I waited until everyone had finished eating before I gave my daughter-in-law the envelope. She opened it expecting another letter from me, but the first page was the scan I’d paid for in February. The specialist had circled something near the base of my neck and written that it could explain the weakness, tremor, and loss of coordination I’d been experiencing. My daughter-in-law read the sentence twice. Then she looked at my hands, because the plate I’d been carrying was still sitting beside me. I told her I’d spent three years being told I needed to leave the house more, when the problem had never been the house.
The second page was the part I hadn’t expected. The specialist had compared my current scan with one from three years earlier and found the same abnormality already present. It had simply been described differently in the old report. Then I showed her the hospital notes. Three different doctors had written that my symptoms were probably anxiety or grief because I’d lost my husband. My son had even told one doctor that I became worse whenever I was alone. I asked him about that later, and he said he’d only been trying to give them context. I asked why he never mentioned that my hands shook even when I was sitting beside him. He had nothing to say.
Then my daughter-in-law reached the last page. It was a referral request from two years ago that had never been completed. The specialist had asked for additional imaging, but the note beside it said the family preferred to wait. She looked at my son. He said he didn’t remember making that decision. I told them I had been waiting for that appointment and nobody ever called me. My daughter-in-law went completely quiet. Then she looked at the name beside the cancelled referral and whispered, “Mum… that’s my name.” I folded the papers back into the envelope and said, “I didn’t bring this to your birthday to make you feel guilty. I brought it because tomorrow I finally get the treatment I should have had three years ago.”
