I know I've been "drifting" away from health for the past few years, but today I got a clear message, my twenty-two year old son has been admitted to Union Memorial, three hundred and fifty or so miles away and my husband is on his way there.  I am here, at home, cleaning and typing trying to keep my mind from wandering.  I thank God that we have the promise of getting better, Chris's first stint into the medical foray, when he was fifteen and made for a complete recovery, or so we thought.  My new mantra is  ... this doesn't mean that the cancer we hoped was cut from his body has returned. When Chris was sick seven years ago the pain was bad and it returned again last night. I remember Dr. Cilley talking about surgery, grateful for his confidence and his swift reaction that agreed with what we wanted. I often tell people that that was "the best of time and it was the worst of times", I had hoped that I'd never be here again.  


Chris tried hard not to worry us last night, he didn't call being ever so thoughtful that was sparing up by turning his cell off so it seemed like he just wanted to sleep, but I knew. We work hard to get our kids prepared for adulthood and making their own decisions, so dealing with a legally a grown man who is ready to shoulder the responsibly of his life can be more difficult to a parent. I know he was thinking that he can deal with this by himself and when h spoke to his father this morning to share the news to him, I hope that secretly he was wishing that we'd be on the next plane to Baltimore.  It wasn't easy hearing the news on a cell phone knowing that Phil considered the option of telling me carefully, but he knew that I knew and he probably understood that my imagination was more than likely getting the better of me. 


So here it is once again, we have to roll up our sleeves and start the battle again.