When I was 25 years old I received the phone call we all dread. My father was on the other line, “Jen, your mother has cancer”. My world fell a part. I started to scream and cry. Cancer – a death sentence. That is all I could think. How would I survive without my mother? Let me rewind a bit. When I was a junior in college my very good friend came into my room crying. She had just been told that her friend’s mother was in a fatal car crash. It terrified me. If it could happen to her, then it could happen to me. I remember thinking, “If my mom dies I will fall down on the floor and never get up again”. It is kind of funny, because I really did feel like that and after she died I wished and wished I could collapse and never have to be in my right mind again, just go numb.

My mother was a most amazing woman. Brilliant, beautiful, kind, generous, loving, funny and on and on. We spoke almost everyday, often more than once. I would call her for anything from boyfriend advice to find out what the weather was or help with a current paper. My mom saved my ass more times then I can remember. All of those stupid choices we make growing up that blow up in our faces – I would confess my sins and then she would help me through the mess. My mother gave and gave and gave – and for the most part I took and took and took. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her more than anyone else in the world – but I was young – I treated her love, help and guidance as a right. And then she was sick. And she was scared. And she was so fragile. And I grew up. I began to give. I supported her, I validated her, and I listened as she cried. I went to see her all the time and gave her encouragement I tried to make her laugh; I loved her in a new way. She began to call me more and more for support, beseeching of me to come again to stay with her. It was very very scary to have her need me so much. I did not want to believe she was that sick. I did not want to accept that she would die.

When I was 27, one of her doctors called me and let me know that the best I could hope for was another five years. Oh how I cried. At that time I was finishing graduate school in NYC and she and my father had moved to San Francisco. I decide I would move there and be with her as long as she was with me.

Four months later, after many visits and many mistakes on my part, my dad called again. She was on an intobator. He did not know what I should do. I called her best friend since childhood. “Go to her Jen, your mother is dying”. I called my sister and my mother’s mother. We all arrived by the next day.

When I walked in the hospital, I saw my father, my sister, and brother in-law all standing around my mom. As soon as she saw me she began to cry. I ran to her and held her, I wanted to tell her it was OK to cry, I wanted to let her express all of her fears and emotions, but I was scared, I doubted my instincts. So I remained silent. Those final three days were full of anxiety, emptiness and fear. My mother was hooked up to an intobator and she would not talk. She tried to rip it out of her throat. We would not let her, we were clinging to a thread of hope that maybe we could save her. We put our needs first, but only out of love. And we did love her – she was the glue – the essence of our family. Finally we found out that the cancer had spread and no matter what we did she would die. Die – what a hard concept to wrap your mind around. My mother was going to die – today – tonight. I went in to talk with her. To finally tell her all of the things I knew she had been waiting to hear. I told her that I loved her and what a wonderful mother she had been to me, better than most people ever get in their whole lives. I told her I would be fine, that she had taught me well and I knew how to live my life. I let her know that it was OK for her to die that she had my blessing.

While I was talking to her all her vital signs were stable. But as soon as I gave my permission, her heart rate drastically dropped. The nurse rushed to get the rest of my family. We all stood around her bed. My dad at her head, I held one hand and my sister and brother in-law the other, my Meme (her mother) held her feet and she died within a matter of minutes - she was gone. My heart was broken. I cannot even imagine how my Meme could manage to survive it, but she did. She took care of me; she bathed me and held me.

The day my mother died, Princess Di was killed in a car crash. A whole nation mourned her loss. But I was consumed with my own personal grief – I felt I had experienced the more monumental loss. In a matter of seconds I had become motherless.

I have so many images – snap shots of myself during this time. Waves of emotions that I can almost see or touch. The following year is such a blur of pain and loneliness, but eventually I came to the other side. I found love, marriage and now I have two children of my own. I cannot imagine them ever experiencing what I had to, or god forbid myself experiencing what my Meme did. We must find a cure. We must support those who are affected. This is what this email service is all about. This is why I support it.

Jennifer Miller