My husband and I moved to Seattle from Boston shortly after getting married. As with any new move, it was exciting and stressful. A short time after we arrived I got the call that my mother had Non-Hodgkin lymphoma. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt. I couldn't be there for her when she needed me most. Over the next five years, I flew home 2-3 times a year, to try and make up for the move. Six months after getting my mother's news, I was told that my grandfather was also terminally ill with cancer. In order to cope with the guilt and grief, I self medicated with food, weighing in at an unhealthy 300 lbs. When I came to see my mother, she looked so sad to see how out of control my weight had gotten. My weekly calls to my grandfather were gut wrenching, as he would always ask, "Why did you move so far away? I wish you were here." We had a great relationship and would spend a lot of time together. I'd drive him to the beach where we'd take a walk, get coffee, watch the boats come in and just "be". I don't think he realized how hard it was for me. I began to regret the move and wanted to be back with them. I felt as though I had let them down, abandoning them in their time of need. 

 
Soon after getting the news about my grandfather, I had my own nightmare.  I was 35 and woke up one morning unable to get out of bed. I couldn't move the sheets, I couldn't sit up. I was frantic. I went to bed a normal person, now I couldn't move my limbs. After a series of appointments with specialists I was given my diagnosis - I had rheumatoid arthritis. I was told I would be in a wheel chair within a year and should just begin to deal with how my life was about to change. I was in shock. I dealt with it the only way I knew how - food. The endless pizza and buffalo wings I stuffed into my face didn't diminish the pain & anger I felt. I was a total mess. Everything in my life seemed to be falling apart.
 
My mother was very brave and tried everything in an attempt to save her life. She went in for a bone marrow transplant. It was going to be difficult, since she would have to be in isolation for a month in the hospital. I worried for her, but she assured me as long as Law and Order was on, she'd get through it. I called her during my lunch break, about two weeks into the treatment. "I have CHEMO brains!" she yelled when I asked how she was. I asked her what she meant and she said, "I can't seem to remember a thing. This chemo is frying my brain. I was trying to sing Bobby McGee, I can't get past the first line. Sing it for me." I pulled the car over on a busy highway, and sang Janis Joplin's Me and Bobby McGee for her, from beginning to end.  "That was lovely, thank you." She sounded so weak.  "I need to get some rest, talk to you soon. Love you." We hung up and I cried. I cried more than I can remember ever crying. It was the kind of cry that consumes you. It was an ugly cry. My eyes and my stomach hurt. I sat there and thought of my mom, so alone in that room and so brave. I  had RA, big deal, get a grip. In that moment, I felt a shift. I made a promise to myself to be better, to get healthy. I wanted my mother to see me better so she wouldn't worry about my health. I began Body for Life the very next day and lost 44 lbs in three months. I still can't sing or hear that song without crying, remembering that day on the side of the road, with my mother listening on the other end. She passed away August 2, 2007. She is with me everyday. I am so grateful for that moment. Despite her poor health, she gave me the strength to make a change and to stop myself from continuing down such a dark path.