We stood around her hospital bed, where nurses placed party hats and noisemakers so we could ring in 2005.
When the clock struck midnight, we hoped the New Year would bring a miracle.
You see, the doctors told my dad it was time for the family to make funeral arrangements, that her brain cancer wasn't responding to chemotherapy any longer.
And yet we wore party hats because we continued to HOPE.
A couple days ago, I made a dinner reservation for a 11 people.
I requested a table in the back, away from other guests because, well, our conversations might get loud.
I explained there'd be laughter and toasting.
We were planning to CELEBRATE…and my big, crazy, emotional Latino family wasn't going to hold back.In a dark corner of an Italian restaurant, we celebrated my mom's 63rd birthday.
Against all odds, my mother battled cancer. And won.
As we celebrate each year of her life, we acknowledge the ever-present reminder that LIFE.IS.SHORT.
In 2005 I dropped out of law school and started my first business.
As I sat across my mom in her hospital bed on New Year's Eve, I promised myself to live a full life.
A fearless life.
A reckless life.
An exciting life.
In that moment, I realized I never wanted to lay in a hospital bed and wonder, What If…
Twelve years later, I sat across from my mom at a circular table, in the corner of a restaurant.
Surrounded by our family, I thanked her for showing me how to fight for what I wanted, how to cling to hope, and to live like the chemotherapy stopped working.
Here's to never wondering What If…
j*
