Setting: tree pollen infested suburb of our nation's capital, springtime
son's friend (unaffected)
son (with puffy eyelids and superficial excoriations on arms/back/legs)
mom (pediatrician, imperfect)
Act I: morning, breakfast
MOM: (places drops in son's eyes, sprays up son's nose, 10 ml syringe generic nonsedating antihistamine in son's mouth). Have a good day, sweetie.
SON: (blinking, sniffing, rubbing, scratching... yet smiling.) Thanks mom.
Act II: school, lunchtime
SON'S FRIEND: (inquisitively) Hey, why doesn't your mom just take you to the doctor?
SON: (emphatically) Because my mom is a doctor.
-- The end --
Summary: A mother in medicine recognizes that despite everything she (as a pediatrician) knows how to do, and everything she (as a mother) wants to do for her son, she is imperfect in her ability to cure all. Drops, sprays, creams, liquids for her patients... plus kisses for her own son.
Epilogue: This mother in medicine recognizes, more painfully, that she cannot prevent or cure cancer in her own parents. She can understand and translate the fast talking teams of surgeons, anesthesiologists, oncologists, radiologists. And she can be there with support, a lot of love, and a little laughter amidst the tears.