To my mom, with love

Dear Mom,

I hope you don't mind that I'm writing you a Mother's Day letter on a blog. I've never had a blog on Mother's Day before, and most importantly, I've never had a blog with your name in the title on Mother's Day before. So here I am writing to you, with the rain ticking against the windows and the computer fan whirring away and the whole city asleep.

I am agog at you. You floor me. On a day with a High Wind Warning, it would also be very apropos to say you blow me away. A lot of people dealing with the gargoyle of cancer withdraw and crumble into self-pity, humorless rage, or gnawing fear, or a toxic cocktail of all of the above. People say, "Oh, you poor thing, I'm so sorry," and they look at you with pity and aren't quite sure what to say any more. It's so easy to silently agree -- poor me, sorry little me.

But not you. Not now, not ever. You have never been poor, never been sorry. You and Dad mock the gargoyle, paint his toenails pink and hang windchimes off his horns and call him silly names, make him feel defeated and small. You literally laugh his sorry butt out of existence. And everyone you meet along the way, all the doctors and nurses and PAs and a cast of thousands, can't help but join in, digging in their heels to fight for you as hard as they can. They pull every trick from the playbook to knock the gargoyle flat, lock him away, put a stake through his heart -- because they see what a wonderful person you are, and they want you to be well with all their hearts.

Just like I do.

You know how when you're a kid, you make little bargains with yourself? How you say, "If I can ride my bike past Susie's house before the streetlights come on, I won't have any homework tomorrow?" I admit, I was kind of hoping for "If I raise lots of money for blood cancer research and run a half-marathon, lymphoma will pack up and leave Mom alone for good." It looks like we're moving in the right direction, but we're not quite there yet.

I'm so grateful you're coming up to see me race. I am so proud of you, who you are and how you haven't let the gargoyle keep you from the things you love. I'm proud of your painting and writing and photography. I'm proud of your humor under pressure and grace under fire, your sass and your sparkle, your warmth and your wisdom. I can't wait to see you and proudly introduce you a thousand times over as my tough-as-nails, ain't-no-one-else-like-her, awesome and amazing mom!

I love you with all my little black heart. And I wouldn't trade you for the whole world with a white picket fence around it and a keep out sign on the gate! Happy Mother's Day!

Love,
Amanda