When she was diagnosed, she called me on a Wednesday in February. Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Three to six months. And the first words out of her mouth, after she delivered the news, were: "So I'll need to stay with you in Charleston for treatment. My oncologist is there, and your sisters both have young children, and you have a spare bedroom." Not: I have cancer. Not: I'm scared. Not: I love you. Not: will you help me. She told me, in the same voice she had used to tell me, at fifteen, that I needed to lose ten pounds before senior portraits, that I was going to be her caregiver for the end of her life. I said, "Mom, I will help you find a treatment plan. But I cannot be your full-time caregiver. I have a life. I have a job. I have a fiancé. We are planning a wedding." And she said — I will remember these exact words until the day I die — "Honey. You have to cancel the wedding. Nobody is going to have a wedding while I'm dying."