by Dr. David McLaughlin

A hulk of a man, my great-uncle Dr. Nelson Combs appeared tired in his rumpled sport coat from seeing a steady stream of patients all day. It was my turn to sit on his exam table and in that moment his diagnosis changed my life. It was 1953 and I was 8.

"Davy," he told me, "you have positive Babinski signs."

"What does that mean?" I asked, lip quivering, in the most grown-up voice I could muster.

"When I scratch the bottom of your feet, your big toes should go up, instead of down," he explained, noting this could be a sign of polio. "Adding in your fever and weak legs, it looks like you do have polio. But if you rest, you"ll recover."

The word "polio" terrified me. My parents had driven me just weeks before to Grandma Combs' house in tiny Mulberry, Ind., to get away from Milwaukee"s polio epidemic. The prevailing wisdom was avoid crowds, particularly public swimming pools, where the virus spread easily.

I kept picturing neighborhood kids like my pal Joey's sister who was paralyzed. She walked stiffly, using braces. Other classmates lived in iron lungs — a tubular chamber of a machine that helped them breathe when polio paralyzed muscles in their chest. Would I ever play baseball or be able to run up the bleachers at Milwaukee Braves' games again?

I did recover that summer, except for my Babinski reflexes, which have remained with me more than 50 years. These reflexes sometimes persist in people who've had polio and in others with central nervous system problems. After spending a few months at Grandma"s, I rejoined my mom, dad, brother and cocker spaniel, Taffy, in Milwaukee.

More than 35,000 Americans were afflicted with polio in 1953. But in Pittsburgh, Dr. Jonas Salk was fine-tuning a polio vaccine he spent years developing. The killed virus injection was tested on 2 million children, known as Polio Pioneers, and declared safe and effective in 1955 — the year I got my shot.

Within two years, U.S. polio cases decreased by 90 percent.

Around that time, my mom told me how she saw Edward R. Murrow interviewing Dr. Salk on TV.

"Who owns the patent?" Murrow asked him.

"There is no patent for the polio vaccine; it belongs to the world," Salk replied. He never sought any payment for the discovery.

That brief encounter with polio became a turning point in my life. I knew then that I wanted to become a physician, just like my great-uncle. And Dr. Salk's altruism had a profound influence—  a reminder that we doctors shouldn't be motivated solely by financial gain.

Even in 2010, I reflect on how Dr. Combs comforted me during his daily visits 57 years ago, reassuring me that he could help me recover, treating me as if I were his only patient. I try to replicate that same doctoring style myself. My widowed Grandma Combs, who raised chickens and sold eggs, tried to repay our gratitude by giving her brother Ball jars of canned goods.

Whenever I look at the Norman Rockwell print of a small-town doctor in my den or have an especially hectic day in the office, I pause and think of those simpler times. I remember how my great-uncle would pinch my toe during his house call, asking, "Davy, what mischief did Howdy Doody get into today?"

Dr. David McLaughlin — called Dr. Mac — leads the Women's Specialty Health Centers in Noblesville, Ind., and is highly rated on Angie's List. He's a gynecologist who specializes in infertility, in vitro fertilization, menopause hormone replacement and reproductive surgery.