The good old days of healthcare: we lived in a poor neighborhood in East Liverpool, Ohio. Our doctor was a general practitioner from India, with a medical degree from West Germany. He was a short sturdy man with a calm manner. He spoke clear English with an accent. When we were sick I walked our three small children over there, the youngest in the stroller, about four blocks. He accepted Medicaid, government medical insurance. I was still a fairly new mom, and he exuded steadiness. Most of the time we had just the usual earaches and sore throats. One time his nurse gave us each a wooden stick to hold. He went down the row from me to my youngest child, using each stick to hold down the relevant tongue so he could see our throats. Then he prescribed antibiotics, a thick pink liquid that was incredibly sweet.

I only saw him move quickly once: when my five-year-old son had been throwing up for more than 24 hours straight and was dehydrated. He injected my son with medication, with no explanation, just urgency; it worked and my son recovered. Every other time we went, the doctor was calm, not rushed, willing to answer questions, patient with my ignorance.

He had a lot of colorful charts and a model of an ear in his office. I enjoyed reading them. My children sometimes asked about them. A visiting physician overheard me explaining how the inner ear works, and was impressed with my knowledge. I thanked him. Looking back, I think most of the patients were relatively uneducated and almost all poor. I wonder how much curiosity his other patients had for the information in front of them while they waited.