This image, from a trip to NYC in 2004
Seven years ago today, my mother was sitting beside me in a tiny pre-op room the size of a closet. It was uncomfortably early.
I was there for a re-staging biopsy. She was there for support.
I lay there worried about the potential scar I was about to get on my neck, and if it was going to affect my ability to serve in a wedding party the following week.
My mom read a book.
I fiddled with a clock radio.
The measured NPR voices took on a new tone.
A plane hit the World Trade Center in New York.
Was the Pentagon hit?
The radio trailed off and I was taken to surgery.
I came to hours later and my mom was again, right there. She asked me if I needed anything.
“You can only have ice chips” she said and leaned over with a styrofoam cup, “How are you?”
I remember saying, “I’m fine, but how’s the country?”
Seven years later and sometimes?
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know the answer to that question.