As a child, I often spent my time constantly in and out of my pediatrician’s office and at hospitals getting my blood drawn, checking for jaundice, and making sure that my Hepatitis B remain dormant in my liver. But all of the appointments spent with these people made me view them second to my parents: if my parents couldn’t fix my Hep B, then they would call their “handy-dandy friends” to fix me up. And I always thought it was so amazing that these unbelievable heroes could assuage human pain and disease with their bare hands, whether it was performing a breast biopsy to scribbling a prescription down on paper—I wanted to be just like them. But it was when my little sister Kristine and I were racing for the keys on top of a shelf above the