A couple of weeks ago I took the symbolic first lap in the Relay for Life rally sponsored by the American Cancer Society. Besides getting a free tee-shirt and a delicious meal, the cancer relay was a successful event in that the financial goals were exceeded. What surprised me most was that so many of the people participating were church friends and community acquaintances who at some time in life found themselves on the toll road themselves. Some had been cancer-free for many years. Others were recently diagnosed or had experienced a recurrence. If we are still alive, we are survivors.

There’s an instant camaraderie among cancer survivors. Race, religion, politics and age have no relevance. We cancer warriors speak the same language, laugh, cry and hug like old buddies. One of my friends and I email each other every morning. The one who gets their coffee first emails the other. The unspoken reason for our daily email is to make sure both of us woke up alive.

While I drink my morning coffee, I read the newspaper obituaries to see if my name is there. If not, I make plans for the day. It would be easy to pull up the covers in the morning and stay in bed twenty-four hours. But to do that would mean I was giving up and giving in. Though I am short-winded at times even on oxygen and often in pain, I am not ready just yet to die. I’d like to see our son, Charlie, graduate from college in a couple of years though the doctors don’t see that as likely. That is why I am in hospice. My days are supposedly numbered now.

Somebody really did turn in my obituary to a Memphis newspaper years ago as a joke. You can imagine the shock my mother experienced when the paper called to verify the funeral arrangements. She hysterically screamed and my father took the phone. The curled telephone cord dangled while he rushed to my bedroom to see if I was there. My father nearly bear-hugged me to death while my distraught mother wailed in the kitchen. That day I realized how much my parents cared for me.

My parents are in heaven now. Both died on Thanksgiving week, sixteen years apart, on the same floor of the same hospital. My siblings, three brothers and a sister, and I were with our parents as they drew their last breaths.

My mother and I made a pact that last week of her life. If I got to heaven before her, I would be waiting at the portal to greet her. If she went first, she would be waiting for me. My mother was also looking forward to seeing my father again. As she lay dying from congestive heart failure, my mother had a sad suffering look. Her body was contorted into a fetal position. Every little breath was an effort. Then, as she took that last gasp of air, her lips slowly formed the most beautiful smile. Whether she saw an angel or my father, I don’t know. I do know she saw something that was making her happy.

Sunday is Mother’s Day, my first one without my precious, loving mother. But the good news is that someday we will have a grand family reunion. I have so much to tell her and Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Buddy, Aunt Maude and a host of other relatives I loved so much.

Hug somebody you love today. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.