Torn
8:56 p.m.
On the way home I asked her if she would consider doing a recital with me next year, and she said for sure. She likes to work well in advance, and that is fine with me. I like to rehearse. Now I get to start planning a programme.
When I got home, however, there was a message on the machine from my brother in Israel. Our brother in Toronto (who cannot contact me directly because it appears to be against his religion) called him to say that our mother has been put on a very low dose of an anti-psychotic drug because she is displaying aggressive and verging-on-violent tendencies.
This news has upset me terribly. On one hand, I want to get on a bus and go be with her; on the other, I just want to hide my head in the sand. I think the latter feeling is because I know that the former action is impossible. I would have to put my life here on hold to do that, and I have responsibilities towards my students and others that I dare not shirk. But this is my mother we’re talking about. Don’t I owe her more than that?
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