Arriving on the midnight plane from Virginia, Mom looked fresh when she walked throughthe front door of my house in California the day after I came home from the hospital. I couldbarely keep my eyes open, but the last thing I saw before I fell asleep was Mom opening hercarefully packed suitcase and taking out her 60-year-old potato masher. The one she received as ashower gift, with the worn wooden handle and the years of memories.<br> She was mashing potatoes in my kitchen the day I told her tearfully that I would have toexperience chemotherapy. She put the masher down and looked at me directly in the eye. "I11stay with you, no matter how long it takes," she told me. "There is nothing more important I haveto do in my life than help you get well." I had always thought I was the stubborn one in myfamily but in the five months that followed I saw that I came by my trait honestly.<br> Mom had decided that I would not die before her. She simply would not bear it. She took meon daily walks even when I couldnt get any farther than our driveway. She crushed the pills Ihad to take and put them in jam, because even in middle-age, with a grown daughter of my own, Icouldnt swallow pills any better than when I was a child.<br> When my hair started to fall out, she bought me cute hats. She gave me warm ginger ale in a crystal wineglass to calm my tummy and sat up with me on sleepless nights. She served metea in china cups.
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