Brad

Each Spring, I participate in The American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life in memory of my dad, Brad Wilson.

There are many reasons why I decided to start participating in Relay for Life, but they all come back to my dad. He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was only two years old and although he made a miraculous recovery, I spent my childhood watching his health decline due to the after effects of his cancer. The twenty long years he lived after his diagnosis were filled with pain, illness, and his overwhelming fight to live for his family. Even near the end of his life, when he was in the hospital going through procedure after procedure, he still put his family first and cared only about our happiness.

My dad was always there for me, no matter how sick he was. He never missed a soccer game, or an awards ceremony. He was there when I started high school, when he sent me off to college, and again when I graduated. He was there when I was sick, or scared, or so happy that I had to share it with someone. And for all of those memories I am so, so thankful. But he was not there when I started my first teaching job; he was not there for my wedding; he has not been here to see the woman I have grown up to be, and that is why I participate in Relay for Life.

I Relay because so often when our loved ones are fighting this illness, we feel helpless and out of control. We watch them fight, and feel as if we can do nothing to help them. Relay gives me a chance to give back to my dad, who fought so hard and gave me so much in my life. It gives me an outlet for all my grief and sadness, and a place to put all of my hope for the future. I learned from my dad that anything is possible. That even when the doctors say you have no chance, you can live to watch your children grow up, you can teach them about the kind of strength that makes someone a hero. My dad was the most amazing person I have ever known, and every part of me has been shaped by his courageous fight against this heartbreaking disease.

Help me make a difference.

http://main.acsevents.org/goto/karriewhitsel

Submitted by RunnerGirl

Opal

My mom: Opal H. Boyte 10.06.1918 to 11.21.94

My mom was never sick a day in her life until cancer arrived. She was the one always taking care of everyone else, always making sure everyone else was happy and healthy.

My mother had eleven cysts removed from her breasts over the years, all benign. As cyst number twelve surfaced there wasn't much alarm. The decision was to "watch it", as all the previous ones were benign. My mom was very religious about getting her mammograms due to her past. Three mammograms and three years later the cyst was "watched" right into cancer!

In 1984 my mom had a mastectomy. It was a difficult time to say the least. I was living in Alaska at the time and my parents were in California. My oldest son was two years old. My mother insisted it wasn't a big deal, women experienced this all the time. My dad however, was another story. I could hear the sheer fear in this voice, my reply was "I'll fly right down!" I remember wating in the recovery room for her return from surgery. My dad, normally the most talkative one in a crowd, had very little to say. All I remember him saying is "I can't lose her!" Tears came easily...

Now 1991, seven years later, the wonderful news comes. The words we all waited to hear, "Opal, you're now cancer free!"

The next two years my mother experienced various health problems. The main issue was she just really didn't feel well. Further testing established the cancer was back, now in her bones. She refused to allow herself to be debilitated by this horrid disease. She wanted, and kept a normal schedule for much of the time. Through agonizing pain with defiant determination my mother fought to the end.

Now 1994, I'm living six hours away from my parents. I drove down for the weekend, my mother was back in the hospital again. I had to work the following Monday, I also knew when I walked out of the hospital that day, I would not see my mother again. Sure enough, the call came at 3:00am Monday morning from my dad, "honey we lost her."

The next four years I spent many hours and weekends on the road traveling to be with my dad. After fifty years of marriage he was like a lost puppy. No matter what I did or said I couldn't cheer my father up. My dad simply did not want to live without my mother! I was sitting next to my dad in the hospital when he drew his last breath...they were finally together again.

Cancer is such a nasty disease with no regard for age or gender. It destroys more than the life of the victim, it destroys hopes and dreams. Cancer cuts a wide swath in the lives of family and friends. I would encourage all to get involved in some way to fight this terrible thing. The odds are high that you or someone you know in your life time will be affected by cancer. Let's do something today!

Thank you for allowing me to be a part of write2fight, for the opportunity to boost awareness.

Sincerely, Patty A. Boyte

Submitted by PattyB

Donna

My Mom, Donna Lee Wrigley, died from Lung Cancer on Sept 4, 2007 at the age of 59. This is a reprint of the Eulogy I gave at my Mom’s funeral.

We’re here to celebrate the life of my Mom, Donna Wrigley. My Mom was born in 1948.

My relationship with her started when I was born in 1971.

I’ve been told my sister and I were pretty good kids, and there’s a reason. My Mom was strict. There were no “time-outs” in our house. Punishment for the Wrigley kids came in the form of the wooden spoon on a bare bottom. Most of the time Mom only had to bring the spoon out and place it down in front of us to get us to straighten up and quiet down. I think everyone here knows that I’m a runner, but I bet most of you don’t know that I started running because of that wooden spoon. When I was just a little boy, I figured out that when Mom started going around the apartment and closing the windows – I was about it get it – and I would take off running as fast as I could. The reason she had to close the windows was because as I ran through the house I would yell as loud as I could “Help! My Mom is trying to kill me!!!” I’m sure she didn’t find it too amusing at the time, but years later she would laugh out loud while telling that story.

