The night a doctor gently drew me aside and whispered, “Madam, you should prepare for the worst,” is something I will never forget. My legs gave out from under me. My heart broke. No one could explain why my seven-year-old son, Alvin, was lying in the hospital bed, hardly moving, his body frail, his spirit waning.
Doreen is my name. I’m a mother, not a magician, but when your child is eluding you and medical facilities continue to give you empty prescriptions and shrugs, you begin to hope for more than just medication. A little fever here, a stomach pain there—it had all begun innocently. Alvin, meanwhile, had become frail, lost weight, and was scarcely able to sit up after a few months. We saw experts and paediatricians, and we even took a plane to Nairobi for examinations. They labelled it “autoimmune-related”, gave it fancy labels, and began giving him medications that only made him worse. to read more click here
How My Son Given Weeks To Live, But Herbalist Healed Him
