[In Focus] Lessons from both sides of the bedrail

I was 8 years old when my spleen nearly ruptured. The first sign was not pain but the sudden inability to finish dinner—dangerous ground in a Cypriot immigrant family. My mother rubbed warm olive oil on my abdomen, a home remedy that offered comfort but no cure. Days later we learned my spleen had grown so large it pressed against my stomach, making eating impossible. Despite days in hospital and a transfusion, my greatest relief was being absolved of the cardinal sin of leaving my mother's louví (black eyed peas) unfinished.