How ironic that November should be chosen to deal with the issue of parental loss. On November 14, 2001, it will be exactly two years since my mother died. Her story is very inspirational, and losing her was extremely devastating. I haven't talked at length about my mother in quite some time.

I don't remember a time when my mother was in very good health. Even before I was born, she'd been diagnosed with some type of cancer in her reproductive organs and had been told she'd require a hysterectomy. Because she was divorced and wasn't sure if she'd remarry and want more children, she'd decided against the hysterectomy. Amazingly enough, just a short time later she was found to be cancer free and she went on to marry my dad and have my sister. Five and a half years later she had me. At the time, she was about to turn 42 years old.

My childhood bears many memories of my mother being sick and in the hospital. It always seemed it was one thing after another. She missed a few of my birthdays because of having to be in the hospital. I never understood why my mom had to be so sick when all the other mothers were so young and healthy. I often heard the moans and groans of pain under her breath when she didn't want anyone to know she was in pain.

When I was 13 years old, my mother started having more and more pain. I will never forget the day that she sat down in her recliner and could not get up. My dad had worked a midnight shift, so he was in bed asleep that afternoon. She begged me not to wake him, but she couldn't move. No matter which direction she tried to move, it caused her pain. I woke my dad and we tried to help her up with no luck. Later that night, my sister and her husband came to help lift her and carry her to bed. When they lifted her, something inside her body popped, and she was in more pain than ever. We ended up calling an ambulance. The on call doctor just gave her valium and sent her home after doing x-rays, but a day or so later we got a call from her regular physician saying she'd need to go back because they'd found something on one of her vertebrae. She was sent to a much larger hospital for better care, where we were told she had a malignant tumor the size of a lemon. She would require surgery, and even that was no guarantee she would make it.

Amazingly, my mother came through that surgery with flying colors. The doctor sent her home on Christmas Eve because he said he couldn't guarantee us another six weeks with her, let alone another Christmas. She laid in a hospital bed in our living room for a few months before returning to the hospital for another surgery and to begin radiation. I grew up very fast at age thirteen, learning to care for my mother and take care of myself when no one else was available to do so. Mama went through radiation every day for a month and amazingly was pronounced cancer free when previously she had been told that her chances for survival over 5 years were very low. My mother went on to live for nine more years.

Fast forward to 1999. I had gotten married, had a son, and was pregnant again. Mama had shown my sister and myself an odd, scabbed over place on the bottom of her right breast. She had a lump there that she'd never allowed anyone to check. It began causing her problems and my sister and I finally talked her into going to the doctor. The day I took her to the doctor's office, I was stunned to hear that he was sending her immediately (that afternoon) to the surgeon for a biopsy. He was almost positive it was cancer. Even before doing the biopsy, the surgeon took one look and told her it was cancer. She found out that both breasts were in need of removal so she was scheduled for a modified radical bilateral mastectomy--they removed both breasts and her lymph nodes under her arms. She came through that surgery with flying colors and was able to go home the very next day. She would begin chemotherapy very soon.

Chemotherapy began in late July of 1999. Mama was to go every three weeks for another treatment. She did well through the first few treatments, and I cried after watching all her hair come out. It never seemed to bother her at all. She bought a wig, but only so she wouldn't frighten other chemotherapy patients by having no hair.

Because I was having a scheduled repeat c-section, I was able to plan the birth of my daughter around my mother's chemo treatment. I would need someone with me 24 hours a day to make sure my son was cared for right after the birth because I couldn't lift him. My parents offered to let us stay at their house for the first couple weeks after my daughter was born. I am eternally grateful for that time that my mother had with my daughter because after that their time together was cut short.

On November 2, 1999, my mom was scheduled for her first round of Taxol, another type of chemo which she had not yet received. As soon as they started the treatment, before they even realized any of the chemo had gotten into her blood, she stopped breathing. They were able to get her back, but had to put her in ICU for a couple days. No one even realized it was a reaction to the chemotherapy. She bounced back and the doctor sent her for a full body scan the following Monday, and scheduled the chemo again for the following Tuesday.

Tuesday, November 9, 1999, did not bring good news. The reaction happened again, except this time her heart also stopped. They shocked her 10 times and finally got her heart and breathing back, but she was brain dead. She had a living will, but because it wasn't on file in her chart at that hospital, they were obligated to do what they could to save her. She remained on life support until Thursday morning when my father finally told them to take her off. We all expected that would be the end, but much to our surprise, she kept breathing for a few more days.

The entire week she was in the hospital, I kept both my kids (aged 23 months and 1 month) with me there. We arrived first thing in the morning and stayed until it was time for bed. I was determined to be there for my mom until the very end. Days went on and I decided that I did not want to be called when she died. If I wasn't there, I wanted someone to actually visit me at my house and tell me in person. It just wasn't something I could handle over the phone.

Finally on Sunday, November 14, 1999, my mother finally gave up and went on to Heaven. We had stood by her bed, singing to her that afternoon, and I had decided to go home with my dad that night since I was too tired to drive home. He had just come down from her room to ask if I was ready to leave, and I wanted to see her one last time in case she died after I left. I walked up to my mom's room and my half sister (on my dad's side) and her husband were in with her. I stood by my mom's left shoulder and held her hand and she started taking her final breaths. An amazing thing happened that night. As she took her last breath, a tear started streaming down her left cheek. I took that as a sign of her eternal love for me. I picked up the nurse call bell and calmly told the nurse that my mother had died. Then I passed out. The shock was just too much. It was finally over.

On the day of her funeral, my husband was to meet me at my father's house and go along and sit with me. Ten minutes before the funeral procession started, my husband told me he wasn't going. I was shocked, crushed, heartbroken. I felt like the whole world had just crashed around me. I begged and pleaded with him to go because I didn't want to be alone. He said it was just too hard for him. He doesn't do well with crowds and sadness. The only thing that kept me from leaving him permanently was my mother's voice in the back of my head. She was an incredibly amazing woman with a very powerful faith in God. She touched the lives of everyone she came in contact with. She would never have wanted me to leave him over something like this. He went to her last birthday party and that was far more important to her than someone attending her funeral and being sad.

I've been through quite a bit over the past two years, and somehow my mother has always been there to pull me through. Even in death, she touches my life in ways that I could never describe. I can hear her gentle voice telling me that things are going to be okay, and I can hear her stern voice telling me to pull it together.

Mourning the loss of my mother has not been easy by any means, but because of her incredible, ever present spirit, I've been able to deal with losing her much easier than I ever thought I could. Even though she's no longer here physically, she will always remain in the hearts of everyone who ever knew her.

Rachele Carlisle