By Michelle Eckland
A few years ago, ohana—for me—basically meant my mom, my dad and my brother. Since losing my mother to a rare form of cancer, ohana has come to mean much more.
As a child I was constantly afraid that one day I would wake up and my mom would be dead. I remember in seventh grade waking up to my brother telling me that my mom was in the hospital yet again. She had multiple diseases that led to hospital visits, surgeries, and numerous visits to doctors.
During my junior year of high school, my fear of losing my mom was intensified. In April 2006, Mom was diagnosed with stage 4 cholangiocarcinoma—a rare cancer of the bile ducts. The doctors told her that her cancer had a very poor prognosis and that she would probably live for about a year. They told her she could try chemotherapy, but that it probably wouldn’t shrink the size of her tumors. My mom started chemotherapy on Sept. 11, 2006—just two weeks into my senior year of high school.
Throughout the next six months, as my mom received chemotherapy, I watched her independence slowly diminish. First she could no longer drive. After that the cancer took away her balance, her memory, and everything that made my mom who she was. With each new development, my fear would increase.
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