• Astrocytomas arise from small, star shaped cells called astrocytes. They may grow anywhere in the brain or spinal cord. In adults, astrocytomas most often arise in the cerebrum. In children, they occur in the brain stem, the cerebrum, and the cerebellum.

I don't care to list details, so for anyone who wants to, here is the link to astrocytoma. In the article the different grades of the disease are listed. My mother has grade two astrocytoma. In two to four weeks she'll start radiation therapy. It's no picnic but I thank God every day it isn't chemo.

• http/://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/astrocytoma

Looking at these results had two effects on me. The first was a silent giggle. My friends would have understood why I was slightly delighted with this form of cancer, though my present company of solemn relatives definitely wouldn't have understood.

The second, complete numbness. When I say numb I mean the feeling that I still have often. Nothing excites me. Nothing makes me smile or cry. I can't feel. Somehow I became empty inside, as though in order to preserve my sanity my brain shut off emotion. It comes and goes and I almost like life better when it comes. I swore to myself that even though my family is infamous for uncontrollable emotion I wouldn't cry. At least not when anyone could see. The last thing my family needed was one more weeping woman. I wouldn't do it. It didn't matter though. No matter how hard I tried to mask it, she always saw straight through. A few days after the surgery my mom pulled me aside. "You're my brave girl. My good, brave girl and I love you but you have to swear t me that you'll let it all go. This will eat at your soul, Chloe. Promise me you'll freak out and throw your tantrum and cry when you're alone. You're a good girl for being strong but I know what you're doing." I don't think I'll ever know why she is as intuitive as she is.

When I came to hospital, straight from my flight from California, my mother was surrounded by friends, glowing and smiling. it wasn't until much later that she told me why she was so happy. A doctor (if I ever met him I'd probably say something I'd regret) suggested that the strange mass they had found in her brain while doing an MRI was possibly Melanoma that spread to her brain. Melanoma in the brain normally leaves the subject with four to twelve months to live. "I began to go into hysteria, begging God," she said, "My argument was a good one too. I told Him that four to twelve months wasn't nearly enough time for a graduation, a passage, a marriage, and grandchildren. Definitely not enough. I'd be sewing from dawn 'til dusk! Can you imagine? And then there's the whole deal of getting you married off so young... It Just wasn't enough time!"

That, my friends, is who my mother is. From the moment she even thought she was sick she did everything in her power to keep me from finding out anything was wrong. When that proved futile (secrets don't survive long in our habitat) her never failing concern for leaving me was all she talked about. "I'm not afraid to die. The only thing I could ever be afraid of is leaving and losing you." That is my mother. Incredible and unfailing love.

I am quite aware of her limit. She knows I am. I live life from one event to the next and I constantly manage my time so it would only be natural for me to question her limit. "Time is so far outside God that it doesn't even matter, baby. It's not real and it can never measure how much time I have with you. You know how real stars are heavy and pull everything toward them? This is just like that. It'll take everything from you if you let it. It'll suck it all away. Don't let it and don't let go."