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my mother and father who usually grow tired of "horse talk" after a few minutes.

I got up for a glass of water and my mother said once again, "Sit down, Amanda, we have something to tell you."

"Alright mom, what is it?" I asked as I filled my glass.

"Sweetie, you may want to sit down."

Like I said, I can't remember how they told me.

"What do you mean Mary has cancer again? Where? How? I thought that she was cured!" I demanded answers to my questions as I still do now. Though my questions are now not ones of denial, but rather those that will help me understand the details of the disease that is taking my dear Mary.

"Hon, it was never really gone, she was in remission," my mother tried to explain.

I remember sitting at the table, my mother staring across at me with tears in her eyes. My father looked at me from his station at the counter giving me a sympathetic look that was new to his face.

Terminal was the word that I kept hearing. Terminal. Terminal. Six to eight months. Four to five years. Terminal . Death. Cancer. I couldn't help it any longer. The tears spewed from my eyes and I didn't care. My mother's face turned pink as it often does when she cries. My father still said nothing.

I had to leave that afternoon to go babysitting, but I desperately wanted to stay home. As I was getting ready to leave my mind continued to race. Variables entered my head, and the true impact of the news that I had just received was sinking in. I had begun a mental timeline. Six to eight months.

My sister looked at me with a sympathetic smile, "They told me...I'm really sorry."

I smiled, but it was one of those smiles that looks more like a wrinkle on your face than a smile.

Then she looked up from her bed and candidly said, "This is it, huh? She's really not gonna make it through this time."

I nodded, my eyes still filled with stubborn tears, but I was thinking the whole time, "No, this is Mary, she's strong. She'll make it somehow."

If one has never experienced the learning of news of this caliber you can't imagine what it is like. Every thought that enters your mind reminds you of your loved one. The flowers, the sunlight, even pancakes for breakfast were all somehow connected to Mary.

* * *

"I can't do this again! I just can't," wailed Jenny over the phone. I had been told a few days before her so that she wouldn't have to endure the process of telling me herself.

I could hear the urgency in her voice as soon as she answered the phone.

"Amanda? I have something to tell you," her voice

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