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woman crying alone

You Don’t Have Hope

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In 2013, I was wheeled into the operating room and greeted by the usual crew: nurses, surgeons, anesthesiologist, all gowned, gloved, goggled and masked beyond recognition. After 13 surgeries (or was it 15?), I knew the drill. But this time there was someone new: a burly man with dark hair crisply parted and plastered to his head. His hands were beefy, his physique muscular. He wore a black, rubber apron that hung all the way to his shins.
How do you find hope when you have none? You don’t.