To The Strongest Woman I Have Ever Known.

It has been four years since you left. Onward and upward as they say, though I think that saying is meant to have different meaning. I hope you know that I have not gone a single day without thinking about you. I began writing this letter in the first year after you passed, and I have added to it a few times since. I suppose it is a way to process it all.

I still don't know which was worse: to watch you grow sicker by the day, or to be forced to go on without you.

The words 'brain tumour' were never even a dot on my radar, but since the doctor said them, they have echoed through every day since, daring us to even try to forget.

But you never faltered when you were dealt that hand. Your tenacity was unmatched. Some days it were much harder than others though. The brain after all is a fickle thing, and you had no control over what obstacles it would throw at you from one day to the next.

I watched it try to kill your spirit. When you started losing your hair from the radiation, you said, "Screw it. Let’s shave it off." For you it was cathartic, and for me it was heartbreaking. I wanted to collapse into a heap right there, but how could I? You were standing tall and strong in the face of tragedy, and I was fighting back tears over lost hair?

Then, if it wasn't jumbling your words, it was taking your physical strength. You slowly lost the ability to walk, and when you could barely make it up three steps without help, you just shrugged it off. I, however, cried myself to sleep. Maybe you did too; In the solitude of your bedroom where you could react freely, without having to be strong for everyone else, maybe you cried too. Not a single person would have seen that as weak.

When you weren’t looking (and sometimes when you were), I stole every second I could to study your face, your hands and your mannerisms. I watched the rise and fall of your chest, and the way your eyes observed the world from your new and challenging perspective. I need you to know that I cherished every single second- even when they were difficult.

Some days I was so exhausted that my bones hurt, but I never let myself show it because how could I when you were the one living with a terminal illness? I didn’t take a single thing for granted Mom, I promise you. I knew any one of those moments could be our last, and I treasured each and every one.

I often thought about how that final moment would play out. Would it be sudden and without warning? Would it be peaceful like falling asleep? It scared me. For both of us. Would I be able to handle it? Would it happen when I was by your side like you wanted? You told me you were ok with dying and that you had accepted it; but I often wondered what you really thought about it all. I was sure you had to be afraid, but you hid it so well. That to me took sheer courage.

It was your sixtieth birthday when the day came. 11 months after your diagnosis. You had said you'd wanted to make it to that day and that "Anything else was a bonus". We had been keeping vigil at your bedside for four days and nights. When everyone else was asleep and the clock struck midnight, I lit a candle and sang Happy Birthday to you quietly. Then I told you I loved you, and that it was ok to go.

But you waited still for the perfect moment. And when the clock struck 11:11 later that morning, you inhaled and exhaled one last time, leaving behind the most beautiful message- That you chose your time. That time held so much significance for us, and it was such a gift despite the immense pain I felt in your loss.

You saw me take my first breath, and I was beside you while you took your last.

Gratitude hardly seems a big enough word for how I feel about being able to spend that time with you. If I can take anything positive from losing you in such a raw and difficult way, it is that.

You were a rockstar, Mom. You had the tenacity of a raging bull, and the gentleness of a lamb. You didn't let anybody tell you that you couldn't do something. You are the reason that I am who I am. You taught me to roll with the punches, and to hit back harder. You never went a day without saying I love you, and the sound of your voice saying that is etched so deeply into my brain that I can hear you saying it anytime I want just by closing my eyes and picturing it. That is yet another gift you left behind.

Maybe it is strange that I would focus on the loss of you to describe why you are my hero. But that isn't why I consider you so. While I was growing up, I watched a woman who was young herself, raise five children alone. We didn't have alot, but you did the best you could with what you had and you didn't ever give up on us. It took losing you for me to realize the capacity of your strength. And for that, I am sorry. As your caregiver, I had to make some incredibly hard choices that placed your very life in the balance of those decisions, and if I had not learned what true strength was from you, I am not sure I would have made it through.

Heros don't just save people. Heros are also those who leave people better than they found them. And you Mom, left a legacy of love. And for that, you are my hero.

Thank you for everything. I love you.