The first time she came back from surgery she was embarrassed by the shaved area above her ear. Not too long after she died, the same haircut would become popular. Then, and especially there, in blue-collar non-Philly Pennsylvania, an undercut didn’t exactly fly.
Her guilt post-diagnosis was odd. Beyond it she was pure, delusional optimism. Flippiant, really, about the whole situation. Brain cancer? Ha, whatever, I’ll be fine by Tuesday.
Looking back, though, the guilt was there. The guilt was enormous. My mom was nothing if not devoted to–bare minimum–the idea of her kids eating healthy and being healthy and doing good and being good people who ate organically. It was all very connected, to her. We weren’t allowed to buy processed snacks in bulk, were rarely allowed to purchase them individually, really only then at the pool after a day of swimming with chlorine drying our hair slick and stringy. The week after she got out, no, within the first 48 hours of exiting the hospital, she took us to the Giant and she told us we could get whatever we wanted. We were just kids, we were thrilled, yet with her saying she was fine that they’d just take it out again if it came back and everything was fine this part felt like the freaking apocalypse it made it impossible to believe her she was a liar she was lying but I wanted cosmic brownies and–
She wore a hat with sunflowers on it, pulled low over her ears. The spidery black stitches caught on the fabric and–
I don’t like this question.
I’ve never had a surgery, I guess. I’ve had babies. Does that count?
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