My mother was stolen from this Earth too soon by a brain tumor the size of a small golf ball that had been living inside for nearly 10 years before it was noticed. It was discovered the day I learned I was pregnant with my fourth child. I had three sons and longed for a girl, but was told I would never have more children. Clearly, the powers that be had never met my mother. We had known for some time that things were not okay with mom. We often joked with her that she had the worst memory on the planet, but in the days preceding her diagnosis it got worse still. So bad, in fact, that she had to call me from the road to get directions to my house for my son’s preschool graduation. A trip she had made hundreds if not thousands or tens of thousands of times before. I panicked when she called, got her to the house and convinced her that a trip to the hospital was in order. She refused for three more days. In those three days, I became nauseous, overly exhausted and craved cheeseburgers – weird! It was Father’s Day when it became clear we could no longer ignore what was likely going on with me. I took a quick pregnancy test and learned that I was, indeed, expecting. My first call, naturally, was to my mother who whooped and hollered with joy and then became someone else entirely as she rapidly fell victim to the encroaching tumor; forgetting who she was talking to, why she was talking and where she was. Fast forward to the ER. My father, sister and I are surrounded by doctors. Mom has had every test imaginable and some young intern is shooting hoops with a nerf basketball. I still hate those things! Minutes later, that same young intern came in to tell us what we most feared – there was a tumor and it was growing. So was the fetus in my belly. The next nine months were the most trying in all of my life, but the most beautiful too. My three sons; aged 7, 6 and 1 at the time were a great part of this journey. But overall, it is the love story between what was clearly going to be my youngest child and only daughter and my mother. It is time for this story to be told…

It’s June 21 – three days have passed since we discovered that mom is so very ill. We were meant to leave on a family vacation to the Cape on the 19th, but I couldn’t imagine walking out when it seemed the entire medical community was walking in. Instead, I sent me three young sons and my husband for a week away with my husband’s folks and I stayed behind and waited. Mom’s surgery was initially scheduled for today to determine the extent of what was growing in her brain and the malignancy of said growth. All I could imagine was the growth in my belly turning into a human being without my mother nearby. It was overwhelming. The surgery was postponed due to mom’s very wrong vitals – yes, she was a nervous wreck, but her blood pressure was beyond being stabilized enough for surgery. Two days later, the morning of Friday, June 23, 2000 dawned bright and sunny. It was my niece and my SIL’s birthday, my family was having a ball on vacation and all seemed right with the world except that I was waking up in a hospital room full of people waiting to cut open my mother’s brain. How is it possible that less than a week ago we were whooping with joy over my newly diagnosed pregnancy and now we are awaiting what comes next in what I have come to feel is a life and death saga on many levels. My dad, sister and I said our goodbyes to mom – she informed me in no uncertain terms that all would be fine as she would meet my baby – and headed to the family waiting room. The room is brightly lit and there is a TV howling in the corner. We are not the only ones left to wait in this space, but we don’t truly notice the other travelers. We pull out the cribbage board – a sure fire way to pass the time – and we play, and we play and we play some more until at last the surgeon turns up in the door. The world goes to slow motion. I can hear his heartbeat, see him take a deep breath in and blow it out, I notice he is good looking and nervous. He steps in. “The Hills Family?” he calls. We step forward and brace ourselves against each other and the door; finally sitting down sensing that what we are about to hear will alter our lives forever. This is what I heard, “glioblastoma, stage 4, six months, I’m so sorry.” I am sure there were other words spoken, but I didn’t hear any of them. All I heard was the air rushing out of my lungs as I attempted to find footing in this new reality. My mother was dying, and the fetus inside me -whom I believed would be my daughter -was the size of a pea and growing. How in Heaven’s name, am I supposed to learn to live with these facts and survive whatever comes next. Life and death are kissing cousins, but I never wanted to be the conduit for their passage. The journey is just beginning.