I spoke to my mother today. She told me that she has lung cancer again and that she has started going in for treatment. She's never smoked a day in her life, but cancer has been a part of her existence for the past ten years. I'm not sad. I'm not angry. I am just nothing.

My mother and I are not best friends like some mothers and daughters are. We've tested each other immensely for a very long time, and I've often wondered about her mental stability. I know that we'll never be close, but she is my mother nonetheless. Everyone has a different relationship and ours is best when we're hours apart and speak every now and then on the phone. As a girl, I imagined my mother being there on my wedding day. I pictured her standing in the delivery room, squeezing my hand as I too became a parent. Now, those images seem like less and less of a reality. It's eerie to think that the car she just purchased may still be sitting in the driveway long after she is gone.

I've very neatly tried to ask her how long she has. I'm old enough to internalize that answer, but she doesn't know. The doctors don't know. And in reality, none of us know how much time we truly have left. Because she has cancer, her mortality has shifted to the forefront of my conscious thought, but all of us will ultimately meet the same fate. I've heard that mantra for an eternity: we don't know how long we have, and we shouldn't take anything for granted. It's hard to think about dying at 22, but now I'm beginning to see the fragility of life. I could very well pass on before she does. So could my boyfriend, so could my roommate. We are guaranteed nothing.

Perhaps this is the point where I turn to religion, meditation or some other higher power to provide comfort, yet I feel a sense of calm. My mother has accepted her illness, and all I can do is support her until it's her time. When I first learned about her cancer, I was 13. I sat outside her bedroom door, eavesdropping on a conversation she was having with a friend when she uttered the words. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to hear. At the time, it was panic and fear. I wondered who would cook for me, who would pick me up from school, who would help me look for prom dresses. I needed her then. I still need her now, but in a different way; I'm no longer that dependent teenager. I think about all the times I've been upset, all the times I have turned to this journal to vent. Some of it was warranted, but most of it was trivial. When I step back and observe the big picture, I see that most of my perceived trials really mean nothing. I've been given a mother who has given me both emotional and financial support throughout my life, one who is proud of my accomplishments, and I cannot ask for anything more. Her death is something I would inevitably have to face, it's just that much more difficult when it looms over the horizon, waiting to be acknowledged but refusing to be defined.

I've always been a high-strung person, but for once I truly see the profound importance of simply enjoying what has been given to me instead of griping about what I'm lacking. I'm not the only person in existence who has ever seen a loved one slowly die, and I won't be the last. The sun will rise tomorrow.