It started innocently — just an itch. Nothing dramatic, nothing alarming. At first, I thought it was an allergic reaction. Maybe a new laundry detergent, or something he ate. His skin turned red in small patches, spreading slowly but persistently, like a rash that refused to heal. We bought creams, antihistamines, even oatmeal baths. Nothing worked. The itching only got worse. He couldn’t sleep. Nights became a cycle of scratching, tossing, and frustration.
Then one morning, I saw how pale he looked — dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion written all over his face. Something wasn’t right. I finally convinced him to see a doctor, expecting a prescription and reassurance that it was just an allergy.
I’ll never forget the doctor’s expression. At first, calm and professional — but as he examined the skin, asked a few quiet questions, and ordered a round of blood tests, his face changed. Concern replaced politeness. He didn’t say much, just that he wanted to “rule out a few things.” That phrase, so clinical, so careful, set off alarm bells in my head.
The Diagnosis No One Saw Coming
Days later, we were called back in. The atmosphere in the doctor’s office was heavy. He asked us to sit down before speaking — and that’s when my stomach sank. Doctors don’t ask you to sit down for allergies.
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