Mother

I learned last week that my mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. She will most likely opt for the masectomy. She was also diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.

I remember the time, when as a surly teenager dragged along with her to the public library, I muttered, "Stupid bitch," at her under my breath. She heard me and turned on me in fury, clamping my cheek between her sharp nails and twisting until I shreiked, "Ouch!" and pulled away violently. The look on her face told me she wished she could have punched me instead.

I remember how she dutifully dragged me to piano lessons, even though I hated it because the teacher made me sing. The day I finally threw a tantrum and demanded to quit, she slammed the car door on my leg, not intentionally, but she didn't apologize either. The full-scale piano my parents bought me collected dust in the living room for years after I quit, and I never really used it anyway. Eventually they sold it, along with the flip-up bench with storage space for music books that came with it. Some other kid, more dedicated to the craft, got a cool piano and I shrugged it off thinking, Well, I don't give a shit.

For years, I have held memories like these against my parents, against my mother. But she called me to tell me she had breast cancer and diabetes. She called to tell me that she is calling to find out who else in our family may have had these diseases, especially the diabetes because her doctor told her that one was definitely heridetary. She called because she was scared and concerned, above all, for her children.

My memories can be skewed. They tell my truth, but not the truth.