by Lisa Beach

Created on: September 10, 2008

In her prime, my mother was a beautiful woman. Willowy slender, a great smile, and thick, wavy red hair, no wonder my father fell for her. The oldest picture that I have of her is from the 1940's. She's a fresh-faced 17-year-old-girl, her arms around the shoulders of her best buddies in school; she's wearing a white shirt with puff sleeves, and a plaid skirt. That dimpled smile and twinkle in her eye were for her beau, my dad. He always WAS the one behind the camera lens. It is one of three photos I have of her that cover amazing moments of her life for me.

The second picture is of her in her mid-30's; now taking a break from raking leaves, her hair is windblown, she is wearing plaid wool slacks she sewed herself, a knit pullover, and my dad's old jacket. Playing in the leaves she was trying to rake up are my two sisters. One older, and one younger than I. All three of us thought it hysterical to make Mommy try so hard to rake leaves we scattered every chance we got.

The third, and most poignant picture was taken of my whole family, by a neighbor. It's Christmas time: My dad stands at one end of the picture, my mom with our new baby brother at the other. Me and my sisters front and center; all of us smiling; except my brother, who's busy drooling all down his chin.

Those are the ways I keep Mom in my memory, not as she was towards the end of her losing fight with the rare blood cancer, Mesothelioma.

The signs that she had become ill were there: the long trips to warmer climes so she and Dad could just "get away", when in reality she was ill, and neither of my parents wanted us to know; the patches of time that went whizzing by in between phone calls; they were so infrequent, often none of us kids knew where she was. We all knew Mom and Dad were a private couple, so at the time, none of us gave it a second thought.

Skip forward, and now it's 1994: we are at a dinner for my brother, who will be getting married in a couple days, almost a thousand miles away. We are all laughing, and as I glance at Mom, I think "She's wearing a wig. Why's she wearing a wig? And where did all her real hair go? She looks really sick to me." But then I got caught up in the conversation going around the table, and my suspicions faded. It wasn't until six months later that the real stress began.

That was when my husband and I got a call from my dad to come visit: that mom wanted to see us, but the most he would tell us was that she was "real sick."

I still remember everything, even though

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