Liam had bravely shared his story to warn others not to make the same mistake that he did. Check in comments.
There are times when despite feeling unwell, we refuse to visit a doctor hoping that the pain would eventually go away on its own. The sad reality is that if we don’t seek medical help when we first feel the symptoms of an illness, it may be too late when we do it.
A 31-year-old man from Middlesborough, UK, who was battling terminal cancer advocated about the importance of regular check-ups and visiting a doctor on time.
Liam Griffiths believed that he could have been able to beat the cancer had he turned to a medical professional sooner.
Despite his efforts to beat the illness, Liam was delivered the devastating news it was fatal.
Namely, he was suffering from peritoneal cancer, a form of cancer that affects the lining of the abdomen.
In an interview, Liam revealed that he started experiencing stomach swelling, chronic constipation, cramps and vomiting in March of 2023. Although his symptoms seemed to be severe, he didn’t visit a doctor because he was self-employed and didn’t want to lose out on wages.
He hoped the symptoms would go away, but they only worsened and became even more severe which forced him to seek medical help. Once at the hospital, he was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, but a month later he got a call from the doctor and was informed that he was in fact misdiagnosed and that he had cancer.
He started treatments right away, but sadly, his cancer was resistant to the chemotherapy.
Despite the gravity of his situation, this young man found the time and strength to send a message to every person out there, and that message is not to delay the doctor’s visit in case you feel something’s wrong with your body.
“I want to push this message because if just one or two people go to the hospital and get checked because of my mistake and my story, that would be amazing,” he said. “They found my cancer at stage three advanced – but if I had just gone to see the doctors earlier, maybe they could have caught it. I was self-employed, and I needed the money, so I just kept powering through. I did what I thought a man needed to do – I was manning up.”
Not losing hope despite the dull prognosis, Liam’s friend, Eve Bannatyne, started a fundraiser which helped raise over £18,000 in donations for Liam’s private treatment because his chemotherapy on the NHS no longer worked.
“I remember I asked what my life span would look like and my doctor said he doesn’t want to give me a timeframe of when my life could end, because he doesn’t want me to focus my whole life around it,” Liam told Metro.
“I agreed and just decided I wanted to get home, fulfil some wishes and just live my life while I can.”
Sadly, Liam passed away on February 1, 2024.
The memorial service for him was led by Rev John Hearn. Liam’s dad spoke of his son and said, “Liam was a beautiful, funny, caring, big softie. As a kid he was very loving towards his mam and dad. There was always a cuddle. He also had his cheeky side.”
Liam’s life story serves as a reminder that we should always prioritize our health, even if that means losing out on wages or rescheduling certain commitments and duties.
We are so very sorry for this brave man’s passing. May he rest in peace.
I GOT A CALL FROM MY MOTHER AND HER FIRST WORDS WERE, “PLEASE, SAVE ME FROM YOUR SON!”
The phone call was a jolt, a cold splash of dread that ripped through the quiet of my afternoon. My mother’s voice, usually a warm, familiar melody, was a panicked whisper, a desperate plea. “Please, come save me from him!” she cried, the line abruptly going dead.
My son, Michael, had volunteered to spend the summer with her, a surprising turn of events. He’d always been a city kid, resistant to the quiet charm of my mother’s small-town life. But this year, he’d insisted, offering to take care of her, to give her caregiver a break.
My mother, fiercely independent despite her disability, refused to leave her house or move into assisted living. Michael’s offer seemed like a win-win, a chance for him to prove his newfound maturity, a break for me.
The first week had been idyllic. Michael was cheerful on the phone, regaling me with stories of fishing trips and local festivals. But a nagging unease had crept in when he consistently deflected my requests to speak with my mother, claiming she was busy or asleep.
Now, this phone call, a desperate cry for help, confirmed my worst fears. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys, my heart pounding against my ribs, and sped towards my mother’s town.
The drive was a blur, a frantic race against time. The familiar landmarks of my childhood blurred past, each mile a torturous delay. As I pulled into my mother’s street, a sense of dread settled over me. The house, usually a beacon of warmth and light, stood dark and silent, its paint peeling, its once vibrant garden overgrown and neglected.
I parked the car and rushed to the front door, my hand trembling as I turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a scene that made my blood run cold.
The house was a disaster. Furniture was overturned, dust motes danced in the single beam of moonlight filtering through a grimy window, and a strange, acrid smell hung in the air.
“Mom?” I called out, my voice echoing through the silent house. “Michael?”
I moved through the living room, my footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. The kitchen was a scene of chaos, dishes piled high in the sink, food rotting on the counter.
Then, I saw her. My mother was slumped in her wheelchair, her head resting on the armrest, her body still.
“Mom!” I cried, rushing to her side. I gently shook her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Oh, darling,” she whispered, her voice weak. “He’s gone. He took everything.”
“Who, Mom? Michael?”
She nodded, her eyes filled with fear. “He changed, darling. He… he wasn’t the boy I knew. He became obsessed with… with things. He kept asking about your father’s old coin collection, and your grandmother’s jewelry.”
I helped her sit up, and she continued, “He said he needed to ‘make things right’ and that we were holding him back. He stopped letting the caregiver in, and he wouldn’t let me call you. He said he was taking care of me, but he was just… waiting.”
“Waiting for what, Mom?”
“I don’t know, darling. I woke up this morning, and he was gone. He took the coins, the jewelry, even my old locket. He left me here, alone, in the dark.”
I looked around the ravaged house, the empty spaces where precious heirlooms once sat, and a wave of anger washed over me. Michael, my son, had betrayed my trust, had abandoned his grandmother, had stolen from her.
I called the police, my voice trembling with rage. As I recounted the events of the past few weeks, a sense of disbelief settled over me. How could my son, the boy I had raised with love and care, have turned into this?
The police searched the house, documenting the damage, taking my mother’s statement. They promised to investigate, to find Michael, to bring him to justice.
As I sat beside my mother, holding her frail hand, I knew that the summer had taken a dark turn, a turn that would forever change our lives. I didn’t know what had happened to my son, or what had driven him to this act of betrayal. But I knew that I would find him, and I would make him answer for what he had done.
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