My mother a born in a very small town in northern Greece in 1943. Well, we think it was 1943, but since my grandmother didn't read or write and since the church that housed all the town records burned down in the 1950's, it really could have been earlier. Or later. The recollection of the event was that the snow was beginning to melt and spring was approaching, so they settled on March 20th as her birthday. 1943.

She lived in Greece until her early teens. Around this time, my grandfather, a mason by trade, had heard stories of the opportunities in America and after much soul-searching, the family of six set sail. They came across Ellis Island and ended up in Ft. Wayne, Indiana in the middle 1950's. Other family had come across sooner, and my grandfather found work immediately building houses.

None of the family spoke any English, but since my mother and her youngest brother were still school aged, they were enrolled in the local elementary. My mother excelled. She loved school, she loved the social aspect, and soon - she was as fluent in English as she was her native tongue. Well, except when she recited her multiplication tables, that is.

She was the first (and only) in her immediate family to go to college. She attended Ball State, where she met my father, and right after graduation, they were married and my father whisked my mother off to Del Rio, Texas, his first station as an Air Force Officer.

She never complained. No matter where they went. She loved the travel. She loved the new experiences, and she always made where ever they were stationed - home.

She was beautiful, she was silly, she made friends easily and people were instantly at ease in her presence.

My sisters and I were born in succession. Me in 1969, Teresa in 1971 and Crista in 1972. She loved having girls and we loved having her as our mother. Sure, she could be a pain - what mother isn't now and then (myself included), but she was always there for us. There are countless stories, but suffice to say, each one of us was absolutely certain that we were her favorite. And that, in my estimation, is the mark of a good mother.

We were close when I was growing up and even more so as I became a mother myself.We shared everything, good and bad, and I could always count on her completely biased (in my favor) support. She loved me, of that I never doubted. Although I pushed her. And I made her mad sometimes. And I even told her once that based on our blood types, she could never have been my mother.

A time came when I was working quite a bit, traveling frequently for work, and the only interaction we would have were our daily telephone conversations. After these calls, I was often left with a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew, deep down. In my heart of hearts, I knew, there were too many signs for me to ignore it any longer and in a panic one morning, I phoned my father at work and told him to go home and take my mother to the hospital. Right then. Not after work, not later. Now, immediately.

Something in my tone must have made him realize that I was serious and he did just what I asked and within a day, my mother was x-rayed, CT scanned and in surgery. The cancer, glioblastoma, was in her left frontal lobe - the part of the brain that controls speech. And short term memory. And emotion. Everything I'd been noticing but couldn't seem to put words to.

The doctor came out of the surgical unit and started talking about stages, she was stage 4. He talked about the surgery, words like lobectomy and radiation and chemotherapy. He talked about life expectancy, eighteen months, maybe two years.

And in that instant - life changed. Forever.

I'd like to say that I was the perfect daughter after the diagnosis. That I was there, by her side, the entire eighteen months, giving her support, giving her love, but I wasn't. I was afraid, I avoided seeing her. And as I look back, I can't imagine how it must have hurt her. Even today, I can barely say the words without welling up. But she never said anything, never tried to make me feel guilty, she just loved me. Unconditionally.

The few weeks before she died, again, I knew. I'd get up in the morning, drop my children at school and drive the 45 minute drive to my parents house, where I'd stay until it was time to pick my children up. I spent those last few weeks with her. I watched her, I bathed her, I medicated her. I held her hand and I talked to her. I gave her every ounce of love I had in my heart while she drifted in and out - talking aloud to angels while she dreamt.

The night of her death, I knew that I needed to stay. Something in my heart told me I needed to be with her, so after Thanksgiving dinner, my family went home and my father and I remained with my mother. We held her as she took her last few breaths. We told her it was ok, she could rest, we told her to go be with the angels because we would take care of everything, and slowly, slowly - she let go.

When I look back at those moments, I realize how much that eighteen months changed me. Before the diagnosis, that word - cancer - wasn't even in my vocabulary, but in an instant - I came to know its full meaning. Intimately.

And ultimately, I was left with, what now? I just couldn't not believe that she would be taken that way without there being some sort of purpose. The God that I believe in would not allow it, of that I was certain.

That year, I ran the New York Marathon and raised $6000 for Memorial Sloan Kettering's Cancer Center in honor of my mother and in honor of Fred Lebow, the founder of the NY Marathon who also fought courageously against glioblastoma.

In following years, I offered advice, my knowledge of the disease and an oft used shoulder to friends whose parents or loved ones were diagnosed with glioblastoma.

I cared for my sisters, my father, I took over the holidays and played matriarch to my family.

I met my running partner, Mrs. Cashman, and we realized on our very first run that our mothers had died within days of each other, a few years apart, of the very same cancer. Rare cancer, small world.

I took up triathlon because as I watched my mother's cancer progress, I realized how physically weak she was and I vowed that should that be my fate, I was not going down without one hell of a fight.

I started to blog and the stories of my mother and Papa, and those I love who have battled cancer came pouring out into a medium where I received instant feedback, and virtual love from around the globe.

I did therapy. Lots of therapy, where I finally came to realize that I am strong and that it is ok to be sad... as long as there is purpose.

Today, write2fight.com gives me a new purpose. It gives us a purpose. It allows us to call attention to the stories of those we love, or those of us that are personally afflicted with cancer. All types of cancer. Any type of cancer. Take your pick, there are many.

We have the opportunity, the privilege of spreading the word - we tell our stories, we raise awareness of the charities and organizations that are fighting this monster, we donate and raise money to help in that fight, and we make a difference.

Did you hear that? We make a difference. YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE. It's our purpose, those that are left and those that fighting. It's the least we can do.

Go make a difference. For Anna.
American Brain Tumor Association