A DOCTOR LOOKED AT MY CHART AND SAID, “YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER’S CONDITION”
I was already shivering in the thin paper gown when the doctor walked in holding my test results. The air in the small, windowless room felt sharp and smelled sterile, making my teeth ache slightly.
He didn’t sit down. He just stared at the messy printouts, then back at me, his face completely unreadable for a long, tense moment. My heart hammered against my ribs.
He finally cleared his throat, voice low and hesitant. “There’s something here on these labs… it’s just like your father’s,” he said, tapping the paper with a pen. My stomach did a sickening lurch, dropping down to my feet.
Like Dad’s? Was it serious? He had a few things, but nothing immediately life-threatening. The cold metal chair felt like ice through the flimsy material. My head spun slightly.
I managed to croak out, “Like his diabetes?” trying to sound calmer than I felt. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine directly, seeing the rising panic I couldn’t hide. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Not the one you know about, the chronic issues.”
“This is something entirely different,” he continued, pushing his glasses up on his nose, his expression grim. “Something I’ve only ever seen documented in history books. Something *his* father had. It changes everything about your life and future planning.”
As he leaned in to explain, the door burst open and my mother stood there, eyes wide.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The door burst open with a loud thud, and my mother stood there, eyes wide, taking in the scene – the grim doctor, my trembling form in the paper gown. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice sharp with anxiety. She hadn’t been allowed back initially, but clearly couldn’t wait any longer.
The doctor straightened up, sighing. “Mrs. [Protagonist’s Last Name], perhaps it’s best you’re here,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards the single visitor chair. “We were just discussing your child’s test results.” He paused, looking from her face, etched with worry, to mine. “There’s… an unexpected finding.”
He picked up the printout again. “As I was explaining,” he turned back to me but addressed both of us now, “your labs show markers for a very rare genetic condition. We’re calling it, for lack of a better term given its variability, ‘Alderson’s Variant’.”
My mother frowned, shaking her head. “Alderson’s? I’ve never heard of that. Is it serious?”
“It is,” the doctor confirmed, his voice firm but compassionate. “It’s a disorder that affects cellular energy metabolism. It’s incredibly rare today, primarily known from historical medical texts detailing unusual ailments in certain families or individuals – particularly those whose professions or environments triggered symptoms before the condition was understood.” He tapped the paper. “Your father carries a dormant copy of the gene – likely why he’s had some chronic issues we couldn’t pinpoint. But your grandfather, on your father’s side… he displayed the full, active form.”
A cold dread settled over me. My grandfather had died before I was born, reportedly after years of unexplained illness, weakness, and strange neurological episodes. My father rarely spoke of his own father’s health.
“What does… active form… mean?” I whispered, my throat tight.
“It means your body can’t process certain compounds effectively,” the doctor explained, choosing his words carefully. “It builds up, becoming toxic, affecting everything from nerve function to muscle strength and even bone density over time. In the past, without diagnosis or management, people with Alderson’s often didn’t live long or had severely compromised lives – hence its documentation as a puzzling, debilitating ‘family curse’ or unique affliction in historical records.”
He pushed his glasses up again. “The good news is, we understand it better now. It’s manageable, but it requires significant lifestyle adjustments. Strict dietary control, avoiding certain medications and environmental triggers that can provoke episodes or accelerate progression. Regular monitoring. It will require a complete shift in how you plan your daily life, your career choices, even family planning.”
The words washed over me, blurring into a terrifying wave. My future felt like a glass shattered on the sterile floor. Dietary restrictions? Avoiding triggers? My adventurous plans, my hopes for a normal life… all of it felt impossible now.
My mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Robert knew? He knew about this gene?” she asked, looking at the doctor with dawning horror, then back at me.
The doctor hesitated. “Based on the inheritance pattern, he must carry the gene. Whether he knew the potential implications or that it could manifest actively… that’s a conversation you’ll need to have with him.”
The small room felt suffocating. The paper gown did nothing to stop the deep chill that settled not just on my skin, but deep within my bones. Alderson’s Variant. A historical illness. My grandfather’s condition. It wasn’t just a diagnosis; it felt like a heavy, unshakeable past suddenly thrust upon my uncertain future. My mother moved towards me, her face pale, and the world narrowed to the sound of my own ragged breathing and the stark reality of a life irrevocably changed.