It was my mother's birthday, and we sat at a table in Luigi's, in my neighborhood, eating dinner. It was just the two of us. She'd taken the bus over the bridge, and we met on this rainy night inside the restaurant.

"I owe everything to you," I told her. "If you hadn't driven me to the hospital, I wouldn't be here today."

"Oh, no," she shrugged this off, not wanting to take credit. "From an early age, you had a self-preservation ethic."

That may have been so; however, I learned this from my mother. She fought hard battles all her life, and from her I learned to be a fighter. She didn't quit, and that encouraged me not to.

Within 24 hours of my breakdown, Mom drove me to the emergency room. A day later I was placed on the right medication, which I take to this day. My mother didn't care how it looked that her daughter was sick; she knew something was wrong, and took action.

When I got out of the hospital, she welcomed me home with open arms. Ex-patients who return to families that are critical are less likely to do well. A close friend told me many consumers do not have supportive families. This shocked me-could it possibly be true?

A year after I got sick, when I wanted to take a journalism class, she paid the tuition. It didn't work out; I was anxious, and blue, and still new to recovery. "That's OK, it could be ballet as long as you're finding something to do with your time," Mom told me.

In 1992, I relapsed. My mother again drove me to the hospital. I had risked everything by going off meds. I almost threw my hard-won victory in the toilet. It must have broken my mother's heart, yet she stood by me. My corporate career derailed, she accepted me back home so I could attend grad school.

As a librarian and a writer, I seek to educate others, to lead them out of the darkness and into a powerful place, one where they control their destiny. I believe it's important for someone with schizophrenia to be self-reliant. As I sat in the restaurant with Mom, she said, "I never told you 'poor baby,' because I didn't want you to feel helpless." Thus, I set my expectations higher.

I've become the woman I am because of her. I consider my mother my best friend. Sitting at the table, I told her I'm writing a book about my experiences. "Go ahead, you deserve to," she said. "You have a voice."

It took me years to find my voice, as a writer and as a person. For more than 10 years, I kept the truth buried inside, and it nearly destroyed me. When I learned to accept what happened, it saved me. Mom tried to tell me I shouldn't be ashamed, and I wasn't listening to her when I stopped the meds.

All my life, my mother has been my biggest ally. Two years ago, I found out she had breast cancer. It was quite a scare, but she turned out OK, because they caught it in time. She was always there for me, and now I had to be there for her. Mom's instinct was to protect, so she waited to tell me until a couple of days before her surgery. As my mom gets older, I know I will have to care for her. That will be my duty as a daughter: to return the love she gave to me, unconditionally.

In the end, it's the little things she does that I will always remember. This spring, she found a king-sized bedspread on sale, a patchwork blue quilt, and she altered it to fit my twin bed. When I brought the spread home, I placed it on my bed, surprised to see two pillow shams at the bottom of the plastic bag she'd brought it in. I felt touched that she would do this, create something by her own hand, out of love.

In Luigi's that night, I saw my mother in a new light. I knew she'd always be proud of me, and how far I've come. I'm also proud to have her as a mom. After lingering over cappuccino, Mom looked at her watch. "I'd better be going." She'd have a long trip back to the Island. We got up and went outside. It had stopped raining.