By A.K. Whitney, Center for Health Journalism, November 11, 2019
I don’t remember the date, or even the time of year, though the medical records tell me it was 1977.
I was 6.
But I will always remember that day: the gloomy, wood-paneled exam room at Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm, the hard, high table I sat on, the doctor looming above me as he muttered about swan necks and hammers, though there were no birds or tools in sight.
He didn’t bother making eye contact with me. I’m not sure he even made it with my mother and grandfather, who were just two of the many adults present.