In this family photo from last year, my brother is in the middle of the back row,
with a gimme cap. I thought I had a photo of the two of us but can't find it.Osteopathic medicine runs in my family. When my brother and I were young, we could count 18 osteopathic physicians in the family, including uncles, cousins, his father (who died young) and mine. John become a D.O., as did his son and one of my nieces from New York. Today's generation proudly carries on the tradition.
John and I have swapped stories from our childhood. He said if he was sick in bed, he'd hear Dad coming up the stairs and think, "If I pretend to be asleep, he won't treat me." It never worked. I used to scream, wiggle, and protest, Dad would say, "People pay me good money to do this."
John came to treat me for my walking pneumonia today, and I conveniently managed to fall and badly bruise a knee last night, so he treated me for both. And both feel better tonight. John's treatments are nothing like Dad's--Dad was old school, crack and pop. He had hands like a giant from all his years of using them. John's treatment today focused mainly on my head and neck though he pumped my chest and told me to cough. His touch is gentle, and you don't realize he's doing anything, but his eyes are closed and he's concentrating. I can sure tell he loosened my sinuses.
The nicest part about it was that we had a good visit while my sister-in-law kept an appointment. My brother lives maybe an hour and a quarter away, and we talk on the phone frequently but we only see each other on family occasions, so this was a bonus. Of course tonight I can think of a dozen things I didn't tell him. All my life, I've known I was grateful to have a protective big brother--and to be born into an osteopathic family.