A Legacy of Love: My Mom’s Story
Some moments mark you for life. One of mine came in May 2006 with a quiet phone call from my aunt in Costa Rica. A doctor had shared my mother’s test results with her—unofficially, gently. I had always been the strong one in our family. But when I heard the news, I wasn’t strong. I was overwhelmed. How would I tell my mother? How would I hold us all together?
Still, I believe God gave me the strength to sit beside her with grace. She looked at me with knowing eyes and said, “My heart’s been telling me… something’s not right.”
Days later, the diagnosis came: vulvar melanoma. Rare. Aggressive. Surgery was the first step.
Before the operation, my mom asked me, “If something happens to me… what will happen to all of you?”
I held her hand tighter and said, “Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m here. And God will show us the way.”
The surgery was successful, and she came home. For a little while, life felt normal again. But in my heart, I knew this wasn’t the end.
By late that year, the cancer had returned—spreading to her liver and lymph nodes. Chemotherapy followed.
The hospital visits were hard. But my mom? She walked into that Oncology ward like she owned it—smiling, calling people by name, lifting spirits with her humor and compassion. She gave life even as hers was slipping away.
They gave her six months—maybe a year. But she kept living, loving, laughing. By 2009, she was stronger. She told stories, welcomed friends, and poured life into simple moments.
She also drew closer to God, taking a course about the Holy Spirit at our church. I still remember the pride in her eyes as she showed me her notes.
In 2010, something changed. A phone call. Her words were jumbled, her thoughts disconnected. I knew something was wrong.
The cancer had reached her brain. Radiation helped—for a while. Her spirit stayed bright, even as her body betrayed her. She made jokes. She teased my dad. Her courage never wavered.
In June 2011, we heard the words no one wants: “Take her to palliative care… and wait.”
But we didn’t just wait. We cherished, honored, and loved.
Every day, I called her, spoke to her, reminded her she was still everything to us. We were planning her birthday celebration for July 25. But on July 21, everything changed.
She called me. Her sentences were short, confused—but she said my name with love.
That afternoon, her health declined. My dad called: “Come… she’s not doing well.”
I ran. But by the time I arrived, I was just in time to witness her final breath.
She was 59.
But in those years, she taught us more about life, grace, and love than some learn in a lifetime.
Even in loss, her story didn’t end. I knew my next role had begun. My dad needed me. My family needed me.
And I carry her with me still—her strength, her laughter, and above all, her love.
