarf on her head and she was very weak.
I lay down next to her, kissed her and told her I loved her.
When we left, Lou commented to me that things didn’t look good for her. He knew she would never allow anyone to see her without her scarf.
The following week, I received a call from my cousin. My aunt was in the hospital, her doctor was checking her vital organs, he suspected liver failure.
On Friday of that week, another phone call came. Doctors didn’t expect her to live through the day.
I left work immediately and drove to Pueblo, and my uncle, cousins and I spent the entire weekend at her bedside.
Growing up I never witnessed any affection between my aunt and uncle and always wondered if it were more a marriage of convenience.
Seeing my uncle at her bedside, talking softly to her, telling her he loved her and would see her soon, answered my doubts about their relationship.
I left the hospital on Sunday evening so I could return to work on Monday morning.
Early Monday morning, Nov. 26, my cousin called to tell me my aunt had passed away early that morning.
I can’t describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was like my heart was ripped out of my body.
It has been almost a year since I lost my aunt, and not one day has passed that I haven’t missed her, wishing I could talk to her again.
I have shed many tears in the last year and even now as I am writing this.
This dreaded disease has affected so many lives. I know that the research and treatment has come a long way since 1973.
If we all contribute in some way, maybe we can have hope for the future that a cure will be found.
