During my cancer treatment, my father documented everything: doctors, appointments, weather, parking and even where I threw up. Thirty years later, I understood those notes differently. They were a record of what a terrified parent does when love cannot fix the problem.

At 21, I watched my father drive onto a Manhattan sidewalk to get me home from brain cancer treatment. Thirty years later, I realized that absurd New York moment was a perfect metaphor for American healthcare: when the road is blocked, patients are expected to find the sidewalk.