Winter 1999
Between January 2003 and the summer of 2005, my mom was undergoing treatment for metastatic breast cancer in Athens, Greece and Boston, MA, switching between the two cities depending on treatment availability and doctor recommendations. In January 2005 she was back in Boston, at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. The cancer was progressing rapidly, spreading its invasion from her liver into all directions and occupying everything that got in its way, culminating with the annexation of her brain; whether in Athens or Boston, the therapy was arduous, painful and required all her strength – strength she had only once before required, more than a decade before. I was a junior at Boston University at the time, so when she underwent treatment, I would take her to the hospital, visit with her frequently and had as many lunch and dinner-dates with her as our respective schedules allowed.
On one of those cold and snowy January days in Boston, upon returning from radiation treatment, my mom looked down at her hand and noticed that the diamond was missing from her ring, the setting lay bare. For those of us who knew my mother, we would characterize her as a modest and low-key woman, with undeniable heart. None of her shine, none of her attraction, none of her power came from external factors, from the clothes she wore, the jewelry she dangled or the makeup that accentuated her features. If you ask me, I’d say it was her aura of unforced goodness, which seeped out of every pore, which lit up the room when she smiled, fueled her actions and defined her relationships. So, this diamond ring stood out because it was the only extravagant artifact my mom wore. She loved it and wore it every day, because it was my grandmother’s ring, her mother’s; it was such an identifying mark that in those moments when I drift off into the past, when I am missing her, as I outline her face and body, her hand always has that ring.
What must have gone through her mind at that moment, looking down at her hand, a piece of herself, of her mother, missing? I cannot know her exact thoughts and feelings, but these were her actions: My mom went downstairs to her apartment building’s entrance, equipped with a laundry basin and a pair of gloves. She began scooping the snow into the basin, going up and down the three-story, Cambridge structure, unloading the snow into her bathtub. In five or six goes, she had cleared the entire stoop. And then, standing over the tub, she waited. Staring at the pile of snow, I imagine her contemplating that just as a watched pot won’t boil, a tub of snow won’t melt, but slowly the snow turned to slush, which turned into ice water, until finally, inside a pool of water, the diamond was revealed, glistening at the bottom of the tub.
It was during one of our lunch dates a few days later that she told me this story. We were sitting at our favorite Indian restaurant in Beacon Hill, when I noticed her naked hand. I checked to see if she had been wearing it as a necklace, something she often did when her hands were too swollen or too thin for the ring and when I didn’t see that either, I asked her where it was. And she told me about Finding Diamonds in the Snow. When she finished the story, I was struck by her composure. I stared at this woman, who despite facing cancer for a second time before the age of 48, despite losing weight, losing her hair, losing her health, losing time and losing the simple luxury of saying, “oh, I’ll just do that tomorrow,” never lost hope. This woman who after going through cancer treatment, poisoned and fired at with radiation, went up and down three flights of stairs, five times, carrying a basin of snow. Who was she? She was more than my mother. What was the source of her courage? What drives her to hope, when futility incessantly creeks in the background like an old rocking chair?
August 2005
Since then, I frequently think about this story; it has been a source of both humility and empowerment. It brings me closer to my mother, as a daughter, as a woman and as a person and serves as a reminder that it is up to each person, to delve into herself for strength and hope. Reading the journal she left for me reinforces these feelings and provides a roadmap to understanding all that she was, beyond being an amazing mom, and guides me to finding the answers I have been searching for, for over a decade.
When I decided to start this blog, I went through all the branding and marketing steps I would go through for a client. I wrote the Communications Brief, set the mission, the vision, the brand values and treated the process as objectively and professionally as I could. When it came to the name, I took into account all the KPIs – memorability, spelling ease, length – and had a list of twenty alternatives, which quickly decreased as I checked for domain availability. I was left with a good five names. But none of them felt right. When I read the journal, when I thought of the blog, my mind inadvertently went to that afternoon in Boston, when my mom sat across from me, wearing the “cancer cap,” her cheeks sunken, her spirit unwavering, telling me stories of finding diamonds in the snow, in hopes, I believe, that one day I would be able to find diamonds of my own.
In many ways, this blog serves as my own attempt to find a missing part of me, less tangible, yet equally valuable and share the process. What the title may lack in strategic value, it more than makes up for in emotional value.
