She was with me as we heard "it's most likely cancer" from the doctor's mouth.
I was silent.
She was furious. "If you're not 100 percent sure, don't say it's cancer," she snapped back.
She was with me during my first bone marrow biopsy.
I was in tears.
She was compassionate and helped wipe my tears assuring me the worst is over.
She was with me as I reacted viciously to my first chemo with cold and hot chills and extreme nausea.
I was in fear.
She was calm and held my hand and read Psalms 121 aloud to me.
She was with me when my cancer relapsed and I was rushed to the hospital with water in my lungs and stomach.
I was in a panic.
She was collected, did what needed to be done and packed my bags and called the necessary people.
She was with me at my weakest, on an oxygen tank but desperately wanted and needed a shower.
I was helpless.
She was my strength -- literally -- and helped bathe me just as she did 30 years ago.
She was with me as I battled the nausea and fatigue from the chemo.
I was miserable.
She was (or tried her best to be) up-beat and positive, praying with me and encouraging me to eat.
She's my dearest mom.