On Mother's Day 1975, just as I returned home from my second year in college, my mother told me that she was scheduled to have a lump removed from her breast and that it was thought likely to be cancerous. I told her I loved her, and we hugged each other. The biology major understood the implications and potential outcomes. The sensitive son felt a vague sense of uneasiness. The mass was indeed malignant, and a modified radical mastectomy was performed. All node biopsies were negative. After a 2½-year disease-free interval, and now widowed, she saw an internist for an unrelated problem. The freshman medical student thought it ironic that he was studying for an anatomy examination covering the head and neck. The worried son had difficulty concentrating on the course work. The node biopsy was positive; a workup for further metastasis was negative, and chemotherapy was begun. Just over one year later, during the Christmas holidays, severe, intermittent abdominal pain developed. A liver scan demonstrated several areas of decreased uptake. During the next months, despite intensification of the chemotherapeutic regimen, the cancer spread further to involve bone and brain. My mother died on April 10, 1979. The sophomore medical student observed the erratic breathing arid palpated the diminishing pulse. The loving son held his mother's hands, told her, "I love you, Mom," and acknowledged her smile as she closed her eyes peacefully for the last time. The medical student announced to the small group of friends and family at the bedside, "There's no pulse . . . no respirations." The anguished son kissed his mother's forehead, already growing cold, and wept bitterly.