Deb was my mom.
When I was in the sixth grade she started getting terrible headaches. She went to her doctors, fearing the worst. They told her not to worry, it was only a virus going around. As days (and bottles of Advil) went by, things only seemed to be getting worse. One day after staying late at school, I walked up the street. When I got to my driveway, I saw my mom in the passenger seat of the car crying. My dad came running out to the car. They waved goodbye and sped off to the hospital. This was the last time I ever saw my mother the way I like to remember her.
That night they found out it was brain cancer and rushed her into surgery.
Three weeks later my siblings and I were allowed to visit. Our beautiful mother looked completely different. What we saw laying in the hospital bed was a skeleton. My mother's beautiful skin was white and plastered to the bones in her face. She was so weak that she could barely move or speak. She had trouble remembering things and would repeat the same phrases over and over. This was very scary for me and my siblings. Our visit was cut short and we were not allowed to see her again for a few more weeks. After this visit cancer became more than just a scary word; it became our new reality.
Cancer had taken our mother- the funniest, most vivacious, and beautiful woman I have ever met- and transformed her into something nearly lifeless.
When we were told that we would be able to visit our mother again, we were both excited and nervous. She was acting like herself, though she still looked radically different. Since we had seen her last, she had started chemotherapy. Even though we were happy that she was laughing and joking like her normal self, she was unrecognizable. Her long, wavy, black hair, that I always remembered looking purple in the right light, was gone and she had gained weight. The hardest part was seeing how nervous she looked about making us feel uncomfortable or scared. I had never seen my mother look or act self-conscious and still, to this day, that is one of the most painful memories I have of her cancer.
After a summer of only being allowed to visit my mother, we got the hopeful news that she would be coming home. To me, this meant that she was cured.
Being able to see our mother after school was great and made everything seem ‘normal’ again. Our mom loved when we would come talk with her after school. She loved us more than anything and the last thing she wanted was for her sickness to get in the way of our relationship. But her time at home didn't last long.
For the next seven months, my mom bounced back and forth from our home to the hospital. It was our new lifestyle and we were learning to accept it. During these months, my mom worked hard to try and learn to walk again; she would get frustrated but never gave up. Out of the embarrassment she felt about how she looked, my hyper-social mother didn't leave the house except to attend my Bat Mitzvah. I hated how the cancer made her feel about herself. We were always told “everything would be okay” and “they caught the cancer so early”. We were positive she would make it, she would survive. Which is why we were so unprepared the night that my dad sat us down and told us there was nothing more they could do, the cancer had won.
It was passover. We were sitting at the table at my mom's brother's house when I saw my dad leave to take a phone call. Being the oldest (and nosiest) child I followed him to the living room. When he got off the phone he told me it was my mom's nurse. She said mom wasn't doing well and it was possible she wouldn't make it through the night. My siblings and I were given the option to stay with my cousins and rest for the night or go home and be with our mom.
We all spent that night piled in her room. I don’t think anyone slept. I remember feeling a wave of relief every time I heard her take a breath. The next morning she was still with us. She could not talk or move much, but none of us were ready to give up.
The next day was her birthday, April 3rd. We got her a necklace and a bar of dark chocolate (her all time favorite). Although she could barely open her eyes, it was clear she appreciated the gifts. We put the necklace in her hands so she could feel the pendant and we held the chocolate up to her nose so she could smell its bitter-sweetness. We all shared the bar. We spent all day holding her hands and telling her we loved her. The first day or two we begged her not to go. Eventually after realizing her condition and how much fight she had given, we recognized that the pain she was living through was too much. I remember sitting alone with her in the afternoon. It was April 6th. I held her hand and told her that we would be okay, that Dad would take care of us, and that we didn't want her to suffer any more. I told her I loved her and then she whispered “I love you”. It took all the effort she had.That was the last thing she said to me because not long after, in my father's arms, she passed away.
My mother was beautiful in every way. She was the most caring person I have ever known. She loved people. She loved helping people. To this day she inspires me. Which is why I am following in her footsteps and studying counseling psychology and expressive arts therapy. She loved to laugh. She would laugh until she could not breath. Sometimes she even laughed until she peed. She loved to make others laugh too, and didn't mind being goofy at the expense of someone else's smile. She loved to listen, and boy was she incredible at it! Whenever you were in my mom's presence, you felt heard. You felt like what you said mattered, because to her it did. She had a unique way of making everyone feel important and praised.
Less than a year later my dad was diagnosed with cancer. But this time the treatments worked, and today he is healthier than ever. This ride matters to me.
Alongside my family and friends, I ride in the Pan Mass Challenge. We ride to mourn and to remember; we ride to support each other and everyone else affected by cancer.
I started riding to gain control. None of us had control over my mom's cancer. The Pan Mass Challenge gave me a chance to take part in the fight.
Every year the PMC donates 100% of donations to Dana-Farber and the Jimmy Fund for cancer research, and since 1980 the PMC has raised a total of $831 million.
There are still many parents, brothers and sister, sons and daughters who have to say goodbye to their families a lot earlier then they should have to. This is a sad truth of cancer.
For those who have not lost the battle and are still fighting, there is a chance of life. A chance to laugh again. A chance to watch their sons and daughters grow up and a chance to share more laughs and smiles with the world around them. The generous donations made by the friends and families of the riders of this event help give these people a chance.
I hope that this has opened your eyes to the tragic but true reality of the horrors of cancer. I also hope that it has inspired you to help contribute and play a part in eliminating this disease- a disease that takes the lives of over one hundred thousand children every year as well as more then seven and a half million adults . So please, if you donate, do not donate with me in mind. Donate thinking of all of the sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, cousins, grandmas, and grandpas who will not have to say an early goodbye to their families and who can live the life that they deserve.
If you have read through this entire letter, thank you very much.
Please help; please donate.