The Diagnosis of Doom
Cole Martinez had always been what his family diplomatically called “health-conscious” and what his friends more accurately described as “a walking medical encyclopedia with anxiety issues.” At twenty-eight, he had diagnosed himself with everything from rare tropical diseases he’d read about online to genetic conditions that affected one in ten million people. His browser history was a testament to his hypochondriac tendencies, filled with searches for symptoms ranging from “persistent hiccups: brain tumor?” to “paper cut infection rates: when to panic.”
So when Cole woke up on a Tuesday morning feeling slightly warm and experiencing what he immediately categorized as “profound fatigue,” his mind didn’t leap to the obvious conclusion of a common cold. Instead, it spiraled through increasingly dramatic possibilities with the efficiency of a well-oiled catastrophe machine.
The thermometer reading of 100.2°F wasn’t just a low-grade fever—it was clearly the beginning of some mysterious wasting disease. The scratchy throat wasn’t seasonal allergies or a minor viral infection—it was obviously the early stages of a rare condition he’d read about in a medical journal abstract. The fact that he felt tired after staying up until 2 AM binge-watching medical documentaries wasn’t fatigue from poor sleep habits—it was his body shutting down.
Cole lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his modest apartment, mentally cataloging every sensation and symptom with the intensity of a researcher documenting a new species. His pulse felt rapid (anxiety-induced, though he didn’t recognize it), his breathing seemed shallow (hyperventilation from panic, though he attributed it to organ failure), and he was certain he could feel his lymph nodes swelling (they weren’t).
“This is it,” he whispered to the empty room, his voice hoarse from the scratchy throat he’d convinced himself was a harbinger of doom. “This is how it ends.”
Cole had read enough medical literature to know that many serious illnesses began with seemingly innocuous symptoms. Hadn’t he just watched a documentary about a woman whose brain tumor started with headaches she dismissed as stress? Wasn’t there a case study about a man whose rare autoimmune disease initially presented as fatigue and low-grade fever?
By 10 AM, Cole had convinced himself that he was experiencing the early stages of a rapid-onset terminal illness. By noon, he had mentally written his own obituary. By 2 PM, he had decided that he needed to gather his loved ones for what would undoubtedly be his final goodbye.
The decision felt both dramatic and necessary. If he was going to die—and Cole was now completely convinced that he was—he wanted to spend his last conscious hours surrounded by the people who mattered most to him. He wanted to tell them he loved them, share final memories, and achieve some kind of meaningful closure before his inevitable decline.
With the solemnity of someone planning a funeral (his own), Cole began making phone calls.
The Gathering Storm
Cole’s apartment was a modest two-bedroom space that he shared with his wife Camilla, decorated with the eclectic mix of furniture that characterized young professionals still figuring out their aesthetic preferences. The living room featured a comfortable but mismatched sofa set, bookshelves lined with medical textbooks and mystery novels, and walls adorned with photographs documenting happier, healthier times.
As Cole prepared for what he believed would be his final gathering, he moved through the apartment with the reverent care of someone arranging their own wake. He fluffed the couch cushions, straightened the coffee table books, and set out glasses of water as if preparing for guests at a solemn occasion rather than friends and family responding to a dramatic summons.
His phone calls had been masterpieces of vague but alarming communication.
“Michael, I need you to come over,” he had said to his best friend, his voice heavy with what he imagined was the gravity of impending mortality. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something important.”
“Amber, can you come to the apartment today?” he had asked his sister, adding just enough pause and vocal tremor to suggest serious news without revealing specifics. “And maybe… maybe bring Mom and Dad if they’re available.”
“Dad, I know you’re busy with work, but I really need the family together today,” he had told his father, allowing his voice to crack slightly with what he believed was genuine emotion. “It’s… it’s really important.”
Each call had been calculated to convey urgency without revealing the specifics of his self-diagnosed terminal condition. Cole wanted his loved ones to understand the gravity of the situation without giving them time to panic or ask too many questions that might reveal the somewhat speculative nature of his medical conclusions.
As he waited for his summoned loved ones to arrive, Cole practiced what he would say. He mentally rehearsed heartfelt speeches about love, forgiveness, and the meaning of life. He considered which family stories he wanted to share one last time, which inside jokes deserved final acknowledgment, and which unresolved conflicts needed closure before his departure from this world.
