October 13, 2015
My father was a physician with his own family practice when I was a young girl. I remember going there on Saturday mornings; the whoosh of the heavy metal back door opening and the medicinal smell in the air. The nurses would be brewing coffee and chatting in the kitchen.
I would follow my Dad down the hall, past the exam rooms to his office where he would change into a starched white lab coat, while I would take a seat at his desk with the large black chair that rocked and swiveled.
when you share your story, inevitably you will touch someone else. the someone who needs to hear it most. you may never know it. but they will. and that alone is reason for telling. ready to share your truth?
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