One day, when I was five, I remember coming home and seeing my mom lying on the living room couch with a terrible headache. At the time, my family and I didn’t think much of it. But a week later, my dad brought her to the hospital, and that’s when everything changed.

At the hospital, we learned my mom had stage 4 brain cancer. She underwent surgery the very next day. It wasn’t until three weeks later that my siblings and I were able to see her again. But when we did, she looked and acted completely different. She couldn’t walk, couldn’t use the left side of her body, and had trouble remembering things.

On our next visit, my mom was smiling and acting more like herself. However, she had started chemotherapy and had lost her long black hair, which was hard for us to get used to. That summer, we spent countless days driving into Boston to visit her at the hospital. Eventually, she was able to come home, which brought us so much happiness and hope.

It was the highlight of both my siblings’ and my mom’s day when we came home from school and sat with her to talk. However, my mom felt self-conscious about how she looked and being in a wheelchair, so she stayed inside for most of what would be her final year. Over the next seven months, she was in and out of the hospital as her cancer worsened. Talking with her at home or visiting her in the hospital became our new routine.

In March of 2007, my dad told my siblings and me that there was nothing more the doctors could do. He said she most likely wouldn’t live past June. Two weeks later, while we were at our cousins’ house for Passover, my dad told us there was a high chance our mom would pass away that night—much sooner than we’d expected.

We rushed home as fast as we could and all piled into her room, where she was lying and breathing lightly. We held her hands, telling her we loved her, that we were going to be okay, and that she didn’t need to fight anymore. She couldn’t move much or speak, but she made it through the night—it was her birthday.

My mom loved dark chocolate, so we held a bar up to her nose so she could smell it, and we all shared a piece together. She fought for three more days, until she passed away on April 6, 2007.

My mom was a beautiful, funny, and outgoing person. I remember her laughter—it was so contagious that even hearing her on the phone cracking up would make me smile. I could’ve listened to her laugh all day. Seeing cancer take away her confidence and personality was devastating.

Less than a year later, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Thankfully, his treatments worked, and I’m lucky enough to be riding alongside him this year.

This ride means so much to me. I ride in memory of my mom, but also for everyone who is fighting or will fight this disease. Cancer makes you feel powerless—especially as a six-year-old who couldn’t fully understand what was happening.

This ride gives me the chance to take back some control, to help others, and to work toward a future where no one has to endure the pain of losing a loved one to cancer.

I’m excited to be an active participant in PMC this year! For the first time, I’ll be riding 162 miles over the course of two days during the first weekend in August to help raise money for cancer research. I’m striving to raise $6,000+ where all proceeds will be donated to the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. I appreciate all support and thank you for considering donating!