You should go to the doctor with my mom. You might be surprised.
Not me. Not anymore. After dozens of visits to urologists, oncologists, podiatrists, primary care, and physical therapy, the pattern is clear.
For my mom, these appointments are not so much about infections or tightened tendons, or high blood pressure. For my mom, it’s story time.
Lately, she’s been slipping a book into her go-to-doctor bag. Erma’s Story, the book my dad compiled for her, about her childhood. Two weeks ago, she gave this book to Dr. Madison, who read it. And last week, they traded stories.
My mom grew up in a family of 13, he in a family of 14. Both walked to school—she across the mountains, and he fifteen miles, from the small Liberian village where he lived to the nearest city school, thumbing a ride when he could.
They talked about now living in a town where most people have no clue what it’s like to grow up in Liberia or in an Amish Mennonite community in the mountains. About how it feels to be different from those around you.
Today, my mom does it again, this time with a physical therapist, who mentions my mom’s strong grip.
“Milking hands,” my mom says.
They trade farm stories, the therapist having spent summers on her grandparents’ farm. And the therapist gets a book.
If I were on the exam table, I’d be wondering. Has my blood pressure soared? Do my lab results show infection? Is the biopsy benign?
These questions flit somewhere in my mom’s mind. But not in the forefront.
At 97, here’s what matters—her stories and theirs.
Apple to Apple 