It's over. After eighteen months of pokes, prods, invasions, treatments and side effects, she has faded into a shell of her former self. They say there's nothing left to do. All that remains is a drying out husk that faintly resembles the woman I've lived my life for. She's not there anymore. She can't respond to my hand holding hers; she doesn't
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I would love to e-mail you and tell you about things, possibly even get together sometime, but I don't know who you are. If you let me know, we can work on that.
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