From as far back as I can remember, my mom was a truly special woman. Everyone who met her instantly fell in love with her. Her personality radiated kindness and love, and her smile was unforgettable—so much so that even today, strangers will stop me just to tell me how much they loved her. My parents had been together since they were sixteen, high school sweethearts whose bond was built on love, laughter, and unwavering support.
I have one older brother, and he has a beautiful family with three children, who are the lights of all our lives. Our childhood was full of love and joy; looking back, I realize how fortunate we were. We were spoiled in the best ways, but also taught the value of hard work and how a dollar is earned. My parents made sure we had the fundamentals for a successful life, all while letting us feel like our childhoods were magical and full of adventure.
From a very young age, my mom and I were inseparable. We talked about everything—our hopes, fears, dreams, and silly little things—savoring every moment together. We went on vacations that now feel like treasures in my memory, filled with laughter and experiences I will cherish forever. Even when life took me 3.5 hours away from her, we spoke 3–4 times a day and made it a point to see each other at least a couple of times each month. There is no one who could ever replace her, and her absence has left my heart broken in ways I can’t fully put into words.
I struggle to even begin telling this story. Fifteen years of my mom’s battle with kidney cancer flash through my mind as I remember where it all began.
It was April 2004. My brother and his wife were preparing to welcome their first child, my parents’ first grandchild. I was getting married in six months, and life seemed nearly perfect. But then, my mom began experiencing severe back pain and noticed blood in her urine. A trip to the ER revealed a truth no one expected: a football-sized, cancerous tumor on her right kidney. What everyone thought was kidney stones turned out to be the start of an unimaginable journey.
I lived over three hours away, and as soon as I sensed complications, I drove to Rochester without hesitation. My brother met me just before the hospital to ride together, and it was then he gently told me: it was cancer, and surgery would be the next day to remove the kidney and tumor.
The surgery went beautifully. My mom became the patient every nurse hoped to care for. Her doctors, even during night rounds, would pause to sit beside her bed, discussing the severity of her cancer spreading into her bloodstream. One newlywed doctor she spoke to, worried she was being too brave, she told kindly, “You need to go home to your wife, not stay here with me tonight.”
Recovery was long and grueling. With her abdomen practically cut in half, my dad and I became her primary caregivers—bandages, staples, medications, and constant care consumed our days and nights. Yet she never complained. Her motivation was her granddaughter, Anna, a tiny new joy we brought her to see as soon as she was discharged. Those first moments holding Anna were priceless, and they fueled her determination to heal.
The following three years were a rare period of remission. Life felt close to perfect again. My parents even took a long-awaited friend trip to Jamaica, relishing the company of their best friends from high school.
But the cancer returned, this time in her other kidney. A pioneering surgeon from California was flown in to perform a new procedure, one my mom approached with her usual wisdom. When asked how many of these surgeries he had done, he admitted only eighteen. My mom’s quiet confidence never wavered.
The surgery worked, granting her seven more years of remission. Eventually, however, the cancer returned yet again in her kidney. This time, a partial nephrectomy was performed, with extra doctors on standby should dialysis become necessary. The surgery was long, the waiting room tense with families anticipating news. Finally, the doctor emerged with good news: the kidney had been saved. Our small corner of the room erupted with tears, hugs, and joy.
Her recovery this time was far tougher than the first. Tubes, staples, and pain became constant companions. I stayed with her around the clock, reading her expressions and understanding her needs before she spoke them. She faced complications and hospital readmissions, but my dad and I cared for her with unwavering dedication.
Two years later, the cancer spread beyond her remaining kidney, reaching her brain, bones, and lungs. Even in the face of grim prognoses, she refused to be a number. Doctors gave her three to seven months, but my mom refused to dwell on timelines. Radiation and experimental treatments became her tools, and she fought with ferocious determination. Against all odds, she lived for another three years and two months.
The final two weeks, hospice assisted, but ultimately my dad and I cared for her full-time. My brother remained our anchor, researching treatments, side effects, and options to keep us informed and steady. My mom’s doctors loved her; she was their favorite patient, not for her medical compliance, but for her spirit, bravery, and relentless will to live.
On April 15, 2019, she passed away at the age of 63. The emptiness she left is indescribable. She was my best friend, my confidante, my guide. Our bond was unlike any other, and losing her feels like losing a part of myself.
One of the happiest memories I will forever cherish is the day I made a dream come true for her 60th birthday. We had always imagined going to the beach and enjoying a cabana day. Though she was in a wheelchair and couldn’t feel the sand beneath her toes, the day was perfect—the sun, the cabana boy, and laughter filling the air. That day, her smile shone as brightly as ever, a memory I will hold close for the rest of my life.
