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My legs were killing me. I had walked the entire length of a good sized concourse at the Cleveland Hopkins Airport . I needed surgery. Sitting down felt terrific. Walking toward me was a bright-faced, young woman in her twenties with a child no more than five with the unmistakable hair of a person with cancer, undergoing or having just completed chemotherapy. In an instant, I could no longer feel the pain in my legs.
I wonder if perspective ever becomes automatic?
Eight years later, I can tell you it does when I am awake.