While a youngster I experienced a number if health issues: scarlet fever, ear aches, appendicitis to name a few. But I had never been witness to any family members being ill until 1948 when I was fifteen. My mother had to have an operation for a benign ovarian tumor that had enlarged in her abdomen to the size of a grapefruit. Five days after surgery, my father was called one evening to immediately come to the hospital. Given that I would be home alone, he took me with him. When we arrived, I sat in a waiting area while Dad talked to the surgeon. I found out later that her incision had ruptured and the doc thought she might not make it. On the drive home, Dad dosed momentarily at the wheel and, when we hit some gravel, I exclaimed “DAD!” He recovered and we made it home safely; he was, no doubt, drained and in shock because of the news. But Mom continued to hang on after a second trip to the operating room, during which the surgeon determined that he couldn’t close the abdomen, he bandaged the incision and hoped that it would heal over time without sutures. He said that she would have to remain in the hospital for weeks, if not months. Because the store had to remain open – except for an hour-and-a-half lunch break – and I had to go to school, Dad made the trip to visit Mom twice a day. In time, the hospital stay wore on her mentally and the docs determined that it would be best for her to go home if we were willing to change her dressings and give her medicines as prescribed. Once home, we were relieved that her outlook changed and the twice daily trips to the hospital for Dad were over. Her bedridden recovery took well over a year and once able to take steps, she had to wear a brace (professional girdle) while upright for the rest of her life. While recovering physically to a degree, she would suffer from anxiety and depression from time to time over the following forty years until her death in 1989.