Today marks eight years since my best friend and mom died. I was a big-time momma’s boy. For so many years (thanks to technology), I was in touch with her all day long. We always kept some chat window open and messaged each other about various things no matter where we were in the world. What’s unbelievable is that her house was destroyed by a fire a few months before she died of fucking ovarian cancer. She, my brother and nephew came to live with me immediately after their fire, and then she got the Stage IV diagnosis just a few weeks later. She did not even live long enough for her house to be renovated and died when she was only 73. That’s part of the reason when I had an opportunity to work for City of Hope (which just bought Cancer Treatment Centers of America), I jumped at the chance. As if losing five of my dogs wasn’t enough, it was excruciating that the most sentimental pieces of her furniture that had been professionally cleaned in 2016, were incinerated in MY house fire in January. I can only imagine what she would think of the craziness that has ensued, including one of her sister’s family-destroying exploitation of her estate, effectively disinheriting my siblings and me. The entire family in Italy (which is very large as my mother was the first of nine siblings) has been affected by the internal family feud, which is STILL in litigation. Thankfully my siblings and I have been able to prosper despite the lack of an inheritance of our parents’ sweat equity, but my Nonna (who survived my mother) never spoke to that traitor daughter of hers — or her progeny — ever again. I know Mom would have been proud of my purchasing a home and improving my health (she was always concerned about my weight, sometimes bluntly), but devastated at the deaths and loss of family memories just a few years later. Years after she died she is still an inspiration that encourages me to make her proud.