2006-02-06 || 7:52 p.m.

|| my mom turns 60 this weekend. ||

it's probably not proper to think about, but in some ways your mother's body was once very much your own. it housed you and nourished you. it created your bones and blood. you once knew the sound of her heartbeat better than she ever had; it was her voice you responded to when emerging from the black-red of her insides.

recent developments suddenly point to my mother having to get a mastectomy this week if not next. my mom is losing a part of her body. it came as something as a surprise; it wasn't an option originally considered as a course of treatment. she first tells me on the phone, running matter-of-factly through the procedure and follow-up care, the length of her hospital visit and what the radiologist said, and she pauses to flush the toilet and inform me i heard the toilet flushing because she has just peed.

my mother has never peed while on the phone. it is a level of intimacy i never imagined achieving with my mother; if you knew her you'd understand. she's a proper lady who dresses up for holiday dinners, and that admission, all flippant and dismissive, somehow surpasses her graphic descriptions regarding her breast and talk of surgery and catheters.

i asked if i can come down to visit to be with her and dad for the surgery. she suggested the weekend after so that i don't miss any work. she said she'll need me around so i can do her hair.

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