A special Mother's Day salute

Mother's Day. That one day a year when we tell female strangers to have a nice mother's day and take our mothers and grandmothers out for a meal of appreciation -- a brunch, more often than not. Mom, you're the greatest. Here, have an omelet.

In her later years, when my mother was trying to overcome the challenges of Parkinson's disease, she had a taste for a Waffle House waffle, during one of my visits to St. Louis. I managed to park close to the restaurant door and Mom maneuvered her walker without too much difficulty. Parkinson's isn't always cooperative, but on that day, she was motoring pretty well. We settled into a booth for small talk and hot waffles. It wasn't Mother's Day. It was just a Waffle House Day and she was thrilled.

I said in one of my earliest blogs that while I miss her every day, I'm glad my mother wasn't around to get the "guess what, Mom, I have cancer" phone call. She was a worrier. Always afraid something would happen to me. And not exactly subtle in expressing it to me when I was a kid. "Mom, can I ride my bike to the park with the girls?" "Oh, no, you'll get killed."

I was the only kid I knew who turned down an offer with the response, "Sorry. Can't go. Mom says I'll die."

She never knew that I was a worrier too. And that when my mom and dad were out for the evening, I couldn't get to sleep until they were safely home. I'd sit up in bed and look out the window every time I heard a car, hoping it was theirs. Once they pulled in the driveway, I flopped down on my pillow and pretended to be asleep when they looked in on me.

I was one of the lucky ones who still had my parents well into my adulthood. It was all that worrying that kept them safe. For I was sure that the minute I let my guard down and relaxed too much, that some evil would befall them and I would be left an orphan. Never underestimate the power of worrying.

I met a worrying mother last week while we were sitting together in the radiology waiting room. Her daughter had the same surgeon, the same report -- clean margins and no lymph node involvement -- as me. Her tumor was smaller, so she didn't have to have chemo. And this was her first dose of radiation. I assured her mother she would be fine. And her mother proceeded to tell me that she was at her Florida home, having lunch with her golfing buddies, when her daughter called and told her she had breast cancer. Naturally, she was distraught. Then her luncheon mates told her something she hadn't known: "I'm a 15-year breast cancer survivor;" "I'm a 10-year breast cancer survivor." From their conversation, she tallied that 40% of the group had had breast cancer. Shocking number, but comforting to her as she concentrated on the word "survivor".

And now here I am with four weeks of radiation marked off on my calendar. By May 24, I'll be done with my treatment. You know who'd I like to call and tell her how well it has all gone and that I'm doing just fine? My mom.

To all the mothers out there who have had to tell their children that they have breast cancer, you are my heroes. To all the daughters who have had to make that call to tell their mothers they have breast cancer, you are my heroes. To all the breast cancer survivors, I'm proud to stand among you.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Still here in my heart.