The Doctor Said to Prepare for the Worst — My Son Had a Rare Disease with No Cure. For Three Months, I Was Saying Goodbye to Him. Then, I Accidentally Showed the Tests to Another Specialist…

It all started with a common cold. My son was coughing and had a fever, so I took him to the doctor. The doctor ordered tests — a standard procedure. A week later, we were called for an appointment. Even then, something in the receptionist’s voice made me feel uneasy.

The doctor looked at the results for a long time in silence. Then he raised his eyes and said, “We need to have a serious conversation.” I will remember those words for the rest of my life.

He spoke in medical terms that I didn’t understand, then switched to plain language: a rare genetic blood disease, progressive and incurable. At most six months, maybe less. There is no therapy. Only supportive care to relieve symptoms.

I sat there unable to breathe. I looked at my eight-year-old son, who was flipping through a magazine in the corridor, oblivious. The doctor put a hand on my shoulder: “I’m very sorry. Spend time with him. Do what he loves.”

I walked out of the office on shaky legs. My son asked what the doctor had said. I lied, saying everything was fine, just some vitamins to take. Meanwhile, I was barely holding back tears.

The next three months were a nightmare. I cried at night when my son was asleep. During the day, I looked at him and wondered — how much longer? A week? A month? I memorized every laugh, every word, every gesture as if it was the last time.

We went to the seaside, even though we barely had any money. I bought him everything he wanted. I stopped scolding him for scattered toys and unfinished homework. What did it matter now?

He noticed that I’d changed. He asked why I was so sad. I said I was just tired. He would hug me and say, “Don’t be sad, Mom. I’m here with you.”

Those words broke my heart because soon he wouldn’t be here.

I searched for information online, read forums, tried to find anything. Experimental methods, clinical trials, anything. But everywhere, the same answer: incurable.

After three months, we went to visit grandma in another city. There, I accidentally met an old acquaintance — she worked as a doctor in a large medical center. Upon learning what was going on, she asked to see the tests. I pulled out a crumpled printout that I’d been carrying everywhere.

She studied the results for about ten minutes, frowned, and read them again. She asked where we had done the tests and who had made the diagnosis. I told her. She turned pale.

“This is clearly a medical error. This diagnosis is only made after three additional specialized examinations, which I don’t see here. A single general blood test cannot be the basis for such a conclusion.”

I didn’t immediately understand. I asked again. She repeated slowly, looking into my eyes: “Your doctor made a terminal diagnosis based on a single test. Without rechecking. Without consulting specialists. This is a gross violation.”

The ground seemed to fall away beneath me. I asked in a trembling voice, “So my son is not dying?”

“We need to do more tests, but based on these, no. Moreover, these indicators could be normal for certain ages and physiologies. Go to another doctor immediately.”

We did all the necessary tests that same day. Then another set. Then consultations with three specialists. They all said the same thing: the child is healthy. No genetic diseases. The indicators the first doctor relied on are within normal range and don’t require treatment.

I cried in the office. Out of relief, joy, and anger. For three months, I was burying a healthy child. For three months, I was preparing to lose him. I took farewell photos, recorded his voice, bought gifts “for memory”.

All the while, he was just living. Playing, laughing, dreaming about the future. And watching his mother slowly fade away from grief.

I filed a complaint against that doctor. An investigation began. It turned out he was using outdated medical guidelines from a thirty-year-old textbook. He hadn’t bothered to check modern protocols. He had not referred us for additional tests. He simply passed a verdict and sent us home to die.

He lost his license. But that won’t give me back those three months of hell. It won’t erase from my memory how I looked at my sleeping son and wondered how many more times I’d see him like that.

Now my son is nine. He is healthy, active, dreams of becoming an engineer. Sometimes I look at him and still can’t believe it’s not a dream. That he is really with me. That it was all a mistake.

But the scar remains. I still wake up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, checking his breathing. I fear every cough, every fever. I paranoidly verify all diagnoses with three different doctors.

Let’s be honest: how often do we blindly trust people in white coats without asking questions? How many lives are broken by medical errors, negligence, outdated knowledge? And why do we only find out about it by accident? Would you forgive such a mistake?

*****

The doctor told me to prepare for the worst – my son has a rare disease and there is no treatment. I walked out of the office and don’t remember how I got home. For three months, I lived as if I were saying goodbye to him every single day. Then, completely by chance, I showed his test results to another specialist. He looked at the papers, suddenly turned pale, and said a sentence that made my legs give way…
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