Episode 1: It's Not the Mother's Fault

 "Is it my fault?"

 

 When I met the tear-filled eyes of the child's mother, I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say.

I’m a pediatrician, specializing in pediatric neurology. I meet sick children in the clinic, hospital wards, and emergency rooms, listening carefully to the heartbreaking stories their parents share. Often, I have to deliver responses that may unintentionally cause pain.

When a child was rushed to the emergency room after prolonged seizures, I followed protocol, administering medication to calm them and moving the child to the ICU. I explained to the parents that further tests were necessary and warned them that the child might endure additional procedures if the seizures persisted.

There was also a child brought in because of an unusual facial appearance. I had to tell the parents that the child had both a heart condition and a chromosomal disorder, likely indicative of a specific syndrome, and that the prognosis might not be long. These were conversations I had no choice but to have.

 "It's not your fault. It's not the father's fault either."

 

 The boy was a first-year middle school student who had experienced three seizures over the past few months. Two occurred about 30 to 40 minutes after falling asleep, and one happened early in the morning as he was waking up.

The parents described hearing strange choking sounds from the boy’s room, only to find his eyes rolling to one side, his limbs twisted and stiff, and his body trembling. They had taken him to a university hospital emergency room in Busan, where an MRI was conducted. However, the EEG was scheduled for much later, leaving them in distress.

Eventually, upon a staff member’s recommendation, they came to my hospital, where we conducted the EEG, and they met me in the outpatient clinic.

 

 "If he takes his medication properly and sleeps early, 70% of cases can be completely controlled with just one medication."
 "His cognitive development is normal, and the MRI results were clear. So we have reason to be optimistic."

 

 As I offered this simple explanation, the parents nodded repeatedly, providing a small sense of relief for both of us.

In a small city with a population of 250,000, I am the only pediatric neurologist capable of interpreting EEG results and determining whether seizures require treatment or can be left alone.

Considering that the prevalence of epilepsy is about 0.5% to 1%, this city likely has around 1,000 to 2,500 patients. Yet my clinic isn't as crowded as one might expect.

 Today, even the mother who tearfully blamed herself upon hearing the word "epilepsy" had initially gone to a university hospital in Busan. Parents don't hesitate to make the eight- to ten-hour round trip to Seoul, so a three-hour round trip to Busan is no problem at all.

Moreover, if the grandparents were to find out, they would inevitably criticize, asking, "Why are you trusting a local doctor with your child?" It likely took courage and a small leap of faith for this mother to come to me in the first place.

I wished I could confidently say, "I will cure your child completely—just trust me and follow my instructions." But I couldn't make such a promise.

 "Let's start with the medication that has the least cognitive side effects. If he takes it diligently, he should get better."

As the mother walked out, unable to fully wipe away her tears, her shoulders trembled. The sight tugged painfully at my heart.

 I recalled my daughter's hoarse voice over the phone, mixed with coughing. She had been struggling alone in isolation after contracting COVID-19. Still, I knew she would recover in a few days—a disease with an "expiration date."

Thinking of a mother receiving a prescription with no clear end date, uncertain whether it would be three years or five years, her footsteps echoed painfully in my ears.