Happy Birthday Mom

1969.




1983.




1997.


Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you very much.

Did I ever tell you about the most happiest day of my life? It was the day of your CT scan in the spring of 1999. It had been several months after the chemo and radiation therapy sessions were completed, and you had gone to the hospital that morning to see the oncologist. The CT scan was going to evaluate the tumor, to see if the chemo and radiation worked, to see if you were in remission.

I had just gotten home from medschool and was just starting to pet the dog (who had bounded out of the house to greet me) when you pulled into the driveway. I saw through the minivan's windshield that you looked happy, nervous, and tired. I felt the same way. I couldn't tell from your face what the CT scan results showed.

As you got out of the minivan, I asked you about the CT scan . You replied that the oncologist seemed happy, but you didn't really understand what he had said, and wasn't sure what had happened. And besides, you said you wanted to hear it from me.

So you gave me the print-out of the CT scan results. You stood there quietly as I read the report. You looked very tired, nervous, vulnerable. Yet, happy and proud of your son. I could feel that coming from you, and it helped to calm me because I was scared of what I was about to read.

I couldn't read fast enough. My God, I was so frustrated, couldn't I read any faster?! I remember seeing phrases like "evidence of fibrotic changes in the mass...," "decrease in mass size and volume...," "no new lesions..." I tried to re-read the results, to confirm what I had just read, but I could no longer read through the tears flowing from my eyes.

You looked at me with a timid smile, wondering why I was crying. But I was so happy all I could do was cry and my mouth failed to make any words. I hugged you tight and held onto you for all my might, finally being able to blurt out that the chemo and radiation had worked, and that the tumor was shrinking, and that we had a chance of curing your cancer. I wasn't going to lose you.

I remember how hard you hugged me back, and the two of us stood there in the driveway, under the spring sun, our tears of joy augmenting our sobs of relief.

I've never felt so much hope.
I've never felt such happiness.
I've never felt so overwhelmed with love.

Happy Birthday, Mom.
I love you.

1.9.50 - 8.26.00