Love, Loss, and the Legacy of Jimmy V
By Irene Marie Kennedy, Former Lung Cancer Caregiver, Current Lynch Syndrome Advocate
My mother, Lorna Louise, was always my biggest supporter.
A spitfire redhead and self-proclaimed “old hippy,” she would bake banana bread and bounce around the kitchen on Saturday mornings. Singing into wooden spoons, we’d slide around in our socks and swing our hips to “Brown Eyed Girl” without a care in the world.
Growing up, my mom encouraged my endless curiosity, and she seemed to appreciate my ever-persistent questioning. Whether she was calling me an “old soul” or “peanut head,” she was proud of my originality, including all my oddities and preoccupations.
When I wanted to shave my head in the fifth grade, and, for years afterward, as I continued to wear the number two buzz cut all around, my mother would barely bat an eyelash.
And, as the first in my immediate and extended family to seek studies beyond high school, Ma stood by my decision to uproot my entire life and attend college in North Carolina.
One thing I am sure of is that my mother loved me unconditionally.
The Diagnosis
The day we all found out, my mother sat in the middle of her oncologist’s office, surrounded by her sisters.
I still remember the wince on her face when she heard the news.
Not long after her diagnosis, at 26, I became my mother’s full-time caregiver while she courageously battled stage four lung cancer.
The Days the Earth Stood Still
One evening, when giving my mom a bath, I was kneeling on the edge of the tub when I noticed the radiation burns on her back.
I sat there, still, and sobbed in silence, hoping, with a few splashes of the water, she wouldn’t hear me sniffle.
Between holding her brittle hands and bringing out the best “everything’s going to be okay,” I could — you learn quickly that the weight of cancer can get pretty heavy.
The waiting.
The weight of each decision.
The not knowing.
The worrying.
The knowing.
The waiting.
And the helplessly watching the only parent you’ve ever had wither away…
The Delicate Details
When the time came, I whispered to my mother that it was okay to go.
In her final moments, I promised her I’d be okay — even though I didn’t know if I would be, and even though I was terrified of losing her.
After watching her chest rapidly rise and fall that summer morning, — my mother paused — made a gentle shrug, and took her last breath.
Seconds later, the nurse rushed in. She paused, pressed for a pulse, and took a long look at her watch.
Her dark almond eyes darted over to the clock on the wall. Then her watch again.
In the instance that followed, as my eyes were fixated on her face, the nurse confirmed my biggest fear:
My mother was gone.
The DNA
The same year, I sat in a brightly lit doctor’s office, and that familiar darkness crept closer.
After evaluating my family medical history and test results, I learned I had Lynch Syndrome — a rare genetic mutation that causes me to have a high predisposition to several types of cancers.
When I heard the news, the room froze and turned fuzzy, and my eyes filled with water.
I remember thinking about my mother in that moment. I remember thinking about the way she winced, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the same fate was headed straight for me.
I don’t remember when I initially stumbled across Jimmy V’s iconic speech.
I don’t remember where I was or how I saw it first, but I distinctly remember being engrossed in the screen — listening intently, as if he were speaking right to me:
“Don’t give up,” he said, “don’t ever give up…”
For anyone carrying the weight of this devastating disease, the V Foundation’s unwavering commitment to uncovering cures for cancer continues to be a beacon of hope.
Today, even ten years later, I revisit Jimmy V’s ESPY speech if I’m ever feeling low.
After a quick rewind, I’m reminded that resilience is possible, and life is precious.
Then, just like clockwork, Jimmy V’s lessons, lasting words, and legacy live on.
My mom never saw my first apartment.
She never saw me settle into the career I had always hoped for.
My mother never walked me down the aisle at my wedding, like I always wanted.
We’ll never dance again to “Brown Eyed Girl” in the kitchen.
And she’ll never hold my babies.
I would never wish that kind of loss on anyone.
The Dedication
In honor of my late mother, Lorna Louise, and countless others affected by cancer, please consider contributing to the V Foundation.
In the United States, it’s estimated that 42 out of 100 men and 40 out of 100 women will develop cancer in their lifetime.
100% of direct V Foundation donations go toward cancer research and programs.
