Tammy Karatchuk

When 30 Years Seems Like Yesterday – The Chronicles and Confessions of a Brain Tumour Survivor

“Sept 16, 1991, Monday

Dear Diary

The nerologist, Mr. Young, told me that I have a brain tumor. It’s the size of a nickle. They’re sending me for more tests this week … I’m kind of still in shock. I never expected this. I expected epilepsy or, may be nothing. Jenn took it hard. I did to, eventually. I was so scared at first that I was, or am going to die. Surgery sounds scary!, but the tumor is low grade.”

You can tell my diary didn’t include spellcheck or Grammarly.

Today is the 30th anniversary of my first brain surgery, October 18, 1991.

I was 15 years old. Barely two weeks into grade 10. Looking forward to figure skating and entering my intermediate/pre-novice year. Taking driver’s ed. Getting my driver’s license. However, that changed overnight in mid-September after a seizure and a subsequent brain tumour diagnosis.

My mistake was pretending to be okay after that first diagnosis. Too often a child tries to be strong for their family and friends. We don’t want them to be sad, worried, feel more stress, deal with our pain, and so forth. With me, I felt like a burden because my parents needed someone to milk the cows, look after my four-year-old sister, find somewhere to stay in Winnipeg. The last thing they needed was a child rocking back and forth in a corner and blasting Metallica on their Walkman. I was more of a bubblegum pop girl, but still.

But I chose to pretend I was fine. I chose not to cry in front of my parents and friends. A couple of teachers wanted to start a support group for me. I chose to say no. The only time some of my friends saw me cry was my last day of school. We were on the bus, and one of my best friends was being dropped off. She hugged me and I could see her crying as she left the bus. I broke down. My other friends were saying, “You’ve been so strong, you need to cry,” and “Not many people would be able to handle this like you have.”

If they could’ve read my diary entries, they’d see I was stuffing my emotions.

My diary should’ve been about landing my double loop (alas) and worrying about exam exemptions. Instead it was, “I’m really nerseous inside, but if I act happy, no one knows.” My best speller certificate from grade three probably just burst into flames.

When You Sell a House, You Keep the Memories

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is pxl_20210919_212239063_3.jpg — Saying goodbye

My parents built their dream house.

A home in the woods. Surrounded by trails and bulrushes – and black bears.

Which means they sold their house and acreage on Highway 68. The acreage even had its own business name, “Karatchuk Acres.”

On September 30th, mom and dad went to their former home. One last time before the new owners took possession. They walked around the yards, reminiscing, taking photos. Sending selfies with, “Saying goodbye.” When my dad was ten months old, he moved to that acreage. My mom, since she was eighteen, and the three of us girls since birth.

Everything went with the sale. The front garden, flowerbeds, the apple trees. Sheds, garages, and silos. The red-weathered barn at the end of the driveway.

The middle portion is the the original house, seen above.
We moved into the rear bi-level bedrooms on New Year’s Day, 1988.
The front sunroom was completed in 2013. It replaced the brown south-facing deck and the main entrance,

With the sale also went a huge west yard where my first childhood home stood.

In 1985, my parents sold our 600 sq.ft. little house and we relocated to my late paternal grandparents house on the same acreage. The little house was lifted from the foundation, set onto a moving trailer, and transported to Eriksdale, Manitoba and its new owners.

But this is different.

When I visit my parents, I’ll see my childhood to cusp of adulthood home. But from the outside – and afar.

My Last Real Doughnut: The Celiac Realization

In 2010, I had my last real doughnut.

It was an éclair from the Arborg Bakery when my friends and I were in town for a college project. I told them, “Before we leave, we have to stop at the bakery!”

While my friends cooed in doughnut heaven, I drove back to Red River College, scratching my itchy burning hands as they bubbled like pop rocks.

I couldn’t accept the obvious: I was Celiac.

When one of my aunts was diagnosed in the late 1990s, few people understood Celiac disease. In a nutshell – no gluten. Barley, malt, malt flavour, brewer’s yeast, dextrin. And more! Celiac is an autoimmune disease, and it runs on its own timeline – and it’s often hereditary. Stress or an overload of gluten can mess with your gluten filled life. After years of yummy puffy homemade bread, a body can revolt.

Hey, You Want a Time Machine – A Chance to Return to High School, Yes or No

“If you could, would you go back to high school?”

Adults are often asked this around graduation season. As social media fills with photos of newly minted graduates, some of you become nostalgic about your own high school experiences.

The time when Hypercolor shirts, Fat Emma & Pie Face Chocolate bars, leggings, bell bottoms, paisley shirts, poodle skirts, mullets, O’Ryan’s Sour Cream and Onion chips, spiral perms, two-centimetres of makeup, and Moon Boots defined your generation. When we were as cool as Cool Ranch Chips and hot as Hot Tamales.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is bigbangtimemachine1.jpg

Let’s be real. We’re still cool and hot, just older with more knowledge – and debt and a Netflix account.

But would you go back to high school?

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