Unlike my mother’s usual emails (with the entire message crammed into the subject line), this one had no text, only an attached photo.
I clicked on the file and reeled at the picture of her, emaciated, with a deep gash above her bruised eye. I called immediately. “Mom, what happened?” “I fell.
At the flat place by the puzzles.” Then she said, “I’m going,” and hung up. Between our terse conversations and images like this, I hardly recognize the once talkative woman who tended to my needs and listened to my desires as a child.
In all fairness, as her transgender son, I realize there have been times when she has found me unrecognizable, too. Thirteen years ago, when I was 34, I injected myself with testosterone for the first time and began a.