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have to do for treatments that are the last defense for keeping me alive. Tonight, I am about to jump, screaming, out of my skin as the burning and itching keep amping up. The pain is pretty intense, but in a long history of pain, it is fairly bearable.
While I sat in the waiting room, this morning, the door opened from the inner sanctum and a white clad, matronly lady backed out, managing a wheelchair containing a rather handsome gentleman of advanced years, although certainly not ancient.
As I smiled and said "hi," they returned the greeting and she continued backing across the room and out the door, I noticed that the wheelchair-bound gentleman had only one shoe on, the other leg appeared to have been amputated just below the knee. Then I saw that the leg with a shoe on it had no ankle, merely a piece of black pipe. That leg, too, appeared to have been amputated, probably the ugly rewards of diabetes.
The saddening sight of the results of this man's battle for survival did not obscure the fresh bandage on his face where the doctor had just removed some sort of skin affliction, presumably cancer.
As the door hissed shut behind the pair, I caught the eye of the waiting couple across from me, smiled faintly and said, with some admiration, "No matter how bad we think we've got it, there are those poor souls who have it so much worse and keep on fighting."
The lady of the couple nodded thoughtfully and told me, "You know, he probably says the same thing."
I felt humble and inspired.
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