I woke up this morning, and my right hand was completely dead. I mean like this dead tumor hanging off the end of my arm. Like a skin tag. No feeling—no sensation—and my mind was screaming something about writing. How am I going to write? The only way I could tell that I had my right hand is I could see it.
I looked at my hand and willed it to move. There was nothing at first; then after what seemed to be many long moments–movement. I still have not breathed a sigh of relief. I can only think of what’s to come. My right hand is dying. This movement is a fleeting respite. In what will seem like a split second, it will simply stop responding to my commands to operate.
I’ve lost my legs twice. The best description I could come to is it was like air between my hips and the floor. I…
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