Though she was strict, she also loved to have fun. In the early 80’s, Mom bought a condo in the San Fernando Valley . For the next decade, our weekends were spent out by the pool or at the beach. We would often spend all day by the pool – starting as early as 8 in the morning and staying out there well past sundown.

Mom worked two jobs for many of those years to help make ends meet. She was a legal secretary during the day and a waitress at night. I remember we used to save aluminum cans and about once a month we would recycle the cans and use the money for a movie, or lunch, or if Mom chipped in a little extra, we’d go to an amusement park.

Mom was energetic. When she took us somewhere like Disneyland , she was not the kind of Mom who dropped us off at the front gate and told us to meet her back later for lunch. No, we had to run to keep up with her going from ride to ride. In fact, I didn’t even know Disneyland had attractions like “the Tiki Room” or “the People Mover” until I was an adult. Those were just not fast paced enough for my Mom. I can remember getting off a rollercoaster just 5 minutes before midnight, when the park was about to close. My sister and I would be dragging our feet, but Mom would rally us to get in one more ride before the park closed. So we’d file in behind Mom running across Disneyland , dodging around people trying to get to their cars, so we could get in one more ride.

OCD seems to be a family trait. There’s a running joke amongst my friends that if you lift up a lamp in my house, there will be an outline underneath it with the word LAMP indicating exactly where it belongs. But I still have a long way to go before I can really consider myself organized the way my Mom was organized. Just to give you an example, my Mom kept her office supplies in the top drawer of her desk. Her paperclips were sorted in a small compartmentalized organizer by size. Now, that’s really not that odd. It’s something I would do. But my Mom took it a step further and arranged each paperclip so they were all facing exactly the same direction. Even as kids, I remember our house was always organized and clean. Recently, after the cancer had spread to her brain, she lost some of her motor skills and balance for a few weeks until the radiation treatment started to work. I knew right away when she was feeling better because she was able to start cleaning the house again which really made her so happy.

Mom was also loving, and caring, and generous and when you take all of her traits and qualities, and someone with that level of organization you get someone like Donna who started Christmas shopping in August and had everything wrapped and ready by Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, my Mom was also a smoker for all of her adult life. Late in 2006 she was diagnosed with stage-4 lung cancer that had already spread throughout her liver.

My Mother’s illness and recent death have been hard on a lot of people, but one thing in particular has been very difficult for me. I was very lucky to grow up with the love and support of all of my Grandparents – My Dad’s parents didn’t pass away until I was 19 years old, and my Mom’s father is sitting here with us today. When my niece Melissa was born 11 years ago, we had five living generations of Women in our maternal lineage. But since then, my Great Grandmother, Grandmother, and now my Mom have all passed away leaving us with only two generations. It breaks my heart to think about my kids growing up without my Mom around. More than anything, she really loved her grandkids.

When my Son was born, my Mom used to call him Grandma’s buddy, which over the years, somehow got turned around and became the name that he called my Mom.

Shortly after my Mom passed away, I told my son that Grandma’s buddy had died from cancer. I didn’t really know what to expect as a reaction from a 4yr old but I felt like he had the right to know. The first thing he did was ask me, “Dad, can’t she just go and get her body fixed?” He knew she was sick and frequently visiting doctors to try to fix her cancer. I had to explain that once someone is dead, their body can’t be fixed. Then I emphasized how important it is that we remember her. He was carrying around one of those big exercise balls at the time, and I could see his eyes tear up and his face sadden as he leaned over and gave the ball a big hug. So I called him over to sit with me so I could give him a hug and try to hide my own tears. Then I asked him to tell me something he remembered about Grandma’s buddy. Immediately his face lit up, he smiled, and he said loudly – COOKIES! I hope we can learn a lesson from my 4 year old and whenever we’re feeling sad about the loss of my Mom or anything else sad in life, we can try to think of a good memory and maybe it will bring a smile to our face too.

It’s now Spring, 2008 - about 6 months since my Mom passed away. My son just recently had his 5^th birthday party, and the night before the party he started crying and told me that his birthday wish was to have Grandma’s buddy at his party. It makes me cry just writing it down.

Donna’s memorial website: http://www.thewrigleys.net/memorial/

Submitted by The Wrigleys

Anna

My mother was born in a very small town in northern Greece in 1943. Well, we think it was 1943, but since my grandmother didn't read or write and since the church that housed all the town records burned down in the 1950's, it really could have been earlier. Or later. The recollection of the event was that the snow was beginning to melt and spring was approaching, so they settled on March 20th as her birthday. 1943.

She lived in Greece until her early teens. Around this time, my grandfather, a mason by trade, had heard stories of the opportunities in America and after much soul-searching, the family of six set sail. They came across Ellis Island and ended up in Ft. Wayne, Indiana in the middle 1950's. Other family had come across sooner, and my grandfather found work immediately building houses.

