The Women We Remember. The Woman We Celebrate.
Every October, the world turns a little more pink.
For my family, October has always been a month filled with emotion. It's my mom's birthday, my parents' anniversary, and the month we lost my grandpa Henry. It's also Breast Cancer Awareness Month, a time when I remember two women we lost far too soon: both of my grandmothers.
Recently, October has taken on another meaning. Celebration.
In March 2025, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She underwent a double mastectomy in April, followed by her final reconstruction in September. Today, I'm incredibly grateful to say she's a breast cancer survivor.
Our family knows what it's like to lose someone to this disease. Now, we also know what it feels like to have someone we love come through it.
The Women Who Made Me Who I Am
When I think about my grandmothers, I don't think about breast cancer first. I think about who they were.
My dad's mother, Grandma Phyllis, had big curly hair, the raspiest voice, and a pink Mustang. Yes, a pink Mustang! She was an Italian woman from New York, with the personality to prove it.
I remember wandering downstairs with my little toy vacuum when I was three or four, pretending to clean while she was trying to sleep. She'd yell at me to leave her alone, and I'd go right back to playing.
I didn't get to know Grandma Phyllis as well as I wish I had. After she moved to Florida, we rarely saw her. Losing her taught me something I've carried into adulthood: distance doesn't make family any less important. Check in on the people you love, even when life gets busy.
Then there was Grandma Marie. Oh, Marie. She wasn't just my grandmother. She was my best friend. Growing up, everyone called me Little Marie, and honestly, it still warms my heart every time I hear it.
She was feisty, and apparently, I inherited every bit of that attitude. Oops.
Underneath all that sass was one of the most loving people I've ever known.
Her house was where everyone gathered. Summers in the pool, Sunday family dinners (super Italian), birthdays, celebrations, and what felt like half the neighborhood coming through the door. Some people were related to us, while others became the aunts and uncles we grew up loving.
Grandma Marie taught me that family isn't always about blood. It's about the people who show up for one another.
She also spoiled us rotten (as every grandparent should). She'd tell us where the good snacks were hidden, then yell when we took them without asking. Lord forbid if Grandpa Henry wasn't listening, you could hear her scream "HENRY!" from anywhere in the house.
Even after all of that, my favorite memory of her is much quieter.
We used to sit together on the porch swing at her house in New York, singing "One, two, buckle my shoe" over and over. Just the two of us, swinging for what felt like hours.
I had no idea how much I'd treasure those afternoons someday.
What We Carry After Losing Someone
Grandma Marie passed away in April 2007. My mom was grieving her mother while trying to care for my grandpa Henry, who had lost the love of his life. Even as children, my siblings and I understood that our family needed to come together.
When Grandma Phyllis passed, I saw my dad cry for the first time. I haven't seen him cry like that since. Watching both of my parents lose their mothers changed the way I understood grief. Our parents spend so much of their lives taking care of us that we sometimes forget they're someone's children, too.
As I've grown older, I feel my grandmothers' absence in different ways. I especially miss Grandma Marie during birthdays and milestones. She celebrated everything, from dance recitals and graduations to good grades and student-of-the-week awards.
Before she passed, she arranged for my mom to give me a Pandora bracelet on my 14th birthday. My sisters received theirs at the same age. Grandma Marie wanted those bracelets to fill with charms representing the milestones in our lives.
She knew she wouldn't be there for all of them, but she still found a way to be part of them.
I carry that love with me.
When It Became My Mom
In March 2025, my mom told me doctors had found a lump during her mammogram.
I was the first of my siblings she told, and I remember thinking, This can't be true. There was this lump in my throat that I just could not get rid of. The hardest part was waiting. Waiting for results, then waiting for surgery, knowing there was nothing I could do to make the diagnosis disappear. Desperately praying for this time to be different!
Everyone in my family processed the news differently. My sisters, my brother, my dad, and my mom were all dealing with their own emotions. There I was, trying to take care of everyone at once while figuring out how I felt myself. I am my own worst enemy when it comes to creating stressful situations.
That's something I wish more people understood about breast cancer. The person diagnosed carries the greatest burden, but the impact reaches far beyond them. One diagnosis can affect generations of a family.
Thankfully, my mom's cancer was discovered early because she works in nursing, she was able to navigate the healthcare system and connect with doctors quickly. In April, she underwent a double mastectomy, and by September, she'd completed her final reconstruction.
I'm grateful for the care she received and, more than anything, that she's still here.
My mother is the strongest woman I know. She raised four kids in New York while working overnight nursing shifts as my dad worked days. She's faced loss, change, and more challenges than most people realize, yet she's always shown up for her family.
Now, don't get me wrong. That woman still gets on my nerves sometimes. She's my mother. I think that's part of the job description (kidding mom). In all seriousness, I'm so grateful I still get to laugh with her, celebrate her birthday, sit down for dinner, and occasionally roll my eyes at something she says.
Those ordinary moments mean everything to me.
Learning to Be Present
Before all of this, I didn't always appreciate those moments the way I should have.
When I was working as a contractor, I'd spend so much energy on work that by Sunday family dinner, I was exhausted. I'd show up, sit at the table, and spend half the evening thinking about everything I still needed to do.
I was there, but I wasn't always present.
Losing my grandmothers and watching my mom face breast cancer has made me think differently about time. I want to take the pictures, laugh at the silly jokes, and enjoy being with the people I love instead of constantly thinking about what's next.
One day, those ordinary moments will become the memories we wish we could return to. This October, I'm thinking about everyone whose family has been changed by breast cancer. Those celebrating recovery, those going through treatment, and those remembering someone they wish were still here.
I'm grateful my mom survived, but I know not every family gets that outcome. The women we lost were no less strong or courageous. They were loved, and they are missed. Every October, I buy a breast cancer awareness T-shirt from somewhere that supports the cause. It's a small tradition, but it reminds me of the women I'm honoring and the woman I'm celebrating.
And while October will always bring difficult memories, it now brings gratitude, too.
I think about Grandma Phyllis and her pink Mustang ( I will one day own one too). I think about my mom, who still manages to drive me crazy in the best of ways. And I think about Grandma Marie, whose personality lives on every time someone calls me Little Marie.
Breast cancer took both of my grandmothers, but it didn't take the love, laughter, and memories they gave us.
When I think about what matters most, I don't picture a grand celebration or some extraordinary accomplishment.
It will always be me and Grandma Marie, swinging on that creaky porch swing.
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