When the Questions Start Before the Answers

For the past few years, Milton Junior has been missing more school days than any parent feels comfortable admitting out loud. Some mornings, he’d wake up exhausted. Other days, he’d complain about headaches, dizziness, or just “not feeling right.” And then there were the days when he looked perfectly fine — until he suddenly wasn’t.

If you’re a parent, you know that feeling. That quiet alarm bell that rings in your chest long before anyone else hears it.

We went from doctor to doctor, test to test, explanation to explanation. “Maybe it’s a virus.” “Maybe it’s stress.” “Maybe he’s growing.” After a while, “maybe” becomes the most frustrating word in the English language.

Three years of this. Three years of watching my boy struggle through something none of us could name.

Then one afternoon, our doctor suggested a new test — something he hadn’t tried before. At that point, I would’ve agreed to test him for alien DNA if it meant getting closer to an answer.

A few days later, the results came in. The doctor sat me down and said the words that would change everything:

“His insulin fasting levels are abnormal.”

Now, I’m a single dad in Windhoek, not a medical researcher. So naturally, I did what every confused parent does — I Googled it.

Except Google thought I was asking about Muslim fasting.

So there I was, trying to understand my son’s health, and suddenly my entire ad stream turned into Arabic calligraphy, Ramadan recipes, and travel deals to Dubai. Even YouTube started recommending videos about the history of the crescent moon.

I had to laugh. Because sometimes, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.

But beneath the humour was something heavier — the realisation that this was the first time in three years that we had a name. A direction. A clue. Something to hold onto.

Junior is 11 now. He’s bright, funny, stubborn in the best ways, and tougher than he knows. And as we start this journey of understanding what “insulin fasting” means for him, for our meals, for our routines, and for our future, I’m learning that asking “why” isn’t just about getting answers.

It’s about refusing to accept confusion as a diagnosis.

It’s about advocating for your child even when you’re tired.

It’s about turning fear into curiosity, and curiosity into action.

This blog — Dad Who Asked Why — is where I’ll share our story. The recipes we’ve adapted. The questions we’ve asked. The mistakes we’ve made. The small victories that feel like mountains. And the hope I want every parent to feel, even on the days when nothing makes sense.

If you’re reading this because your child is going through something similar, I hope our journey helps you feel a little less alone. If you’re reading this because you’re a policymaker or health professional, I hope it reminds you that behind every statistic is a child like Junior — and a parent trying their best to understand.

We’re still figuring things out. But at least now, we know where to start.

And yes — I’m still getting Arabic ads. I guess that’s just part of the journey too.