It all started in January 2000, when Rachel and Andie were just a year-and-a-half old and the family found out that Carmen had ovarian cancer. The tumor in her ovary had burst, spreading cancerous cells all throughout her abdomen. Carmen’s prognosis seemed relatively bleak, though her doctor kept reminding us that people are not statistics and every individual is different. I remember her friend, a long-time cancer nurse, telling us that in her experience, we would be lucky to have Carmen for another two years.

The mother of six — my kids’ dad is the oldest — Carmen’s youngest, Kirk, was only 8 at the time. “I just want to live long enough to get Kirk out of the house,” she told me on more than one occasion. A noble goal, I agreed, but secretly I thought it was unrealistic.

But that’s Carmen for you;  unrealistic, full of hope, always looking for the positive in any situation. It has served her well over the 17 years that I’ve known her, from her proclamation that her twin grandsons, born at only 24-3/4 weeks of gestation, would “be fine” (they were), to her stubborn determination to get her youngest child through high school before she left this world (she did).

We’ve had multiple scares with her over the years as her cancer came back numerous times. Every time, she cheated death. She dwindled down to nothing but skin and bones and made us all draw our collective breath in fear that this time would be the last, but looking back now, I see that there was always a strength about her, a strength that seemed to say, This isn’t going to get me yet.

This time is different. That energy has finally faded away, like glistening raindrops in the sun. Not that she isn’t still strong, but it’s a different kind of strength, a quiet, reflective inner peace she demonstrates, knowing that she won’t be with us much longer. Her eyes, sunken from her prolonged fight, are still bright in her translucent face, and though she seems almost to be floating somewhere above us much of the time, already halfway to the next life, she’s still there to pat our backs and give us her love as we take turns shedding tears over our impending loss.

It is truly a tragedy that the world will be losing Carmen. She is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known and despite the fact that she could have so very easily (unwittingly, of course) made me feel like I’d never measure up as a wife and mother in comparison to her, she never did. Instead, I found myself trying to emulate her strength, her peace, her faith and the way she treated everyone with sincere love, care and respect. She taught me some of the most valuable lessons of my life, simply by her example. There is no way that I would be the person I am today without her having been in my life.

A little blog post is not even close to enough room to describe the loss of her in our lives. She has been an inspiration, a blessing beyond measure, a mother and grandmother unlike any other. I cannot begin to adequately express the sadness we feel upon losing her, nor the peace of knowing that she won’t be suffering much longer, that she will soon be in a better place and that our lives have been all that much more enriched because of her presence in them.

And so we wait for her final curtain, for the goodbyes we’ve been saying in our hearts for years, for the end of an era and the beginning of a new one in which we will tell each other stories to keep her memory alive in our minds, as well as in the minds of those grandchildren who will never have the chance to know her in person.

We love you, Carmen. You have touched many lives, more than you probably know, and your legacy will live on. Heaven will be a happier place with you in it.