With trembling hands and a shaky body, I called Sid to tell him about the diagnosis. I was still holding on to a sliver of hope—hoping that maybe a doctor would say it’s not as bad as it seems. Since I couldn’t get an urgent appointment with a well-known pediatric neurologist, I went to see a senior neurologist at a reputed hospital.
Even then, I prayed for some reassurance, some light in all this darkness.
Instead, the doctor looked at the reports, looked at my son, and said, “I’m afraid I have nothing good to say to you. Does he even recognize you? Does he look at you? You’ll be lucky if he does.”
She then called in a few junior doctors, and they started poking and prodding Adi— examining him like a specimen. My baby became an object of their curiosity like he was just another case study.
I felt I couldn’t breathe. I stepped out of the room, leaving Adi with my brother-in-law. And then I broke down. Right there, outside the doctor’s room, I howled. I cried like I never had before. The pain tore through me. I didn’t care who saw me. My world had come crashing down. It felt like life had stopped. For a moment, I wished life would end right there and I wouldn’t have to feel this pain anymore.
After what felt like hours, I pulled myself together, went back in, collected the prescription, and came back home with Adi. But I had no clue what to do next. The tears wouldn’t stop. I was still in denial about what life had just thrown at me.
I thought losing my parents was the biggest loss I’d ever have to face… but this… this pain was deeper. I couldn’t even look at my son—it hurt too much. There was so much pain, anger, and helplessness. Anger at how unfair life felt, and tears that didn’t seem to end.
I was a mess. And for a moment, I just didn’t want to go on anymore.
Read the first part of this journey Here.