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Sarah figured her arms had about fifteen minutes of strength left, but that was OK. She knew precisely where to look for that box of old photos: on the top shelf of the closet, behind the suitcase full of books and next to that bag of wool yarn she was saving for when her fingers were stronger.
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
who had but one child and knew not what to do.
She loved her dear Betsy but lived in a panic
since the doctor told her, "Your girl's myasthenic."
How should she raise Betsy? And where would they go?
A couple of issues ago I rained all over you about my current health problems, the first being that the bone tissue of both femoral heads (those knobby little things at the top of your thigh bones that fit into your hip joints) had been chemically destroyed by some long-ago high dosages of prednisone.
As seen from the cooling shade of a beach umbrella, the young couple jogging by looked light, lithe and invincible.
"Omigod, please make it not true!" Heather muttered, "but it's got to be true because the tests say it's probably true, which means, of course, it is true, only no one will say so, which means I'll have to quit my job because I'll be unable to work and, ohmigod, I'll never
WARNING: Don't try this at home! What you are about to read involves decisions I believe were right for me, but that in no way means they are necessarily right for you.
Once upon a time there lived a beautiful young maiden named Cinderella who had MG. Fact is, it was her screwy immune system that had condemned her to a lifetime of scrubbing the hearth and enduring the endless taunts of her cruel stepmother and stepsisters.
Shortly after my thymectomy, while I was still in that, "Will I ever be able to breathe again?" stage, one of the nurses decided I could use some encouragement. The next day a woman who had the same procedure appeared at my bedside.
"Harder!" Julianna squeezed her eyes tighter. "I've got to fight harder!" Sweat prickled as she fought to keep her head upright. How would she ever conquer this MG is she couldn't even hold her stupid head up?
The TV commercial started and Jim grabbed for the remote - too late. Three luscious women, clad only in barely-legal wet bikinis and clutching bright, shiny cans of cola, loped languidly toward him, sneering their contempt into the camera.
6055 E. Washington Blvd.
Suite #350
Los Angeles, California 90040
Phone: (323) 887-0056