When Tosin was seven, his mother brought him to see me because it appeared he couldn’t see well. His teachers had noticed that he always had to move to the front of the class to copy what was on the board. Despite the fact that he was the tallest and biggest in his class, he was given a seat on the front row. At home he would sit right in front of the television screen. “It’s getting worse,” his mother had said, visibly worried.”

Tosin had an unusual stare. His eyeballs were much larger than normal and he was highly short-sighted. A pair of glasses would make some difference to his vision but that was not all! I was certain there was something more and even more serious!

His mother noticed the momentary flash of anxiety on my face as I concluded my statement. “What is it?” she asked in anticipation. “Are you worried about the cost of the glasses? His father can afford to pay.” I looked at her and tried to water down my anxiety. “There may be something more serious and we need to do some more tests such as brain scan, hormonal studies and visual field examinations,” I had said.

How would I tell her that her only surviving child had a brain tumour and that it was advanced? How would I tell her that Tosin was in great danger of going blind even with surgical intervention at this late stage? I’ll wait until the results of the tests confirm my impression. So I said, “Mama Tosin, it would appear that Tosin has a more serious problem than just a pair of glasses but right now I cannot bet on it. The tests will tell us whether we are on the right path or not and the next step we are going to take.”

She tried to pin me down to a diagnosis and asked, “Doctor, what exactly is the nature of the problem?” “I cannot answer that question yet. What I have now is a list of possible causes. We call these medical impressions. When the test results are out we can then make a diagnosis,” I said truthfully. She wasn’t satisfied and her anxiety heightened. “Are you trying to hide something from me,” she asked tearfully. I decided against giving her more information. She was certainly not in the right frame of mind to accept the verdict. She could have a heart attack. And supposing I was wrong at the end of the day?

A week later the tests had been concluded. The results which were supposed to be sent to me sealed had been opened by Tosin’s mother. I could see she was already in a state of mental agony. “Tell me doctor, what this brain tumour is all about?” she asked as she handed over the test results to me.

“Madam, give me time to review the results,” I said. I looked at the films of the brain scan and the radiologist’s report. They were clearly in consonance with each other. The visual field studies were in conformity with the scans and laboratory tests. All pointed in only one direction – a specific brain tumour.“ I have now made the diagnosis - Tosin definitely has a brain tumour and will have to be referred to a Neuro-surgeon.

Tosin’s mum wouldn’t let me off without further explanations. “What will a Neurosurgeon do? Open up my son’s skull and kill him? She demanded to know. She had a friend who had had brain surgery and never survived despite the fact that it was said to be a minor surgery.
“Yes it may come to surgical intervention but there are more modern approaches to brain surgery nowadays which make it safer and with fewer complications,” I said.

She made me regret mentioning that word “complications.” “What complications can occur from brain surgery?” She asked.  I mentioned as many as I could, deliberately leaving out those I thought would cause her considerable distress. The neurosurgeon should handle those, I surmised.

Obviously she had taken pains to read about the complications of neuro-surgical operations. She seemed well informed as she reeled out question after question. Fortunately for me there was one question she never asked. If she had asked, I wouldn’t have answered. I would have asked her to ask the neurosurgeon. After all, a doctor is not God. We don’t have all the answers!

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