by EJ Young

Created on: November 06, 2009   Last Updated: August 10, 2010

As I grow older and just a little wiser, I realize wallowing in a pity party over life's hardships is a waste of precious time. Dealing with divorces, financial bankruptcy and a decade of raising three children on my own, hardly prepared me for my daughter's terminal cancer diagnosis. Her challenge pulled me through a dire journey. I am thankful to share my memory of her story.

I remember hearing the news from the oncologist in a zombie-like state. I felt like I was somewhere outside the room. I could hear the doctor but it didn't seem real. "Do you have any questions before we present to the tumor board?" The doctor's words dragged me back. Millions of questions spun around in my mind but I couldn't manage to get even one out of my mouth.

A few selfish tears slid down my stone face. I just sat stiff and still long after the doctors left. Maybe I thought if I didn't move nothing else would change either. Maybe it was all a mistake. I squeezed my eyes shut. With no time left for my own tears, I drew in one last sigh and left that helpless role to become my daughter's keeper.

Amy had already faced cruel battles with physical and emotional disabilities during her 24 years. None would be as ugly as her big 'C' battle. From a day in November when I promised her I'd never leave until the next summer at the end of June, she faced pain only those tortured by the disease would understand.

It was during a brief holiday home visit tucked in petting her favorite cat that she asked a question I had to answer. "Is there any place you'd want to go if you knew you were going to die, Mom?"

I smiled. I told her there were lots of places I wanted to go. Then, I asked the real question, "What about you Amy? Is there any place you want to go?"

We acted like it was just any other "what if" question we talked about a thousand times. Only this time it wasn't as easy as, "What if Santa isn't real, or what if some kids tease me?" She talked about dreaming of going to Las Vegas sometime before she died.

A few days later, a page from the nurse's station prompted me to make plans. For Amy's trip. For Amy's life. For Amy's death.

"If anyone in your family wants to see Amy, they should come now," one doctor softly said. He went on to explain that the chemo was maxed out and they would finish the radiation treatments but, "The team agrees her prognosis is terminal." He continued explaining like a tour guide giving out useful information.

"It's really about the quality of her life. She should

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