A year ago, my mother found that she had cancer, breast cancer. She had just got out of the hospital for severe head trauma, but it couldn't be helped, so back to the hospital she went, for a series of screenings, samples, injections, and surgeries.
When I found out, I was in China, gripping the line at the end of a very expensive phone call. I was amidst hoards of relatives I have not seen since I was six, utterly lost and torn apart by the obligation to appear like the perfect young lady, to uphold my image and that of my parents, to be the reason why they left their homes so many years ago.
It was terribly hot in Beijing at the time, and dust and pollution stuck to my skin and pores. My too dark skin, covering my too copious flesh, which made it obvious that I was an American, a foreigner. I stuck out more in China than in the States. I had no idea that such a thing was possible.
But China made me realize the world under which my mother grew. My mother who I so judged and criticized throughout my life. I finally understood that under the stringent and limited environment that she grew, her ambition and her adherence to academic excellence was the only way to advance, to escape.
When she told me that she had cancer, I felt so guilty. I immediately flew back home to see her, though I would have much rather flown to New York, to patch up the failing romance on which I have pegged my life.
I was there when she came out of surgery. Though they did not usually allow people into the post-surgery room, they made an exception because I told them I had to leave for the airport shortly (the only tickets I could get were shitty). There were all sorts of doctors and nurses running about, and she was in a bed that was not up against a wall. She looked weak. Groggily, she said a few words to me that I cannot remember. Her breath was bad.
I got into a fight with her last week. She chided me over the phone for wasting my time, not doing more with my life. My father told me that she's been irritable lately because of the radiation therapy, that she still goes to work everyday, that the skin around her eyes are sucken. My beautiful mother...
She had been very beautiful. Large eyes, tall nose, thin regal lips, and willowy figure. She looked almost Caucasian, if it weren't for her moon colored skin. She was beautiful but also very incredibly intelligent and motivated.
When I visited her last, I snuggled next to her in her big lonely bed, and she talked about how she has worked her whole life, staring at her goals until, like the sun, they burnt out her retinas. She said she would be happy if she had been more successful. Mid-level engineer is not a position for someone of her talent and perspiration. She said she would be happy if it weren't for the way our family is.
I kept silent and did not tell her about what I thought.
previous - next