You're amazing.

You're huge.

You grow every day.

You change peoples' lives for the better and for the worse.

You inspire people.

You open eyes.

You've been a part of my life for 15 years.

I was only 5 years old. I was only 5 years old when you crept in, unannounced, unwelcomed, unhindered. I was only 5 years old when I walked into my home and heard my mother cry because of you. I was only 5 years old and I didn't know you and I didn't want to. But now you're everywhere and you're all I know.

It was just another average day. Another average day at school. Another average day in the life of Rachel the kindergartener. Except it turned for the worst. I knew something was wrong when my brother and I sat outside at carpool and no one came to pick us up. When the principal stepped out to the carpool lot with a concerned look and asked my brother and I to come wait inside, I knew something was wrong. We waited. And we waited. We waited to be rescued. And soon enough my grandmother showed up. My grandmother with purple hair and who never ceases to sing, my grandmother who bounces when she walks – looking sad and somber as ever. She hugged my brother and I and said, "Come on chickadees, we're going home." I felt so strange. My brother oblivious as ever. But I knew something was wrong, something felt bad. On the car ride home, my grandmother kept dropping hints that my brother and I have to be on our best behavior and give Mommy more kisses than the stars. After the car ride that felt like forever, we finally got home. As I opened the front door, I could hear it. I could hear my mother crying. No, not crying. Bawling. I sat on the floor, opened up my backpack and took out the 4 drawings I made that day – back in the elementary days I was quite the artist. I ran to my parent's bathroom and froze at the sight. My mother sat in a kitchen chair as my father stood over her, shaving her head. I stood there for a few minutes. Just watching. I was scared. My mother, that had beautiful reddish-brown curls that fell down her shoulders. My mother that loved her hair more than anything. I just stood there, not necessarily waiting to be acknowledged, but searching for an answer. My mother noticed me in the mirror's reflection across from her, turned around, and told me to come to her. She held my hand and said, "Rachel, mami, your mommy is very sick and she needs you to be strong." I remember being so confused. "Sick? Like the cold? Mommy do you have a cold? Mommy its okay we can fight a cold." So typical kindergarten, right? My mother giggled and shook her head. It was bigger than a cold, it was deeper than a cold.

I'm always asked what it is like having a parent with cancer. My answer: Well, what's it like having a parent with glasses? What's it like having a parent that speaks two languages? My mother is still my mother. Quirky and goofy as ever. Cancer is nothing but a six letter word.

I've seen my mother at her worst and I've seen her at her best. My father and family friends alike always share stories of my mother. What she was like, what she talked about, who she was before her sickness. Often I hear that her sickness changed her, took away her laugh and her smile, made her more serious, changed the Nichole they once knew. But to me, she never changed. She was still the goofiest clown, the loudest talker, and the worst (and yet loudest) classic rock and folk song singer. But sometimes, and only sometimes, I catch a glimpse of this other Nichole they speak of. Sometimes I see how tired she is, how weak she is, how irritable the treatments make her and it breaks my heart.

The reinforced "mantra" in and amongst Cancer fighters and survivors is that you are not a victim and you are in control of your sickness, never the other way around. My mother always stayed true to this battle song. She went back to college and acquired a Bachelors degree in Criminology. She made sure every night there was a home-cooked meal and the family sat down for dinner as one. She made sure my brother and I were afforded every opportunity and experience our childhoods enabled us. She took charge of her fitness – wheatgrass shots every morning, gluten-free diets, tennis every other day, and the hardest feats of all: saying no to sweets when need be.

Cancer has taken so much from my mom. Her hair, her strength, her livelihood. Most meals she throws up. She barely sleeps or is totally bedridden. Most nights, sometimes up to weeks at a time, she stays overnight at the hospital hooked up to IVs and treatments. 15 years ago, it started in her uterus. She was young, she had two kids, she was thinking of going back to nursing – she had a life. 15 years ago, cancer crept up and changed everything. From then, cancer traveled from her uterus to her breasts twice, blood, stomach, and to a small tumor in her brain. I've watched my mother lose her voice, lose her hearing, lose function in her joints in her knees and hands making it impossible for her to walk or complete basic functions. I've watched my mother writhe in so much pain she falls to the ground, holding in tears. And every time, I stand there and feel like the same 5-year old I did 15 years ago – scared and confused.

My mother is so undeserving of this. No one deserves this. I truly would never wish cancer on my worst enemy. My mother loves to sing and cook. She loves animals. Her dream job is to manage a geriatrics center. She loves cooking for big family dinners and watching Korean dramas. Helping others is what touches her heart. She's the strongest and most genuine woman I have ever had the pleasure and fortune of knowing. Every day she makes me exceptionally proud to be a woman and more importantly her daughter.

Right now I patiently wait for my mother's test results to come back so she can get the green light from her doctors for a possible bone marrow transplant. I patiently wait because if this green light is given, my brother and I can get our blood tested and see if we're a match. I patiently wait because if my mother is given the green light, and one of us is a match, my mother is essentially given the chance of a lifetime – the chance of a healthier life. There is nothing more I wish than to give my mother back her smile and her health.

I love you forever and always, Mom.