Remembering those days, Yvette asks her father, "What went through your mind then, when she became sick?"
"It was like we were in two canoes on a stream, and all of a sudden there was a split — a fork in the stream — and she took one line, and I took the other," he says.
"And for a long time we would paddle together, you know? We could hold hands. Gradually the streams kind of moved away, and we could no longer hold hands, but we could look at each other and talk to each other. And then we got farther and farther away, until we just lost each other."
"As a daughter, watching her go through that, she still maintained a sense of optimism," Yvette says. "Was that something, I guess, she put on for her children?"
"It was who she was," is Sy's answer. Pat would find things to look forward to, he says, as a way of coping with her treatment — which included both chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant.
But in the end, there was little the doctors could do — Yvette recalls coming into her mother's hospital room and finding her parents not talking, but just quietly looking at one another.
"And I remember thinking, 'I wonder if he told her. I wonder if he told her that that was it.' "
Sy doesn't remember that as well, he says, "but what I do remember is we never talked about what would happen. She was concerned about what would happen to me after she died — how I would manage, how I would survive."
Pat also wanted to be remembered, he told Yvette.
"And it's hard to forget her, because she sculpted a life in you," he says. "You are her handiwork, and whenever I look at you, I remember your mother."