Roughly three years ago I took The Boy Child to the hospital because he was having trouble breathing. He was quickly admitted and a course of treatment was started, but when he continued to decline instead of improve, it became apparent that the interventions that particular hospital was able to provide weren't going to be enough, and so they decided to transfer him to a larger hospital.
Getting strapped onto the ambulance gurney, purple hospital gown and all.
If you remember, my Girl Child was pretty sick as a baby and spent quite a bit of time in the intensive care unit. When The Boy Child was born, I had just gotten to a place with her where I felt optimistic about her future, and so as a precaution I had taken him in to see our geneticist. I wanted to rule out him having the same disorder that his sister and I have— or if he did have it, it was obviously important that I was aware of it.
When I took him to the appointment, he was so healthy that the geneticist decided not to run the outrageously expensive test, and by clinical diagnosis deemed him "not affected."
He was wrong.