My mother’s vision of me

isn’t pretty.

“Be thankful, Andy, that you still have your legs.”

“Oh—yes, that’s something, I suppose.”

I can see myself, sitting in a wheelchair, wearing hula shorts, in the nursing home, with my two nubs, hanging down, unable, to touch the ground.

“Yes—I’m thankful, I’m not missing my legs.”

“And be thankful, Andy, that you can see.”

I see total darkness.

“And be thankful, Andy, that you still have your teeth, and that you can eat things.”

I picture a tube going into my stomach, feeding me, a gray oatmeal-type substance.

“And be thankful, Andy, that you can use the bathroom by yourself.”

Somebody unhooks my colostomy bag and drains my shit into the toilet.

“I’ve almost given-up hope,” I tell my mother. “I have to believe, because what else is there…?”

“Things could be worse,” she says, wisely.

“I need my dreams. Without them, I’m nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want my life. I wish for things, and they don’t come true.”

“What is your dream?”

I found her, but if that doesn’t work-out, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll get married to somebody else.”

“No, I won’t. Do you know that feeling of being sick?”

“Yes.”

“Well, knowing what you want, is a lot like being able to breathe again, after being sick.”

“Don’t quit, Andy. Don’t quit. You might be so close…”

“I can’t quit.”

“I know. I’m just making sure that you know that too.”

“Thanks mom.”