On my very first birthday, I fell off the front porch of our home and broke my leg. Because I lived in a remote village in Papua New Guinea with my missionary parents, I was flown to the closest town with a western doctor. Upon admittance to the hospital, my leg was put in traction and my mother told to go home. The nurses loved me. Who wouldn’t adore a one-year-old baby cooing and doing acrobatics on the traction ropes? My dear mother, having five other children to care for, could only come to visit me after three weeks. Medical practice in the early 1960s also did not allow parents…