As a child in the late ‘80s in a small Western Pennsylvanian town, I was proud of my two doctor parents. I knew it was a big deal by the way people looked at me. Their eyes widened: Both?!
My parents saw a lot go wrong for people. My dad, as an OB Gyn; my mother as a pediatrician. They shared a practice together — a one-stop shop for all of your pregnancy-to-baby needs! In comparison to many of their patients, my brother and I must’ve appeared healthy. We never saw other doctors or had to make doctor appointments. Even when my brother broke his foot wrestling, we didn’t go to the emergency room. (Two days later, when he couldn’t put his foot inside his shoe, my dad finally took him for x-rays.) When I fell off a bench and cracked my head open on a concrete floor, Dad took me to the office after hours and stitched it up himself. I can still remember him flicking on the lights, the green carpet, the feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing. When I was 15, I started getting migraines. Mom took me to a neurologist, and I began treating them with powerful meds.
With two doctors in charge, we were safe. Ailments had physical causes and physical solutions. Everything was analytical, science-based. The world made sense.