It was a bright, summer day in Burlington, VT.  I was riding down Battery Street along the water front on my way to work when I received a call from my father. 

"Tom.  Come home.  You need to come home."

This never happens.  My father never tells me to come home in that voice.  It was not a tone of anger, fury or disgust, but rather a tone I never heard from my father.  It was pure fear and uncertainty.  I had no idea how to react as I simply said "okay, I'm on my way."    I had no idea whether to race home or drive as slow as possible to avoid facing the horrifying reality that was behind that front door of 141 Crossfield Dr. 

As I made that left hand turn I had taken countless times, there was an ominous cloud over the home I grew up in, and as I passed the homes of my childhood friends, I began to wish it was 10 years earlier when we were playing street hockey and sneaking out to Amy's house in the middle of the night. I was always the one who was deathly afraid we would get caught, but at this point I would have given everything to be hiding in those bushes rather than consumed with the fear and uncertainty as I put my car into park. 

As I slowly walked to the front door, I scanned the front driveway.  Both cars were there.  No apparent damage.  I had just talked to my brother so I know he is ok.  My sister is fine as well.  Mom. 

As I opened the door, I heard my parents talking and my mother sobbing.  Though one of the saddest sounds a son can hear, I was relieved to hear anything that suggested she was still alive. 

I walked in and looked at both of them and braced myself.  What about grammy and gramp?  What could be wrong? 

"Tom.  Your mother was diagnosed with breast cancer." 

The tears came flowing down her cheeks, and I could tell my father had been crying as well, but he was doing his best to be strong.  He was always strong and always knew what to do.  He is the smartest man I know.  But in this moment, I could tell he didn't know what to do.  Who would know what to do?  Who has the answer in these situations?  Do I?  What do I do?  What is the best thing I could do in this situation?  The two people who were there for me my entire life were staring at me with tears in their eyes, looking for answers. Looking for hope.

As I stepped up to my mom, and put my hads on each of her shoulders and stared into her cloudy eyes, I chose to be the person my parents were for me leading up to that situation.

"Mom.  Why are you crying?  There is no need to cry right now.  You are alive and well, and you will beat this.  People beat this every day and you are strong, and we will be strong with you.  I will not cry because I will not give into this sorrow when I know you will be okay.  This sucks, and it will suck for some time, but you will be okay.  I promise you."

For the next year, I chose not to waver from my stance because I knew my mother’s slight smile after that comment signaled appreciate for a rock in a situation when everything else was saturated with tears and sadness.  Someone had to stay strong when my mother returned to the hospital and department where she worked for decades at Fletcher Allen, walked into the treatment room where she saw familiar colleagues and patients, and sat in a chair that was usually opposite of where she sat every day. 

I was recently on vacation, and my father chuckled and told me how he will never forget the day I came home to my mother’s bald head.  I came in the door, saw her sitting there watching TV, walked over to her head and - like a golden toe on a 128 year old tarnished statue in a certain Hahvad Yahd - I polished the top her head and remarked "nice do."

As I promised, my mother beat breast cancer, retired from the radiation oncology department in Burlington, and has recently been spending time with her loving husband, new grandchild, 3 wonderful children, 2 amazing parents, a slew of wonderful and supportive cousins and countless friends.  She is stronger and happier than ever. 

I am riding the PMC because I want to continue to be that rock for someone who needs it.  Everyone reacts in their own way to tragic and sad situations, and I will forever be strong, supportive and positive and riding to cure cancer accross MA is a representation of this strength. 

Please support me through this journey and allow me to help others and help find a cure.