The apartment felt different as Cole moved through it, knowing (or believing) that he was seeing everything for potentially the last time. The morning light streaming through the living room windows seemed more poignant. The photographs on the mantle—images of family vacations, wedding days, college graduations—felt like artifacts from a life that was drawing to its close.
Cole settled onto the couch, pulling a blanket around his shoulders despite the fact that his fever had already begun to break. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the appropriate emotions for someone facing their mortality, working himself into a state of melancholy acceptance that felt both genuine and performative.
He was ready to say goodbye.
Michael’s Arrival: Comedy in the Face of Crisis
Michael Chen had been Cole’s best friend since their freshman year of college, when they had bonded over their shared love of obscure movies and their mutual inability to understand organic chemistry. Now twenty-nine and working as a graphic designer, Michael had learned to navigate Cole’s hypochondriac episodes with a combination of genuine concern and gentle humor.
When Michael received Cole’s dramatically cryptic phone call, his first instinct wasn’t panic—it was the familiar recognition of his friend’s tendency toward medical catastrophizing. Still, the unusual gravity in Cole’s voice had been concerning enough to prompt Michael to leave work early and drive across town to the apartment.
Michael arrived at 3:30 PM, carrying a bag of Cole’s favorite takeout from the Thai restaurant down the street and wearing the kind of casual Tuesday afternoon outfit that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced this was a genuine emergency.
“Alright, drama queen,” Michael called out as he used his spare key to enter the apartment, his voice carrying the affectionate teasing that characterized their friendship. “What terminal illness have you diagnosed yourself with this week? Please tell me it’s not the flesh-eating bacteria again.”
Michael found Cole arranged on the couch like a Victorian invalid, wrapped in blankets and staring contemplatively out the window with an expression of profound melancholy.
“Oh no,” Michael said, taking in the scene. “You’ve gone full ‘tragic poet on his deathbed.’ This is either really serious or really, really not serious.”
Cole turned to face his best friend, and Michael was struck by the genuine pallor in Cole’s complexion and the unusual heaviness in his eyes. For a moment, Michael’s joking demeanor faltered as he considered the possibility that this might actually be something real.
“Michael,” Cole said, his voice carrying what he believed was the weight of imminent mortality, “thank you for coming. I know you’re busy, but I… I needed to see you.”
Michael set down the takeout bag and approached the couch, his expression shifting from humor to concern. “Cole, what’s going on? You look terrible. Are you actually sick?”
“Sit down,” Cole said, patting the cushion beside him. “I need to tell you something important.”
Michael sat, studying his friend’s face for clues about whether this was genuine medical concern or another episode of Cole’s overactive medical imagination. The two extremes often looked remarkably similar in their early stages.
“I’ve been feeling… different,” Cole began, his voice taking on the cadence of someone delivering news of great significance. “Weak. Tired. There’s something wrong, Michael. Something serious.”
Michael waited for more specific information, but Cole seemed to be building toward some kind of dramatic revelation rather than providing clinical details.
“Okay,” Michael said carefully. “Have you seen a doctor? What did they say?”
Cole waved his hand dismissively. “Doctors don’t always catch things in the early stages. Sometimes you have to trust what your body is telling you.”
Michael felt a familiar combination of affection and exasperation. This was classic Cole—bypassing actual medical professionals in favor of his own medical research and intuitive diagnosis.
“And what is your body telling you?” Michael asked, trying to keep his tone neutral rather than skeptical.
Cole met his friend’s eyes with what he intended to be profound gravity. “That I don’t have much time left.”
Michael blinked, processing this statement. He looked at Cole—who appeared to have a slight fever and seemed tired, but was otherwise sitting upright, speaking clearly, and showing no signs of actual medical distress.
“Cole,” Michael said slowly, “you realize you look like you have a cold, right? Like, a totally normal, garden-variety cold?”
“It’s not a cold,” Cole said with the certainty of someone who had spent hours researching rare diseases online. “It’s something more serious. I can feel it.”
Michael studied his friend’s face, trying to determine how much of this was genuine medical concern and how much was Cole’s tendency to transform minor symptoms into major health crises.
“Alright,” Michael said, deciding to approach this with the humor that had gotten them through Cole’s previous medical panics. “So we’re doing a deathbed scene? Is this where I’m supposed to tell you all the things I never said? Because I have to warn you, most of what I never said involves criticism of your movie choices and that time you tried to grow a mustache.”
