Vienna, April 30, 1992
We went to the doctor today. The building was ugly, dark. I went into the consulting room with Omama and she undressed nearby. The doctor called me over and made me touch her breast. A big, hard ball deformed it. I became scared. He said to me, It’s big, isn’t it? I touched her, hugged her. She seemed so small and fragile.
Vienna, May 7, 1992
They operate on Omama today. We took some pictures while we waited. They have just taken her to the operating room. I’ll be back in time to listen to the Spanish class on the radio, she said before leaving. She took off her wedding ring and gave it to me. She uses Kurt´s, perhaps because my grandfather never gave her one. I wait with the ring on my finger.
They brought her back connected to an a bottle of blood and a bandage covering her wound. She is awake and tells me things, she says she’s happy to see me. I take pictures. The lens shielding me from my fear.
I used to take pictures of my sick mother too, she said. She understands, she knows what moves me.
Vienna, May 15, 1992
I go to the hospital everyday to see Omama. I brush her hair, put ointment on her wound. She is happy and gets well quickly. I take pictures. Hurry and take it before the nurse comes back, she says.
During the night my mind shoots off imagining photographs.
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