So, four times throughout the school year, we could amass our earnings and spend it on anything we wanted. But there was one special exception: Books were always free. So if we underperformed one marking period, we may not be able to buy that newest Super Mario game or as many packs of Pokemon cards as we'd like. But we could ask our mother for the next scream in the Goosebumps series or a Nancy Drew-dunit. And she would buy whatever book it was whose cover we judged worthy... as long as we promised to read it for at least 30 minutes each day.

I remember despising that half an hour when I was really young. The seconds felt interminable with a Nintendo so close at hand. But eventually, the time flew. A half turned to a full. Then two. None of it mandatory. My mother's simple strategy exposed me to fantastical worlds of incredible creatures, dashing heroes, and magical spells. These are worlds I continue to escape to, even in my middle age.

Yet, in the countless pages sprung from visionary imaginations, I have never met a hero whose valiance compared to my mother's.

She protected those she loved with the ferocity of Aragorn. Spoke up for those without a voice like Atticus Finch. All with a heart as whole as Mary Poppins. And she would employ all of those qualities late in her life, where she faced horrors fitting of a Stephen King novel.

In the summer of 2010, this pillar of strength had weakened. A terrible cough consumed her, escalating to the point she could hardly speak. She became winded after just a few steps. Despite her assurances, we all knew something was wrong. One day, while at work, my mother collapsed. She awoke to a diagnosis of stage IV ovarian cancer.

Against her doctors' stern advice, she looked up the prognosis: virtually a death sentence. The most optimistic estimates gave her a few years of rigorous treatment. But my mother refused to allow that news to topple her spirits. She had a son and daughter to see graduate college. She had a granddaughter to watch grow up. Mom would sing “You are my Sunshine” to her granddaughter Cora as a soothing lullaby. She had a fight to win.

She would not allow this defining moment to define who she was. She embraced the struggle, mustering all the strength she had and borrowing whatever those of us around her could offer. Cancer may have loomed over her, but she stared defiantly back.

She researched others who had her same disease, learning from their experiences. She cataloged her treatments and medication. She journaled her every mood and feeling. She photographed herself at her weakest, thin and thinning, as motivation for what she was overcoming.

She worked her special brand of magic and repelled her cancer into remission. What does a hero do with all that strength once it's no longer needed to save themselves?

She channeled it to save others.

My mother joined her local chapter of the NOCC (National Ovarian Cancer Coalition) advocating for early detection and preventative measures often overlooked and not covered by insurance. She joined and organized online survivors' meetups, helping others cope with the devastating news she once heard. She gave speeches to med students at universities and graduate programs, spreading awareness of a disease that kills far too many women each year due to late detection and ignorance of warning signs.

Throughout all of her trials, she never stopped being "mom". Sure, sometimes the roles were reversed. Now, my two sisters and I cooked for her. We cleaned her house. We were the ones reading to her when her eyes couldn't focus or her head hurt a little too much. But she never stopped giving off that love, affection, and care unique to her.

I wish that her fairy tale had a happily ever after ending. But, like the most insidious villains, cancer doesn't fight fair. It came back, this time in her brain. Though she fought until the end, my mother passed away in 2019 surrounded by her loving family.

The one thing we as a family refuse to say is that she "lost her battle with cancer." She may not be with us anymore. But she never lost. Helping raise her granddaughter to be a compassionate, smart, and strong young woman isn't losing. Traveling around the world in her red wig and teal blue shirts isn't losing.

Leaving a mark on countless women and families looking for help and hope isn't losing. Serving as a model for her children through adversity isn't losing. Her fight is now ours.

Through organizations like the NOCC and The Dawn Terlizzi Sunshine Fund, we hope to carry her purpose onward and spread awareness of ovarian cancer and its warning signs. Through these efforts, my mother can continue to save lives and provide strength to those who feel at their weakest.

My mother may be gone, but her story is far from finished.