It started as a constant itch.
Red patches crept across his skin, angry and inflamed, spreading faster than I could keep up with. At first, I brushed it off. A reaction to soap. A new food. Something harmless that would pass.
We tried everything. Allergy medicine. Cooling lotions. Gentle creams meant to calm irritated skin.
Nothing helped.
The itching kept him awake at night. He tossed and turned, scratching until his skin looked sore. I sat beside his bed, rubbing his back, telling him it would be okay — even though I wasn’t sure anymore.
When we finally saw the doctor, I expected reassurance. A simple explanation. A quick solution.
Instead, the room changed.
The doctor’s face tightened as he examined the rash. His voice grew slower, more careful. He asked questions that didn’t sound routine. Then he ordered blood work. Imaging. More tests than I expected.
The nurses moved faster. Quieter.
My chest felt heavy as I watched them draw blood and wheel him down the hallway. I tried to stay calm for him, smiling when he looked back at me, even though fear was creeping up my spine.
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