My son was thirty-three when the doctors stopped offering careful optimism and began speaking in quiet certainty. Until then, we had clung to softer explanations. Stress. Burnout. Something manageable. Something temporary. There were scattered symptoms, more appointments than seemed reasonable, test after test. Then one afternoon, in a room too bright and too still, a specialist folded his hands and told us the truth in a voice that tried—and failed—to cushion it. After that, time lost its shape. Days passed too quickly. Hours dragged like anchors. His wife stood at the foot of the bed when the diagnosis settled over...
Continues…