In 1959, following her cardiologist’s orders, my mother took to her bed for a year. Her arteries were found to be compromised (later determined to be angina), with the concomitant restricted blood flow, necessitating dramatic measures of treatment. These were the antiquated days of medicine, apparently. Leeches and cupping were no longer in vogue and bypass surgery was in its developmental stages. Bed rest for cardiac patients seemed to be the prescription of choice. It had only taken three months of hospitalization for my mother’s doctor to arrive at a diagnosis and the resulting prognosis. While my mother languished in Peralta Hospital for an entire season and my father fretted over how to care for his 8-year-old hand-wringing daughter, family friends took action and…