"Hi, Mom, I have a brain tumor."
There are many phone calls from parental fear, and this is precisely there. Christopher, 27, has frail headaches that have reached beyond the boundaries of even migraine that she inherited from me. MRI was scheduled, and when they called him the next day to tell him, he had to come back to another, a little hammer began to knock on my heart.
Christopher has a rough time for a long time. He and his longtime girlfriend Pamy, this year moved to a beautiful apartment in Hamilton, which has a yard for the boys – their two dogs. After his hand was destroyed in a work accident several years ago, the work was sporadic. The arm had to be improved; it's not, and chasing any kind of request for help proved to be elusive. Here is this big bear of a child who seems to be able to raise the world, can barely weigh five kilograms with one hand.
About four years ago, he was diagnosed with a strange eye disease; they say it can be genetic, but I can not write it, let alone tell it where it comes from (keratoconus: I looked at it). He had an operation of the affected eye to cease to deteriorate, but his vision was never the same.
The day he received the call for a tumor last week, he was sitting in the cabinet of a specialist who was told that he had to work on the other eye. Hey, OHIP? Be nice if you cover this. It is a progressive disease that lures the sick faces. It's a disease that begins in your youth: you know, when those young people rarely have $ 3,000 per eye so they can continue to see.
Worked for the UPS, worked as a movie set driver, he is closest in a strip club. Now his view is so bad, only Pommy rides. He was working on some computer sites, while headaches began to deteriorate. I thought it was migraine and pushed on him to reduce the time on the screen, get up and get showered and walk around the block, and all the other things that my mother told me. I was wrong.
My son has a brain tumor. They are sure to be benign, which made me cry there in the doctor's office. It's also very rare (hey, Somerfelds are nothing special) and must come out. They will go to the head of my son with sharp tools, for hours.
I'm terrified. I know he's 27, but he's a boy. If you read this column, you met him when he was 12 years old. He is a gentle giant that began to lift me when he was 13 years old, calling me Malichka mama. He goes with pride and loves two dogs that each weigh less than my cats. He is worried about me when he is the one who has been hitting for years. He is concerned about Pamy, to whom the soldiers, her narrow shoulders, undermine her incredible force.
I feel guilty. What I missed all those years? What neglected me, what I prevented, I could know? I feel guilty about choosing an unstable career. If I took the sure road, it might be better, I would rather not worry about operations that are not covered, and to be eternally grateful to those who are. Knowing whether we were living in the United States, we will be financially destroyed. I know this.
I feel guilty because I do not insist on dinner parties – every week – as if I had seen my head while I ate. You let your grown children go; they create your own life and you are upset and proud, and you deceive your language more often than you want to admit.