OCTOBER 17TH, 1983

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

    "Maya," Mother slipped into the room, her feet moving so quietly I didn't know she was there. I look up, and her face is greif-stricken.
"What's wrong, mother?" My glasses almost slipped off my face.
"Your test results came in today."
I froze. For the past two weeks, I found it hard to focus on my sheet music, and straining my eyes made me feel dizzy. A few days ago Mother took me to the doctor to see if my glasses needed a new prescription, but it was much more than that.
     "He said you have something called open-angle glaucoma."
I shot her a questioning look. Whatever it was, it sounded scary.
"It's a disease that slowly destroys your eyes. And right now, you're getting that."
"Will I go blind, Mother?"
Her eyes were strung with sadness. "One day, yes."
"When?" I asked, alarmed. I pushed my glasses all the way up to the bridge of my nose, as if that was going to save me.
"It all happens at different rates," she told me, stroking my hair, "We can try to prevent it. But the doctor said you're moving fast."
I didn't feel good. I felt sick. I am sick.
"How? What caused this?"
She stares at the picture of my father on the nightstand. "It's hereditary. Flows in your veins."
"Papa?" I say, looking him, too. Mother nods, and grips me in a hug. I pull away suddenly.
"What about oboe?"
She gets up and doesn't say anything. I can tell that I won't be able to play anymore.

     At least that's what she thinks.