Arnon Grunberg



Around 8 this morning I called my mother in the hospital.
“I’m dying,” she said.
“No you are not.”
“It’s hopeless.”
“You will be okay.”
“I can’t eat, I’m nauseous.”
“They will take care of you. Soon you will go home.”
“Impossible, I cannot go home.”
“It’s very hot in New York.”
“I’m dying.”

Later I spoke to a doctor who told me that my mother was doing reasonably well, but then again: we are entitled to believe that we are dying.

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