It isn't unusual for a mother to be her daughter's role model, inspiration and favorite embrace when things go wrong. So, that's how I'll start it out: thank you for being my role model, my inspiration, my favorite embrace when things go wrong. But thank you, more, for always taking care of me. For giving a face and human meaning to the word brave. Maybe it's more of an inhuman strength, because sometimes I don't fully understand how you're able to juggle the balls, the swords, the bottles and the flaming sticks with apparent ease.
For not making these empty statements, but with your fully fleshed and painted traits that nobody but you wears so well.
For never pausing to question, why me? or, what if?, because to you it's fruitless to worry over the uncontrollable. Everything can be carried with a furrowed brow, a set line of the lips, a sense of looming and anger. Or, as you do, it can all be taken in stride: for there really is nothing to do but let life lap at your ankles, roll off your back and wade in deeper.
In October 2004, you told a 6-year-old and a 9-year-old that you were going to lose your hair. Once the words passed from your lips, you broke into laughter. The 6-year-old girl cried; the 9-year-old girl laughed, and she still sometimes wonders if her 20-year-old self would catch nerves, catch falter your chuckle. It doesn't matter, though, because that image of you poking out from behind the pantry, preparing dinner for the family that night a few weeks into your diagnosis of breast cancer and laughing over losing your hair is the resounding image of those blurry six months.
In October 2014, you told a 16-year-old and a 19-year-old that atypical cells were found in your breasts at your most recent mammogram. They were not yet cancerous, but if not watched could become something more serious. You chose to have a double mastectomy come June. This time, there was no need to laugh for your daughters' sake. We hugged you with tears in our eyes and told you how proud we were of your decision.
June 30 arrived, and you left the house with a calm demeanor and warmth in your smile. It was a day that came dreadfully, but a day that ended quickly. The next couple of months weren't the easiest for you, but I think (I hope) we eased that pain. It was the least any of us could do for all the heavy lifting you do in our house. You're also not one to mess with, and I know you recovered so fast because there's no other option for you. What is there to say except that you're a bull?
In a few days, you're finishing reconstructive surgery. The home stretch is ahead, and will manifest in pampering to the umpteenth degree. It's less of a day to be dreaded because the worst is over; the tissue is gone, and with it the worry. It doesn't mean I won't still worry, because I will; but, I'm well aware by now of how little room that anticipation takes up in your mind, and so I will follow suit.
I don't know that I've ever admired you more.
