There's No Place Like Home.

That's for sure. It's tough living with my parents, capital T, to the U, on the double F.

Take for instance yesterday, my first full day back in the States. Tough doctors' appointments, because they showed me clearly that the brain tumor has quickly grown by comparing shots of an MRI done yesterday to one performed at the end of January. And as if I didn't enough daily reminders of what I have, he also said I need to wear a Medic Alert bracelet.

Both my mom and Paul went. And because of the different personalities (my mom tends to just nod at everything the doctors say, while Paul asks many inquisitive and thorough questions), it made my mom feel uncomfortable. She let me know how she felt in an afternoon in a huge brawl-out fest. Inventory taking, mud-slinging, name calling debate, mano a mano. Oh, it was pretty ugly.

Because my parents didn't know what to do, my dad called the pastor of their church and asked him to come over to straighten things up, without telling me in advance. I felt angry and trapped. I didn't have to be there, but I decided it would be best to talk with him since I was living under my parents' roof.

The pastor sided with my mom and dad (no surprise). While he laid into me, I buried my face in a pillow nearby. I couldn't reason with him. Wbile I've got a bachelor's degree, he's got a Ph.D in psychiatry and human behavior. I clearly lost.

I retreated for the rest of the night. Too much for me. I just laid comatose in front of the T.V. for the rest of the night.