Dear Class of 1960,

I found my mom’s yearbook and realized that this year would be the biggie reunion. I was asked to submit an obit, but when I read it again, it seemed too blah for the person I loved. So I write this little letter to all of you.

My mom didn’t attend any class reunions that I know of. Perhaps she didn’t feel she had enough to brag about—she did not go to college, married three times, and was conflicted about being “just” a homemaker when she was younger. I’m sorry if she didn’t keep in touch. I’ll fill you in.

She married my dad, Darryl Cheney (a 1957 Marshalltown grad), moved to Cedar Rapids, and had two kids, me and my younger brother Paul. By the time I was in junior high she was president of the hospital auxiliary, president of the Junior League, and the first woman to be honored with an award from the local Jaycees. She basically excelled in everything. She could sew perfectly—wedding gowns, pinch-pleat curtains, a tailored suit, or a frothy Barbie doll dress—and she could type with lightning speed. She read voraciously, couldn’t stay away from bookstores, had perfect penmanship, and I never saw her misspell a word. Ever.

She moved to the Hollywood Hills after divorce in the late 1970s. It was there, at age 37, that she was diagnosed with a rare bone marrow disease, myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS), often attributed to exposure to benzene or pesticides or radiation, and often fatal within five years. We knew of no such exposures, and she showed few symptoms. Life went on, and her biggest battles were when changing jobs, when health insurance lapsed.

In 1991, she married Greg Faussette, and they eventually moved to Raleigh-Durham. They had a gorgeous new home, promising careers, and a huge dose of happiness. Mom had a career in high-tech sales and was so good at it her coworkers thought she had a degree in engineering. They were the best days of her life, filled with family and friends and financial security, and she thanked her Lord daily.

In 1996, the MDS began to deprive her of health, and she opted for a bone marrow transplant from an unrelated donor in 1997. Although the transplant took, she died from complications. She was two weeks shy of her 55^th birthday.

It seems so awful. It was awful, the worst time in my life. Yet I want you all to know the things we inherited, precious gifts that make those horrible, out-of-control days seem instead like God’s perfect plan. She had always wanted to be a writer, and I became one after her death—the response to the eulogy I wrote for her funeral was so overwhelming that I eventually changed careers because of it! I met my future husband the week she died, while I was living in North Carolina during her transplant. And he—the scientist son-in-law she never met—was later hired by a drug company that has developed a successful, oh-so-hopeful treatment for MDS, for people like the mother-in-law he never knew.

I wish she could be at the reunion with all of you today, laughing and giggling so hard like she always did, dabbing at her squinting, teary eyes. She’d cringe when you’d call her Patty (she always preferred Pat). She’d still be thin and pretty and have gorgeous hair—and she’d still not know it. She would make each one of you feel special and valuable (as you are!). And she would absolutely love to see the photos of your grandkids.

I had the best mom ever, and I want her to be remembered, just like the others whose parents are missing from your gathering. Think of her, of them all, with happiness!

Misty (Cheney) McNally