"Hello, I have a brain tumor."
There are many calls my parents are afraid of. It is right here. Christopher (age 27) has suffered a severe headache beyond the range of migraine he inherited from me. The MRI was on schedule, and the next day I said to come to someone else, a small hammer began to knock on my mind.
Christopher is running rough until late. He and his long-time lover, Pammy, moved to a lovely apartment in Hamilton, which has two cubs (two cubs). A few years ago, when my arm crashed in a workplace accident, work happened sporadically. My arms began to improve. I have not done it, and it is difficult to trace any kind of help request. Here is a big bear of a child who seems to be able to lift the world up to 5 pounds with one arm.
About four years ago, I was diagnosed with a strange eye disease. They say they can become genes. But I can not even spell it and it does not tell me where it came from (keratoconus: I've seen it). He has undergone affected eye surgery to prevent further aggravation, but since then his vision has never changed.
Last week, he was sitting in a specialist's office where he received a phone call about tumors and had to undergo another eye surgery. Hi, OHIP? It would be great if you could handle this. It is a progressive disease that has lost sight. It is a disease that starts from a young age. Because they can keep watching because they have very little $ 3,000 per page.
He worked for UPS, worked as a driver on film sets, and was a guard at the strip club. Now his vision is terrible, only Pammy drives. He performed contract work on some computer sites until headaches began to worsen. I thought it was a migraine, reduced his screen time, got up and walked around the block. And everything else my mother told me. I was wrong.
My son has a brain tumor. The doctor was positive, so I made him cry in the doctor 's office. It is also very rare (hey, Sommerfelds is nothing if not special) is coming out. They will go into the son's head with sharp tools for hours.
I was terrified. I know he is 27 years old, but he is my son. If you were reading this column, I met him when I was 12. He is a gentle giant who started lifting me when I was thirteen, calling me a little mother. He proudly hugs and embraces two small dogs, each one smaller than a cat. He is worried about me when he keeps banging for years. He is worried that Pammy with her soldiers and her narrow shoulders threaten her tremendous strength.
I feel guilty. What have I missed during those years? What have you overlooked? I acknowledge guilty for choosing an unstable job. If I took a safe route, I could probably do better, do not have to worry about uncovered surgery, and I was forever grateful for the surgery. Knowing that you lived in America will be financially destroyed. I know this.
I feel guilty about not claiming dinner every Sunday. Every Sunday – I feel like I can see his head while he eats. You let your adult children go. They create their own lives and are anxious and proud. And ask your tongue more often than you acknowledge.