I used to think I was untouchable. I was blessed with the best childhood you could ask for in a neighborhood right out of a storybook where the kids played outside, moms drank coffee and talked and dads watched sports. I met some of the best people growing up and had the best friend anyone could ask for.

In the Fall of 2011, my mom got sick, and after so many visits to the doctor with every test and scan in the book, she was told that she had a tumor in her abdomen that needed to be removed, and it was most likely cancer.

In January, she went in for surgery and her doctor told us that it was basically “a 4lb, football-sized, dead, bleeding mass,” and yes, it was cancer, some type of sarcoma. Weeks went by and still no official diagnosis, although they started Chemo anyway.

In February we all took a trip up to Mayo where the doctors diagnosed it as a type of children’s cancer called, Embryonal Rhabdomyosarcoma (ERMS for short). This form of cancer is typically found in children under the age of 13.

For the next couple months, she was in and out of the hospital because she couldn’t keep her white blood cell count up. She lost her hair, she lost a lot of weight and she was always tired, but she never missed a soccer game, band competition or choir performance.

In August of 2012, she had her last round of chemo and was declared cancer free. I graduated high school in May of 2013 with my mom by my side.

Sometime that summer, she started to have pain in her right leg. She would always take the dog for walks, and I noticed they kept getting shorter because she hurt so bad. She was a rock so if she was hurting, it was bad.

I urged and pleaded for her to go to the doctor, but she was stubborn and wouldn’t listen. The night she finally went to the doctor still haunts me, because I was so scared and panicked that I blacked out.

I came home for curfew and she was laying on the couch crying in so much pain. The next thing I remember is sitting in the ER with my parents and a doctor. He said it was sciatica. But sciatica is a symptom, not a diagnosis.

One week later I was starting band camp here at UNI, with my phone attached to my hip as I went through band camp waiting to hear what the doctors said. On Thursday, Aug. 22, she called and broke the news. It was back, it had spread to her bones, and she lit up like a Christmas Tree. The next time I saw her she was at the UNI / ISU game in September and she was in a wheelchair.

On the weekend of Oct. 5, I came home for a visit. My mom had been in the hospital since September because of her low white blood cell count. My grandparents had come up from Florida to help my dad out around the house, at least that’s what they told me.

When I got to the hospital I said hi, we caught up and eventually I sat down next to my mom on the bed. We had done this before, so I didn’t give it a second thought. She just looked at me trying to smile, I smiled back a bit confused. She started crying and barely got out the words, “It’s terminal.”

My mom refused to let me stay in Des Moines and not go back to school, so I left for Cedar Falls Sunday night on Oct. 6, with the assurance that when it came down to it my dad would let me know as soon as I needed to go back home.

I woke up at 6 a.m. the next morning to a call from my dad saying she had become unresponsive the night before, and he and my grandpa were already on their way up to get me.

She was in and out of responsiveness for the next couple days. She took her last breath Thursday, Oct. 10, 2013, when she finally lost her battle. She was my best friend. She was the one I did everything with. She’s the reason I am who I am today and learning to live without her is still a continuous struggle.

I joined Relay because cancer shouldn’t have the ability to tear families apart like it tore apart mine. This year, my best friend’s grandpa, Jim Thompson, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and although two stents were put in to stop it from growing, it engulfed them both and took his life. Seeing her going through the same pain I did is the reason I still Relay.

– Alanna Verner