Despite his conviction that he was facing serious illness, Cole couldn’t help but smile slightly at Michael’s response. “I’m being serious, Michael.”
“I know you are,” Michael replied gently. “That’s what worries me. You’re always serious when you’re convinced you’re dying. Remember the appendicitis scare that turned out to be gas? Or the brain tumor that was actually a sinus headache?”
Cole’s expression tightened. “This is different.”
“They’re always different,” Michael pointed out. “That’s what makes them so convincing.”
Before Cole could respond, they heard footsteps on the exterior stairs leading to the apartment. Cole’s family was beginning to arrive, and the intimate conversation between friends was about to become a much larger gathering.
“Just… please don’t make jokes when my family gets here,” Cole requested. “Whatever this is, I want to handle it with dignity.”
Michael nodded, understanding that regardless of whether Cole was actually ill or simply experiencing another hypochondriac episode, his friend’s emotional distress was real and deserved respect.
“I’m here for you,” Michael said seriously. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together.”
Family Dynamics in Crisis
Cole’s mother, Patricia Martinez, arrived with the kind of purposeful urgency that suggested she had dropped everything to respond to her son’s mysterious summons. At fifty-five, Patricia was a petite woman with graying brown hair and the no-nonsense demeanor of someone who had raised two children while working as a high school administrator. She had learned to balance motherly concern with practical skepticism, especially when it came to Cole’s health anxieties.
Patricia was followed closely by Cole’s sister Amber, a twenty-six-year-old nurse who had inherited their mother’s practical nature along with her father’s dry sense of humor. Amber’s medical training made her both more qualified to assess Cole’s condition and more skeptical of his self-diagnoses, having witnessed countless patients who confused normal bodily functions with signs of serious illness.
“Cole, what’s going on?” Patricia asked immediately upon entering the apartment, her trained eye taking in the scene—her son wrapped in blankets, his best friend looking concerned but not panicked, and the general atmosphere of staged drama.
Amber hung back slightly, observing the tableau with the clinical detachment that came from her professional experience. She noted Cole’s slightly flushed complexion, his clear breathing, his alert eyes, and his ability to sit upright and speak normally.
“Looks like someone has a case of the sniffles,” Amber said with the affectionate mockery that characterized sibling relationships. “Are we doing the full ‘dramatic illness’ production today?”
“Amber,” Patricia warned, though her tone suggested she shared some of her daughter’s skepticism.
Cole shifted on the couch, trying to maintain his aura of tragic dignity in the face of his family’s practical assessment. “I asked you to come because I needed to see you. To talk to you.”
Patricia approached the couch and automatically reached out to feel Cole’s forehead, her maternal instincts overriding any skepticism about the seriousness of his condition.
“You have a slight fever,” she confirmed. “When did this start?”
“This morning,” Cole admitted. “But it’s not just the fever. It’s everything else. The fatigue, the weakness, the way my body feels…”
Amber moved closer, her nursing training prompting her to make a more thorough assessment. She observed Cole’s posture, his skin color, his breathing pattern, and his overall demeanor.
“Have you taken your temperature regularly? Are you hydrated? Have you eaten anything today?” Amber asked, falling into her professional mode.
Cole waved away her questions with the impatience of someone who felt his family was missing the larger picture. “This isn’t about basic care, Amber. This is about something more serious.”
“More serious how?” Patricia asked, settling into the chair across from the couch. “What exactly are you trying to tell us?”
Cole looked around at the assembled group—his mother’s concerned face, his sister’s professionally skeptical expression, Michael’s supportive but wary demeanor—and felt the weight of the moment he had been building toward.
“Where’s Dad?” Cole asked, suddenly realizing that his father hadn’t arrived with the rest of the family.
Patricia and Amber exchanged glances. “He’s still at work,” Patricia said carefully. “You know how he gets when he’s in the middle of a project. He said he’d try to get here as soon as he could.”
Cole felt a familiar stab of disappointment mixed with understanding. Richard Martinez was a dedicated civil engineer who had always struggled to balance his demanding career with family obligations. His absence at what Cole believed might be his final gathering felt both typical and heartbreaking.
“I wanted everyone here,” Cole said, his voice carrying genuine emotion. “I wanted to talk to all of you together.”
The gravity in Cole’s tone seemed to penetrate his family’s initial skepticism. Patricia’s expression shifted from mild concern to something approaching alarm.
“Cole,” she said slowly, “what exactly is wrong? What are you trying to tell us?”
