Back to reality. 

The 23rd of February. That’s the date she gave me. When I say she, I mean the nurse. Lovely, chatty, consummate professional. She will be there on the day. An entire day, In the Walton centre.  MRI/CT, bloods, the lot. 

It’s been almost 4.5 years. 4.5 years. In that time I’ve met the man of my dreams, changed jobs, moved house more times than I care to remember. I’ve also buried my dearest darling daddy. I’ve become a mum to the most beautiful little boy. 
They removed most of the tumour. Most of it. There’s still a tiny little piece nestled in my brain. Too dangerous to remove. Sometimes too overwhelming to think about. What if it has grown. What do I do then. How do I tell Mike. How do I tell family? What do I do to make sure I see our son grow up in to a cheeky little boy? To see him become a man? On the 23rd of February my world could come crashing down. Again. Not just my world anymore. Their world. You can see the results of my scan Here

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