This Mother's Day, I will think about my mother, who passed away from ovarian cancer in 1999.

I will think about how my diagnosis, which was dispensed thirty-five years ago, wasn't just my diagnosis.

I will think about how she hurt when I hurt.

I will think about how it pained her to see me struggle to get out of bed, to get dressed, to eat.

I will think about how she wanted to help me and I just pushed her away because I didn't want her sympathy. How that sympathy made it harder for me to do what I needed to do. Or so I erroneously thought.

I will think about my mother and let her know that I wished I had allowed her to hold me more when I hurt.

I will think about my mother and tell her that my flare-ups are fewer and further between; that I don't hurt as much now as I did then, apart from those destroyed joints and the limitations and restrictions they impose.

I will think about my mother and tell her all this and so much more.

I only wish that I could tell you what I have learned, too late, to share with you.

Thank you, Mom. I love you.