Cole took a deep breath, preparing to deliver what he believed would be devastating news to the people he loved most.
“I think…” he began, then paused, struggling with how to articulate his conviction that he was facing serious illness. “I think there’s something really wrong with me. Something that can’t be fixed.”
The room fell silent. Michael, who had been listening to this conversation with growing recognition of Cole’s hypochondriac patterns, felt a chill of uncertainty. Patricia’s face went pale. Amber’s professional demeanor intensified as she began mentally cataloging possible serious conditions that could present with Cole’s vague symptoms.
“What kind of wrong?” Amber asked, her voice taking on the careful neutrality she used with patients who were delivering concerning information.
Cole met his sister’s eyes, then looked at his mother and Michael. “I don’t know exactly. But I can feel it. My body is telling me that something is very, very wrong.”
The Weight of Unspoken Fears
The confession hung in the air like a physical presence, transforming the casual gathering into something heavy with implication and dread. Patricia felt her throat tighten as maternal fears she had carried for twenty-eight years suddenly materialized into what seemed like immediate reality.
“Have you seen a doctor?” Patricia asked, her voice carefully controlled despite the panic rising in her chest. “Have you had tests? Blood work? Imaging?”
Cole shook his head, and Amber immediately felt her professional frustration spike. “Cole, you can’t diagnose yourself with a serious illness based on feeling ‘wrong.’ You need actual medical evaluation.”
“I know my body,” Cole insisted, his conviction strengthened by the fear he saw in his mother’s eyes and the concern he heard in his sister’s voice. “I know when something isn’t right.”
Michael watched this exchange with growing unease. He had seen Cole work himself into health panics before, but never with this level of family involvement and emotional intensity. The presence of Cole’s mother and sister seemed to be validating Cole’s fears in a way that Michael’s skeptical friendship hadn’t been able to counteract.
“What specifically are you feeling?” Amber pressed, falling back on her medical training to gather concrete information. “Describe your symptoms systematically.”
Cole began to list his concerns: the fever, the fatigue, the general sense of malaise, the feeling that his body was “shutting down.” As he spoke, Amber found herself caught between her professional assessment—which suggested a minor viral infection—and her emotional response to seeing her brother in genuine distress.
“These symptoms could indicate a lot of different things,” Amber said carefully. “Most of them minor and treatable.”
“But some of them serious,” Cole countered, latching onto the possibility she hadn’t explicitly ruled out.
Patricia looked between her children, feeling helpless in the face of medical uncertainty and her son’s obvious fear. “Cole, we need to get you to a doctor. Today. Right now.”
“I don’t want to spend what might be my last good day in a hospital waiting room,” Cole said, his voice taking on the melancholy tone he had been cultivating since morning. “I want to spend it with the people I love.”
The phrase “last good day” hit Patricia like a physical blow. She felt tears prick her eyes as the implications of Cole’s words sank in.
“Don’t talk like that,” she said sharply, her voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t you dare talk like that.”
Cole reached out and took his mother’s hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers that suggested she was fighting back tears. “Mom, I need you to know that whatever happens, I’ve had a good life. You and Dad gave me everything I needed to be happy.”
Patricia’s composure cracked completely. Tears began streaming down her cheeks as she gripped Cole’s hand. “Stop it. Stop talking like you’re saying goodbye.”
Amber moved closer to the couch, her professional training warring with her emotional response to seeing her mother break down and her brother apparently preparing for his own death.
“Cole,” Amber said firmly, “you’re scaring Mom unnecessarily. You have what appears to be a minor illness, and you’re turning it into a terminal diagnosis based on no medical evidence whatsoever.”
“You don’t understand,” Cole said, his voice rising with frustration. “I’m not making this up. I’m not being dramatic. Something is seriously wrong.”
Michael, who had been watching this family drama unfold with growing concern, finally spoke up. “Cole, why didn’t you call me earlier? If you’ve been feeling this way since morning, why didn’t you tell me you were worried about something serious?”
Cole turned to his best friend, feeling suddenly defensive about his decision to suffer in solitude before calling for his final gathering.
“I needed time to process it,” Cole said. “I needed to understand what was happening before I involved other people.”
“Process what?” Michael asked. “Understanding what? You felt sick and immediately decided you were dying?”
The bluntness of Michael’s question cut through the emotional atmosphere that had been building in the room. Patricia looked up at Michael with surprise, as if suddenly remembering that Cole had a history of health-related anxiety that his family had been indulging rather than addressing.
