Early in the pandemic, I had occasion to page through photo albums my mother assembled during my childhood. Some of those happy images chilled my physician heart. There I was, two months old, sleeping peacefully on my stomach, in the middle of a sheepskin rug.
There I am, seven years later, seated with my siblings on lawn chairs in the bed of the pickup truck as my parents drove us home. We…
To access content, please login or purchase a subscription.