It was a Saturday evening in early October of 2003 when the the title was coined. My mother was recovering from a surgery that left her with nearly two feet of stitches along her front. Miles and I made the decision that my place was with her during that time. He gets my vote for friend, husband, and man of the year, every year, for his understanding and compassion.

I am mesmerized by the order and timing of life.

In early July of 2003, Mom mentioned in passing that she felt a bump on her tailbone. It wasn't a big deal to any of us, as she had discovered many harmless cysts over the years. My family flew here for our wedding in mid-July. Upon her return, she commenced the barrage of routine tests that come with finding a bump. To be honest, I had all but forgotten it existed. My mother is my rock; I was quite simply unable to fathom anything being seriously wrong.

I still remember the pitch of her voice as she told me they were ordering more tests. I still remember the chills running along my limbs. What followed was a period of uncertainty. My mind was very firmly set that this was not Cancer. I did not know of any member of my family having ever had the disease. I stubbornly believed this until the very last moment when another phone call contradicted my reasoning. It's strange to look back on a period less than two years ago and be able to say the words that I have heard my grandparents say so often in recollection of simpler times. "It was a different world then."

Following her surgery, Mom's recovery was difficult. Her strength reached through and carried her, but I've never been closer to my mother than I was in the days when our roles were reversed from my infancy...when I was the nurturer. Often, I wonder if I ever truly understood love until then. The experience changed me, and made me a better person.

Besides the physical weakness and pain, she had to come to grips the the enormity of what happened to her in the operating room, and with the months and years to come. That Saturday was a bad day. She wept constantly, and we were disarmed. Finally, my dear Aunt Debbie thought of something happy to say. "Your favorite casserole! I'm making Tuna Noodle Casserole tomorrow night!"

Mom, sitting beside me and holding my hand, sniffed into a tissue and erupted in giggles. "Tuna Nooda!" was how it came out, and the air thinned as we all enjoyed a good belly laugh after such a doleful day. We've known it as such ever since. It's silly and stupid, and it summons such a dear memory to me.

I still catch myself calling it "tuna nooda". Miles, knowing the story, encourages me not to stop.