“Is this…” Patricia began slowly, “is this like the time you thought you had meningitis because you had a headache?”
Cole’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “This is nothing like that. This is real.”
“They were all real to you,” Amber pointed out, her nursing training helping her recognize the pattern of anxiety-driven medical fears. “That’s what made them so convincing.”
Cole felt the foundation of his dramatic gathering beginning to crumble as his family’s initial alarm gave way to recognition of his hypochondriac tendencies.
“I’m not making this up,” he insisted, his voice taking on a desperate edge. “I know the difference between anxiety and actual illness.”
“Do you?” Michael asked gently. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks exactly like every other time you’ve convinced yourself you were seriously ill.”
Cole stared at his best friend, feeling betrayed by Michael’s failure to take his condition seriously. “I thought you would understand. I thought you would support me.”
“I do support you,” Michael said earnestly. “That’s why I’m here. But supporting you doesn’t mean enabling your health anxiety.”
The word “anxiety” hung in the air, and Cole felt his carefully constructed narrative of tragic illness beginning to disintegrate under the weight of his family’s practical assessment.
Secrets Revealed in Crisis
The tension in the room was becoming unbearable when Cole’s father still hadn’t arrived, and the family gathering that was supposed to provide closure and comfort had instead devolved into a debate about the legitimacy of Cole’s medical concerns.
“Where is Dad?” Cole asked again, his frustration and disappointment evident. “I specifically asked for the whole family to be here.”
Patricia checked her phone for messages from her husband. “He said he’s trying to wrap up a client meeting. You know how he gets when work deadlines are involved.”
Cole felt a surge of anger mixed with hurt. Even if his condition wasn’t as serious as he believed, his father’s absence felt like a painful reminder of a lifetime of competing with Richard’s career for attention and priority.
“I can’t believe he’s choosing work over this,” Cole said, his voice bitter. “Even now.”
Amber shifted uncomfortably, recognizing the family dynamic that had always complicated their relationships. Their father’s demanding career had meant that many important family moments had been interrupted or postponed for professional obligations.
“He doesn’t understand how serious this is,” Patricia said, though her tone suggested she was no longer entirely sure how serious it actually was.
“Maybe that’s because it’s not serious,” Michael said quietly, voicing what everyone was beginning to think but no one wanted to say directly.
Cole turned to glare at his best friend, feeling increasingly isolated as his dramatic medical crisis lost credibility with his audience.
“I can’t believe you’re all dismissing this,” Cole said, his voice rising. “I gather the people I love most to tell them something important, and you’re all acting like I’m being ridiculous.”
“We’re not dismissing anything,” Amber said carefully. “We’re trying to understand what’s actually happening versus what you think is happening.”
Cole was about to respond when he noticed something he had been too distracted to observe earlier: the way Michael and Amber were sitting near each other, the subtle glances they exchanged, the familiarity in their body language that suggested a connection beyond casual acquaintance.
“Wait,” Cole said, his medical concerns momentarily forgotten as he focused on his sister and best friend. “Are you two…?”
Michael and Amber exchanged a look that confirmed Cole’s sudden suspicion.
“Are we what?” Amber asked, though her tone suggested she knew exactly what Cole was asking.
“You’re together,” Cole said, the statement falling somewhere between accusation and revelation. “You and Michael are dating.”
The room fell silent as this new information displaced the previous focus on Cole’s health crisis. Patricia looked between her daughter and Cole’s best friend with surprise and growing understanding.
“How long?” Cole asked, his voice carrying a mixture of hurt and betrayal that had nothing to do with his physical symptoms.
Michael and Amber exchanged another glance, clearly having discussed how to handle this revelation but not expecting it to come out during a family medical crisis.
“Three months,” Amber admitted quietly.
Cole stared at them, processing this information alongside his feelings of physical illness and emotional vulnerability. “Three months? And nobody thought to tell me?”
“We were going to tell you,” Michael said defensively. “We just wanted to make sure it was serious before we involved family.”
“I’m not just family,” Cole said, his voice rising. “I’m your best friend. You’re dating my sister, and you didn’t think I should know?”
Patricia watched this exchange with fascination, recognizing that the romantic revelation had completely shifted the emotional dynamic in the room. Her son’s dramatic medical crisis was being overshadowed by family relationship drama.
