Barbara Jean Thomas

I'm going to start with the truth.

My mother fought cancer for five years. Five years. And if you knew her, you know that "hardheaded" wasn't a flaw—it was a gift. She didn't go quietly. She didn't go easily. She fought until the very end. And that was so completely, utterly her.

A few days before she passed, she hadn't eaten or drank anything in days. Me and Aunt Bonny used to joke that she was so hardheaded, she'd do things just to prove us wrong. So I asked her if she wanted a tapioca pudding—the only thing she would even consider. She said yes. Me and Aunt Bonny looked at each other. Rolled our eyes. Giggled. We figured, okay. She's gonna take one bite. She ate the entire pudding cup. And then she grabbed the spoon and licked it a second time.

That was my mother. Right to the end. Proving us wrong. Finishing the pudding. Licking the spoon.

My mother was the most generous person I have ever known. She had a soft spot for the black sheep—always. For anyone down on their luck. If someone needed help, she gave it. If someone asked, she said yes. It didn't matter who you were or what you'd done. If you came to her, she made room for you. She made room for everyone.

And she never forgot a birthday. Or an anniversary. Not one. Even in her final years—even when the pain was at its worst—she remembered. She kept track of all of us. She made sure we knew we mattered.

I watched her my whole life support the people she loved—whether they were right or wrong. That was her. She didn't love conditionally. She loved loyally. And I learned that from her. After she passed, I went through her phone. I opened her messenger and just gazed over everything. One of the first things I saw was a happy birthday message she sent to an ex of mine that I haven't been with in almost ten years. She had the most pure heart I've ever known.

Anybody that knows us knows that Mom and I butted heads a lot while I was growing up. We were both hardheaded—I wonder where I got that from. But I moved in with her in February 2025. And we became closer than we ever were. Those last months—taking care of her, sitting with her, bringing her a matcha at chemo, fighting for her—they gave me something I will carry for the rest of my life. We didn't just get closer. We became inseparable.

Since the day I was born, she was on my team. I was all she ever wanted. She gave my brother and me a wonderful childhood—the kind of childhood you only understand the value of when you're grown. She and my dad loved to travel. Biloxi was her favorite, but she’d go anywhere if it was with someone she loved

She always had a smile. Always a hug. Always a kiss. Even at the end—when the pain was unbearable, when the cancer was eating her alive—she still made jokes. She still found a way to laugh. That's who she was. She carried all of us, even when she was carrying the worst of it herself.

Even near the end, when she was confused, when she didn't always know what was real or where she was, she still asked Tina if her son Robert had passed his driving test. Think about that. She was fighting for her life. She was in agony. And she was still thinking about Robert's driving test.

Her body was failing her. But her heart never stopped keeping track of the people she loved. She never let go of us. Not really.

About a week before she passed, her nurse called me while I was in my way to work. She was refusing to take her medicine. They asked if I would come by and try. I did. My Aunt Bonny was there. We convinced her to take it. And as I sat there holding her hand, she looked at me and asked, "Are you working two jobs now?" I said no, just one. And then I looked at my watch and said, "I'm supposed to be there about an hour ago." She sighed. Looked at me, rolled her eyes And said, "Oh, it must be the same job."

Even then. Even there. She made a joke. She was still her.

As the cancer continued to consume her, I rallied. I organized. I made sure someone was with her at all times. I didn't want her to be alone—not for a single moment. She spent her whole life showing up for everyone else. I only wanted her to have even a fraction of the support she gave to the rest of the world. She never let us carry anything alone. I wasn't going to let her, either.

But the first hospice company failed her. I went to battle with them over her plan of care. I researched everything—alternative medications, natural remedies, anything that might help. I watched them fail over and over. I fought nurses, aides, even the medical director of the hospice.And every single time she hurt, my heart broke again. So i advocated for her.

Every step I have taken this last year has been for that woman. And I would do it all over again. In a heartbeat.

I researched so much that my family jokes I should have an honorary medical degree. One of my aunts mentioned a facility called VITAS—and from the first time I spoke with them, they had my vote.

After a bout of extreme confusion, she seemed to settle into the facility. And I asked her if she was hurting. I remember her telling me no—she didn't even remember ever being in pain. I remember thinking, that's so much more than I could have ever asked for.

So this isn't usually the place for it, but I have to send my deepest gratitude and most heartfelt thank you to all of the employees of VITAS Healthcare. You gave my mother something I couldn't give her, no matter how hard I fought. You gave her peace. But more than that—you gave us those moments in her final days where we truly saw my mother come back as herself, in full force. Thank you.

I only wanted the woman who brought me into this world to leave it in peace.

A day or two before she left the house for the last time, we were sitting at the kitchen table. Just the two of us. And she looked at me and said, "I think I need to go."

Then she said, "You need to live. Your life didn't have to worry about me all the time."

I told her I would do it all over again. Every second I had would be devoted to her. Because I knew—if she was comfortable, if she wasn't in pain—that was all I wanted. That was everything.

Even then. Even at the end. She was still trying to take care of me. Still trying to give me permission to live. That was my mother. Right up until the last moment, she was loving me more than she loved herself.

People think the hard parts are the big things—the hospital stays, the hospice fights, the diagnoses. But the hardest part? The hardest part was coming home from work and not being able to get out of my work clothes for six hours. Because she was restless. Because she couldn't get comfortable. Because she needed me. And I wasn't going to walk away from her just to change my clothes.

I would give anything to go back to that. Anything. Six hours in work clothes. A whole night. A whole year. I would give anything to come home and hear her voice again. To hold her hand. To be needed by her one more time.

She remembered every birthday. Every anniversary. Every person she loved. And now it's our turn to remember her—not just today, but every day.

Mom, I hear you. I'll live. But I'll never stop loving you. And I'd do it all over again—every second, every fight, every long night. I'd do it all over again.

I only wanted you to go in peace. I hope you did. I hope you finally have peace. I hope the pain is gone.

And I hope you know—you won. You won every single day you lived.

Although I know I cannot hear her or see her approving smile, I know she's saying, "I'm so proud of you, my peanut." And I softly acknowledge: everything I am, it's because of you.