Feb. 17 marked the 18th anniversary of my mom’s death. She was a loud, religious, funny, loving, prideful woman with a two-packs-of-smokes voice and one of the great husky laughs I have ever heard. She died in a pretty horrible way, really — she contracted Hepatitis C (probably from a blood transfusion) and it cooked inside of her for a couple of decades before it took out her liver, bit by excruciating bit.

She was 59 and the last few years of her life, which were filled with pain and some really scary medical procedures, still make me cringe. I was 29 when she died and was inconsolable. My family walked around for weeks like war victims in a bombed-out city. I emerged from the whole process knowing what it really meant to be an adult.

I still have a great videotape of a surprise anniversary party we threw the previous summer for her and my dad. Her brothers came down from Minnesota, we all had a good time, but we all knew why we were having this party — mom’s health could turn at any time and we wanted everyone to see her again while she still was healthy. It was a great party and thinking about it  makes me smile to this day. But I still miss her all of the time.