“We didn’t know how you’d react,” Amber said honestly. “You’ve always been protective of me, and we weren’t sure you’d approve of us dating.”
Cole felt a complex mix of emotions: hurt at being excluded from their relationship, concern about the potential complications of his best friend dating his sister, and underneath it all, a surprising sense of approval for the match.
“You’re right,” Cole said slowly. “I would have had opinions about it.”
Michael and Amber braced themselves for disapproval or anger, but Cole surprised them.
“But looking at you together…” Cole continued, his voice softening as he observed their obvious care for each other, “it makes sense. You’re both good people. You both deserve to be happy.”
The confession seemed to deflate some of the tension that had been building in the room. Amber smiled tentatively at her brother, while Michael looked relieved by Cole’s unexpected acceptance.
“Really?” Amber asked. “You’re okay with this?”
Cole managed a weak smile despite his ongoing conviction that he was seriously ill. “If I’m… if something happens to me, at least I know you’ll have each other.”
The return to his medical concerns brought the room’s focus back to Cole’s dramatic gathering and his belief that he was facing serious illness.
“Cole,” Patricia said gently, “you’re not dying. You have a cold.”
The Arrival of Truth
The family gathering continued for another hour, with conversation flowing between Cole’s health concerns, Michael and Amber’s relationship revelation, and ongoing frustration about Richard’s absence from what Cole believed was his final farewell.
The emotional intensity had begun to settle into a kind of resigned acceptance when the sound of a key in the front door announced another arrival. Cole looked up expectantly, hoping to see his father finally joining the family gathering, but instead, Camilla Martinez walked through the door.
Camilla was a petite woman with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and wearing scrubs that indicated she had come directly from her job as a physical therapist at the local rehabilitation hospital. At twenty-seven, she had been married to Cole for two years and had developed both deep affection for his caring nature and amused tolerance for his hypochondriac tendencies.
“Hey everyone,” Camilla said as she entered the living room, clearly surprised to find Cole’s family and best friend gathered in their apartment on a Tuesday afternoon. “This is unexpected. What’s going on?”
She took in the scene: Cole wrapped in blankets on the couch looking pale and dramatic, his mother with tear-stained cheeks, his sister and Michael sitting close together in a way that suggested romantic involvement, and an overall atmosphere of emotional intensity.
“Camilla,” Cole said, his voice carrying the weight of someone delivering important news to their beloved spouse. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Camilla approached the couch, automatically reaching out to feel Cole’s forehead as she had learned to do whenever he expressed health concerns.
“You’re a little warm,” she confirmed. “When did you start feeling sick?”
“This morning,” Cole said. “But it’s not just feeling sick. It’s more than that.”
Camilla looked around the room at the assembled family members, noting their expressions of concern mixed with what appeared to be frustration or skepticism.
“Okay,” Camilla said carefully. “What’s more than that?”
Cole took a deep breath, preparing to deliver to his wife the same dramatic revelation he had been building toward all afternoon.
“I think there’s something seriously wrong with me,” Cole said, his voice heavy with what he believed was tragic significance. “Something that can’t be fixed.”
Camilla blinked, processing this statement while mentally reviewing Cole’s history of medical anxiety and self-diagnosis.
“What kind of seriously wrong?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
“I don’t know exactly,” Cole admitted. “But I can feel it. My body is telling me that something is very wrong.”
Camilla looked at her husband—who appeared to have a minor fever and seemed tired, but was otherwise alert, coherent, and showing no signs of actual medical distress—and then looked around the room at his gathered family members.
“So you called everyone over because you think you’re seriously ill?” Camilla asked.
“I wanted to see them,” Cole said earnestly. “I wanted to tell them I love them. I wanted to say goodbye.”
Camilla stared at her husband for a long moment, her expression cycling through concern, confusion, and growing understanding. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she began to laugh.
It started as a quiet chuckle, then built into full-bodied laughter that filled the room and left everyone staring at her in shock.
“Camilla,” Patricia said, clearly disturbed by this response to her son’s medical crisis. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” Camilla said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “It really, really is.”
She turned to Cole, her expression a mixture of affection and exasperation.
“Cole, honey,” she said gently, “you have a cold. A completely normal, garden-variety cold. Your temperature is maybe 100 degrees, you’re a little congested, and you’re tired because you didn’t sleep well last night.”
The room fell silent as Camilla’s assessment cut through hours of dramatic buildup and emotional intensity.
