My mother has cancer. I read poetry last night at Georgia State. After the reading, Michael came back to get me and told me that Ernie called to say the tests came back and she has cancer. She has to go into the hospital on the twenty-fifth and the operation is on the twenty sixth. I called and talked to Kris, who was a basket case. Me, too. I started crying and we couldn’t really talk too well, but then I took a Valium and drank some rum and called Ma. Henry answered. She and I acknowledged that I had talked to Kris, knew what the deal was, and then we just talked for an hour. About the movies. About Skylab. About Somoza. Just talking. Just talking fast and stumbling all over each other and talking/talking/talking. I told Michael in Martinique that sometimes it doesn’t matter if you’re telling the same stories over and over. Most people don’t have many to tell. Talking is just a way of having pleasant social intercourse with people and of establishing contact; and concern; and love. And so we talked. And she said, “No, don’t come now. I am supposed to rest and get myself together.” And I said, “Are you sure?” And she said, “Yes, don’t come now.” And Henry said something like, “When did she get to be the one to establish when you come?” So I’m not sure what that means. But I am going after she has the operation.
I hope it hasn’t spread. I hope they catch it. I hope she is okay. I am so scared, but I haven’t even cried. I love my mother. I don’t know how to feel all this without just letting myself fly apart and I can’t do that. She may be okay. She is not dying. They don’t know if she is dying. We are all dying. We are all dying. She has been spotting since December, but wouldn’t go to the doctor. Too scared. Scared to know, so she just told herself it was from shoveling snow. Strained herself. Things like that. Eight months of things like that. She has carried on this fantasy for eight months. There must be some relief to having it out; having it said; knowing. Fear, but at last things are happening. Appointments are made. Doctors scheduled.
After I talk to Ma, David calls to say, “You got the job. You are working on Bustin’ Loose. Richard Pryor, Cecily Tyson, Oz Scott will be directing. You’ll be on location in Spokane and you will make six hundred dollars a week.” I tell him about my mother and he says, “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.”
True confession: I feel guilty because I think immediately of transferring all this into writing. I think that is an attempt to get some control where there is no control.