My mother waited until she had undeniable symptoms of colon cancer before she ever went to the doctor, delaying it as much as possible. Her doctor sent her to the gastroenterologist who would perform the colonoscopy.

Of course, she had not told us, her two surviving children, of the symptoms. We thought it was merely a routine matter.

Still, at her request I drove over from Marshall and my brother came up from Austin the day before to help her get ready for the test. Anyone who has had a colonoscopy knows that the very worst part is the "preparation," i.e.: cleaning out your intestines.

My mother did not tolerate pain well so when the solution began to go to work, she began to moan, then call for help, then yell.

I've never felt more helpless in my life than watching my mother writhe in pain, with nothing I could do.

It was then I started wondering if maybe this was more than routine.

That night, though, my mother felt well enough — or so she said — to fix my brother and I some of her famous fried chicken. In fact, try as we might, she would not be dissuaded from doing so. I believe among the last pleasures she had on this Earth was preparing that meal for us. It was her pride to provide a good table for her family.

The fried chicken was wonderful, as always.

We did not know it then, but it was the last time we would eat her fried chicken. It doesn't matter. I can still smell it cooking and taste it today.

The next morning we took my mother to the doctor and despite that nagging worry that had begun to form in the back of my mind, we were still all in high spirits.

My brother was convinced that it was nothing. He has always been an optimist beyond all reason.

A colonoscopy does not take long and it was less than an hour from the time my mother disappeared behind the doors until we were standing beside her bed. My brother was talking to her when I noticed a folder bearing her name on the table.

I opened it and saw it contained the diagnosis. The writing was upside down, but one word that was easy to read, even in a doctor's handwriting was: "Cancer."

So a few minutes later when the doctor arrived it was no surprise to me — and not to my mother, either — when he repeated the words in the folder. Until further tests were done he would not know for sure, but it appeared to be stage IV cancer. She had to have surgery.

My mother put that off, too. She could have had surgery the next day, but told us she "had too much to do." It was more than a week later — and after another painful "cleaning out" — that it was done.

The operation removed the cancer, but my mother whispered shortly after waking up, "I'm not going to make it."

It was actually a month or so later, but she died in a Fort Worth hospice.

These memories came back to me reading about the annual Relay for Life held at Maverick Stadium last week.

The event helps raise money to find a cure for cancer and it celebrates those who have survived the disease.

Thinking about it, it seems to me that almost all of us are cancer survivors in one way or another.

We may not have actually had the disease, but almost all of us have been deeply affected by it.

My mother's death struck me all the way to my bones and, if I'm honest, I'd tell you it still does today. Not one day goes by that I don't think of her.

Heck, for that matter, not many hours pass without her memory.

I salute those who have had cancer and live today to tell the story.

Just as much, I salute those who carry on after a loved one is lost to the disease.

No matter the circumstances, surviving cancer is not easy.