None of the family spoke any English, but since my mother and her youngest brother were still school aged, they were enrolled in the local elementary. My mother excelled. She loved school, she loved the social aspect, and soon - she was as fluent in English as she was her native tongue. Well, except when she recited her multiplication tables, that is.

She was the first (and only) in her immediate family to go to college. She attended Ball State, where she met my father, and right after graduation, they were married and my father whisked my mother off to Del Rio, Texas, his first station as an Air Force Officer.

She never complained. No matter where they went. She loved the travel. She loved the new experiences, and she always made where ever they were stationed - home.

She was beautiful, she was silly, she made friends easily and people were instantly at ease in her presence.

My sisters and I were born in succession. Me in 1969, Teresa in 1971 and Crista in 1972. She loved having girls and we loved having her as our mother. Sure, she could be a pain - what mother isn't now and then (myself included), but she was always there for us. There are countless stories, but suffice to say, each one of us was absolutely certain that we were her favorite. And that, in my estimation, is the mark of a good mother.

We were close when I was growing up and even more so as I became a mother myself.We shared everything, good and bad, and I could always count on her completely biased (in my favor) support. She loved me, of that I never doubted. Although I pushed her. And I made her mad sometimes. And I even told her once that based on our blood types, she could never have been my mother.

A time came when I was working quite a bit, traveling frequently for work, and the only interaction we would have were our daily telephone conversations. After these calls, I was often left with a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew, deep down. In my heart of hearts, I knew, there were too many signs for me to ignore it any longer and in a panic one morning, I phoned my father at work and told him to go home and take my mother to the hospital. Right then. Not after work, not later. Now, immediately.

Something in my tone must have made him realize that I was serious and he did just what I asked and within a day, my mother was x-rayed, CT scanned and in surgery. The cancer, glioblastoma, was in her left frontal lobe - the part of the brain that controls speech. And short term memory. And emotion. Everything I'd been noticing but couldn't seem to put words to.

The doctor came out of the surgical unit and started talking about stages, she was stage 4. He talked about the surgery, words like lobectomy and radiation and chemotherapy. He talked about life expectancy, eighteen months, maybe two years.

And in that instant - life changed. Forever.

I'd like to say that I was the perfect daughter after the diagnosis. That I was there, by her side, the entire eighteen months, giving her support, giving her love, but I wasn't. I was afraid, I avoided seeing her. And as I look back, I can't imagine how it must have hurt her. Even today, I can barely say the words without welling up. But she never said anything, never tried to make me feel guilty, she just loved me. Unconditionally.

The few weeks before she died, again, I knew. I'd get up in the morning, drop my children at school and drive the 45 minute drive to my parents house, where I'd stay until it was time to pick my children up. I spent those last few weeks with her. I watched her, I bathed her, I medicated her. I held her hand and I talked to her. I gave her every ounce of love I had in my heart while she drifted in and out - talking aloud to angels while she dreamt.

The night of her death, I knew that I needed to stay. Something in my heart told me I needed to be with her, so after Thanksgiving dinner, my family went home and my father and I remained with my mother. We held her as she took her last few breaths. We told her it was ok, she could rest, we told her to go be with the angels because we would take care of everything, and slowly, slowly - she let go.

When I look back at those moments, I realize how much that eighteen months changed me. Before the diagnosis, that word - cancer - wasn't even in my vocabulary, but in an instant - I came to know its full meaning. Intimately.

And ultimately, I was left with, what now? I just couldn't not believe that she would be taken that way without there being some sort of purpose. The God that I believe in would not allow it, of that I was certain.

That year, I ran the New York Marathon and raised $6000 for Memorial Sloan Kettering's Cancer Center in honor of my mother and in honor of Fred Lebow, the founder of the NY Marathon who also fought courageously against glioblastoma.

In following years, I offered advice, my knowledge of the disease and an oft used shoulder to friends whose parents or loved ones were diagnosed with glioblastoma.

I cared for my sisters, my father, I took over the holidays and played matriarch to my family.

I met my running partner, Mrs. Cashman, and we realized on our very first run that our mothers had died within days of each other, a few years apart, of the very same cancer. Rare cancer, small world.

I took up triathlon because as I watched my mother's cancer progress, I realized how physically weak she was and I vowed that should that be my fate, I was not going down without one hell of a fight.

I started to blog and the stories of my mother and Papa, and those I love who have battled cancer came pouring out into a medium where I received instant feedback, and virtual love from around the globe.

I did therapy. Lots of therapy, where I finally came to realize that I am strong and that it is ok to be sad... as long as there is purpose.

Today, write2fight.com gives me a new purpose. It gives us a purpose. It allows us to call attention to the stories of those we love, or those of us that are personally afflicted with cancer. All types of cancer. Any type of cancer. Take your pick, there are many.

We have the opportunity, the privilege of spreading the word - we tell our stories, we raise awareness of the charities and organizations that are fighting this monster, we donate and raise money to help in that fight, and we make a difference.

Did you hear that? We make a difference. YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE. It's our purpose, those that are left and those that fighting. It's the least we can do.

Go make a difference.
American Brain Tumor Association



Submitted by Momo