“That’s not possible,” Cole said weakly. “I feel much worse than a cold.”
“You feel terrible because you have a cold and you’re anxious,” Camilla explained patiently. “Anxiety makes everything feel worse. You’ve worked yourself into a panic about having a serious illness, which has amplified every normal symptom into something terrifying.”
She looked around the room at Cole’s family members, who were staring at her with expressions ranging from relief to embarrassment to dawning understanding.
“Did he actually tell you he was dying?” Camilla asked.
“He said he didn’t have much time left,” Patricia admitted quietly.
“He talked about his ‘last good day,'” Michael added.
Camilla shook her head with the fond exasperation of someone who had been through this exact scenario multiple times.
“Cole,” she said, turning back to her husband, “when was the last time you diagnosed yourself with a serious illness?”
Cole’s face flushed with embarrassment as he realized how his afternoon of dramatic farewell appeared from his wife’s perspective.
“This is different,” he insisted, though his voice lacked the conviction it had carried earlier.
“It’s always different,” Camilla said gently. “That’s what makes it so convincing to you every time.”
The Aftermath of Overreaction
The silence that followed Camilla’s assessment was heavy with embarrassment, relief, and varying degrees of frustration. Cole remained on the couch, wrapped in blankets, feeling the weight of his dramatic overreaction settling around him like a lead apron.
Patricia was the first to speak, her voice carrying a mixture of relief and exasperation. “A cold. You gathered the entire family because you have a cold.”
“I didn’t know it was a cold,” Cole said defensively, though his voice lacked the conviction it had carried throughout the afternoon. “I felt really sick.”
“You felt sick because you are sick,” Camilla said patiently. “You just aren’t dying.”
Michael shook his head with the bemused expression of someone who had spent an afternoon enabling his friend’s medical anxiety. “Cole, I left work early. I thought you were actually… I mean, when you called, you sounded like you were delivering last words.”
Amber, who had been quiet since Camilla’s revelation, finally spoke up with the dry humor that characterized her personality. “I have to admit, this is probably the most dramatic cold diagnosis I’ve ever witnessed.”
Cole felt heat rising in his cheeks as the full scope of his overreaction became clear. He had summoned his entire family for an emergency gathering, delivered emotional speeches about love and mortality, and put everyone through hours of anxiety—all because he had convinced himself that a minor viral infection was a terminal illness.
“I really thought…” Cole began, then trailed off as he struggled to articulate how convincing his self-diagnosis had felt just hours earlier.
“You really thought you were dying,” Camilla finished for him, her tone gentle despite her obvious amusement. “I know. You always really think it.”
Patricia stood up from her chair, her emotional exhaustion evident in her movements. “Cole, you can’t keep doing this to us. You can’t keep scaring us like this.”
“I wasn’t trying to scare anyone,” Cole protested. “I was genuinely concerned about my health.”
“Your genuine concern is based on anxiety, not medical evidence,” Amber pointed out with her nurse’s practicality. “You need to learn the difference.”
Cole looked around the room at his family members, seeing a mixture of relief, frustration, and affection in their faces. He felt simultaneously grateful for their love and mortified by his dramatic overreaction.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to put everyone through this.”
“We know you didn’t mean to,” Patricia said, her voice softening as maternal concern replaced frustration. “But honey, you need to get help for this anxiety. You can’t keep living in fear every time you feel sick.”
Michael nodded in agreement. “Cole, this is the fourth time this year you’ve convinced yourself you had a serious illness. Remember the heart attack that was acid reflux? The stroke that was a tension headache?”
“The kidney failure that was dehydration,” Amber added. “Cole, there’s a pattern here.”
Cole felt defensive about having his medical concerns dismissed, even though he was beginning to recognize the validity of his family’s observations.
“I just want to be careful about my health,” he said weakly.
“There’s a difference between being careful and being paranoid,” Camilla said gently. “Being careful means getting regular checkups and listening to your body. Being paranoid means assuming every minor symptom is a sign of serious illness.”
Cole slumped back against the couch cushions, feeling deflated and embarrassed. The dramatic afternoon he had orchestrated now felt ridiculous rather than meaningful.
“So what now?” he asked quietly. “Do I just pretend this didn’t happen?”
“You take some ibuprofen, drink plenty of fluids, and get some rest,” Camilla said practically. “And tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, we talk about finding you a therapist who can help you deal with health anxiety.”
