What I Did While My Mom Was Having Surgery

Today is my mom's 57th birthday. She is again in the hospital, as she has not recovered from her original surgery (10.14.11) the way the doctors had hoped. This is a piece I wrote soon after the original surgery, in hopes to express the final remnants of how vague her cancer seemed to me over the summer, before the operation to finally remove the tumor in her throat.

I reheated some day-old coffee, toasted a cinnamon raisin bagel and watched the previous night’s Community on Hulu. I took a shower. I put on blue jeans, a plaid shirt, grey hoodie and black blazer. Before I knew the significance of this day, I had made plans with a friend visiting from out of town. Yes, this was surely an important enough matter to reschedule, but throughout the past year, through doctor’s appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, my mom, time and time again, never wanted to consider herself a burden and make me change my plans. Besides, she was under and in a closed off room. What could I do? I walked a half mile to Fullerton, racing against the bus tracker: I had left late enough as it was.

We met outside her friend’s apartment on Sunnyside Ave, probably the most optimistic street name in the city and one that can easily be symbolized (although I’ll avoid that temptation here). It was a particularly windy day in Uptown. On the walk north up Broadway towards the French/Vietnamese banh mi shop, I fixed my hair a few times from the strong gusts. We walked past the Riv and scoffed at the fans that were already waiting for the Smashing Pumpkins show that night (it was 1 PM). We mocked the washed up local superstar that is Billy Corgan, one of my friends comparing him physically to one of the more phallic members of the male anatomy.

I ordered a lemongrass pork sandwich and a Stewart’s dark cherry soda. The three of us ate and talked and hung out. We catch up, talk about friends from college. It’s a bit gossipy but I don’t mind. I wonder if they can tell my mind’s wandering. My dad calls; I excuse myself. He tells me things are going alright. The tumor is out and the plastic surgeons are about to operate an incredibly intricate procedure of which I’m still not sure I entirely understand. Immediately after we hang up, a friend calls and asks about the beer situation for the show we’re supposed to go to that night.

Over the Hill

Shit. The light is green. Facing into the wind, I struggle. I am going uphill and I see the green light ahead. Undoubtedly, as soon as I reach the top of the hill, and the crosswalk countdown comes into clearer view, I will see I have four seconds to make it from the top of the hill to the light. That’s not going to happen. My one reprieve, my one last grasp of hope, that of being able to cruise downhill after using my every last bit of strength to get to the top, is diminished. If I attempt to run the red light, I’m battling a convoy of two ton machines that just escaped from the highway; my Schwinn frame is no match for them. The light is still green. I have three seconds. Green = go. But going ^ hill = (-)velocity. Therefore, green now = stop.  Or yield at the very least. These symbols are supposed to be clear: perfectly translucent enough for all of the population to follow for a society to run smoothly. And now? 

Now the signals are confused. Does not compute. I thought I could go, but instead must halt. Stop. All of the signals say “Go for it,” but that’s according to the old system. Stop. Begin anew. Yield to the new way. To yield: harvest, crop, produce. Therefore, to yield = to gain. To progress. To move forward. To go ahead, as green once defined it. And red?

Red doesn’t mean stop. It doesn’t mean go. It doesn’t mean yield. It doesn’t mean, but is not meaning-less. It implies: perseverance, imagination, strong will, a quick wit and ability to get back on the bull. That charging bull that sees that apparitional red, toreadored away while blood-red eyes focus on the goal. Red means keep trying. Because things change. Rejection, detraction, convulsion: it passes. 

The light turns green. I pedal forward.