I met the most extraordinary person the other day. She came in by ambulance to the emergency department where I practice. Her right side had suddenly become weaker than usual, and she was worried she might be having another stroke. She was only 34 years old, but she had a particularly nasty case of lupus, and her body bore the stigmata of her decade-long fight to maintain her health. Most visibly,
the disease had marked her face with clusters of angry-looking red bumps and had marred her dark coloring with splotches of pigment loss—the scars of her previous battles. She certainly wasn't beautiful in any conventional sense, and I found myself wondering what she must think when she looked in the mirror in the morning. Had becoming so disfigured through no fault of her own made her bitter?
Lerch V. The Only Thing That Matters. JAMA. 2008;299(10):1113. doi:10.1001/jama.299.10.1113
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