I knew Margaret was sick when we met, but at twenty-seven, I never truly believed her illness could take her from me.
She had a rare autoimmune disease that meant hospitals, specialists, medications, and uncertainty were already part of her life. Somehow, though, Margaret had a way of making even the worst days feel strangely ordinary. She joked with nurses, complained dramatically about hospital food, and named her IV pole Stanley. Continue Reading ⬇️
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