On Mother's Day 2012, my 33 year old daughter was once again taken over by horrific pain. The cancer she had been battling for 3 1/2 years was showing no mercy. We went back to the emergency room with her doubled over and begging for the pain to stop. She was admitted and on May 18th my daughter was told that there was nothing more the doctors could do for her. Those words, and the look in her eyes, will forever haunt me. She had fought so hard, endured unspeakable pain and many weeks in the hospital. She never once gave up hope that she might beat the cancer and see her children grow up.

Once in a while I write a post regarding the language of suicide. I really hope that people will read it because it is very important for us to spread the word on how we speak of suicide. I've been thinking about it a lot again lately, especially since the two-year anniversary of my stepson's suicide was just on June 2nd, and wanted to share my thoughts in the hope that someone will read it and that that someone will also educate someone, when given the chance, to help us with the mission to change how we say it.

On the street, there are only a few signs of life this morning. I am awake early, a night of tossing and turning. Insomnia, I guess. It's "that" time of year. I walk outside to get the morning paper, greeted by a pair of doves collecting twigs to build a nest. This gives me reason to smile on an otherwise uncertain day.