I’m sending this partly to explain why I haven’t been writing. I also wanted to write about the only thing I can think about right now: my mom.  After struggling with ovarian cancer for almost eight years, she passed away on January 24th, 2006. She was sixty-eight.

Obituaries often refer to a person’s “courageous battle” with cancer. If you know someone who’s had cancer—and you probably do—you know why. Cancer ravages the body; the treatments ravage it some more. My mom was a fighter, and through it all, she rarely complained.  She endured three surgeries, a series of radiation treatments, and multiple rounds of chemotherapy. Still, she wouldn’t give in. For one thing, she was stubborn—she received her Masters Degree in Psychology in 1996 so she could advance her career as a social worker, and planned to keep working forever. The diagnosis came just two years later—disappointing to say the least. For eight years she fought the cancer, working through much of her ordeal. She survived, and I almost fooled myself into thinking the cancer wouldn’t take her after all. When it did, it felt like a shock.

There were a lot of things I admired about my mom, Bettina K. Buchanan. First, even though she had me at just twenty-one—just a kid, it seems to me now—she did everything she could to be a great mom. After she had me, she had my brother, and molded herself into the perfect “June Cleaver” housewife. She didn’t even drive until she was thirty. She just took care of us, cooked and cleaned, and even sewed clothes for me (and a few for my brother—which I don’t think he appreciated), then sewed a whole wardrobe–get this–for my Barbie dolls.

By the time I was thirteen, she wanted more (hello??). She decided to get her degree in Social Work from the University of Washington. One funny thing I remember was when my mom would come home from college, roaring up the driveway in her baby blue VW bug. She was always a beautiful woman with a curvaceous figure—which I didn’t inherit—and dressed very fashionably. She’d plop down on the couch and tell me how puzzled she was about the young college guys who hung around her at school. “Mom,” I’d say, “Duhhh, they think you’re a fox!” (in the lingo of the ‘70’s). My mom, gorgeous and all of 34, would shake her head and protest that she was old enough to be one of their mothers. Even then, I was fairly sure the thoughts going through those guys’ brains weren’t maternal.

My mom continued on through college and then worked a variety of social work jobs after that. She balanced it all with a little help from a weekly housekeeper, and by offering my brother, Kurt, and me $1 a meal to cook dinner. I never took her up on the offer, but Kurt did. His standby—“Stroganoff”—was made by stirring together hamburger and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, and took him seven minutes, tops (now that I think about it, it worked out to a decent hourly wage). But when my mom did make dinner, she was an excellent cook. She made some great meals, except for a brief “Diet for a Small Planet” stage when she made vegetarian casseroles with nuts and rice and beans that made up “complete proteins” (thankfully, that didn’t last too long).

There are so many stories about my mom—too many to tell here. She was a wonderful and unique woman. But selfishly, what I’ll miss about my mom was that she thought I was the smartest, most beautiful and talented woman on the face of the earth.  Even as an adult, she thought every little thing I did was wonderful. She often sent me cards or later, emails, to tell me how proud of me she was.

My mom adored Kelly from the moment she was born. She and my step dad babysat Kelly when she was little, and came to all her ballet and piano recitals. When mom got too sick, she’d have Kelly play the piano for her over the phone. Mom wanted to hear all about what Kelly was doing. She got such a kick out of her antics, fashions and stories. Kelly and my mom were very close, and Kelly was devastated when I told her that “Granny,” which is what the grandkids called her, had decided not to take any more chemotherapy because she was just too miserable, and she’d decided to let nature take its course.

Losing my mom was, and is, intensely painful.  She’s part of my life in so many ways, and that makes it more heartbreaking and comforting at the same time. Every day is different, and I know it will continue to be challenging.  But there have also been good things that have come out of the experience. The love and kindness I received, and still am receiving, has been the biggest blessing. Caring for others makes you vulnerable, but the irony is that we can’t make it through life alone. I was strengthened by the love of my extended family, and we all grew closer. The generosity and caring of friends who offered all kinds of help, brought meals, filled my refrigerator with food, called, sent cards, plants, flowers and donations in my mom’s honor lifted me up.

And my own family: Steve has been my rock. I can’t say enough about how helpful and understanding he’s been through all of this. During the whole time my mom was sick, Steve did everything he could to make sure Kelly and I spent as much time as possible with my mom.

For the memorial the service, Steve put together a beautiful and moving video tribute. If you haven’t seen it, you can watch it online. You need a high-speed connection, and it takes awhile to load. But hopefully you’ll want to see some highlights of my mom’s life, condensed into fifteen minutes, here: http://www.theadventure.com/bettina/bettina/grannyslideshow.html

Although Kelly is taking this very hard, she has also helped me by giving me hugs and wonderful backrubs. And, just like I did with my own mom, through even the darkest times Kelly and I have found little things to laugh about, and we’ve shared funny stories that give us a break from the pain.  I told her one of the things that is easing the sorrow of losing my mom is that I still get to be a mom; I feel honored to be able to pass on the love I received from my mom to my own daughter.

I plan to get back to writing humor again. My mom always encouraged me to write, and she was my biggest cheerleader. She read everything I wrote over and over, and then she’d call or email me to rave about my talent and wit. Once, when I was feeling discouraged, she sent me an old poem Katherine Hepburn cited as a life-long inspiration to persevere, called Keep a -Goin', and often reminded me to never, ever give up.

So hang in there, and I’ll be back. That’s what my mom would want.