November 10, 1998 Today as I prepared to shower, I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror. I stood looking into my reflection...the face of a stranger. The large dark circles under my eyes and sunken cheeks served as the beginning journey to the rest of me. My neck is so thin that I am able to see the tendons and bony pertrusions have appeared all over my body giving me the appearance of an inmate at a death camp. In disbelief, I turned my eyes away from the mirror to look at the real me. It was other characteristics about my body that now stood out now. The scars and wounds that I had accumulated through my 40 years, I now saw collectively for the first time, giving me the impression that my body has indeed been well worn. I was always very strong, rarely afflicted with colds or flu and even when an occasional affliction came, it never took hold so much as to cause any great discomfort. However, in looking at myself now, the collective image reminded me of some war torn soldier. The ten inch scar on my ankle...I do not remember it being really painful or inconvenient, but the scar appears to me as a horrible reminder of days when I carelessly approached life with little fear of the consequences. The scar on my side, the long scar across my throat, and others. My hands looked the worse, there appeared no softness to them as a woman's should be. There was no evidence that my hands had ever cared for ailing patients, rocked a baby or gently cupped a puppy as I feed it with a dropper. My hands DID NOT TELL A TENDER STORY. Many scars remained from cuts......my thumb torn off, callous still was present on my palms which had begun to appear in my youth as a result of harvesting peanuts, or corn or some other task. Perhaps through the years, my habit of wearing long sleeves and much covering was more than just for comfort...perhaps on some level, I knew every effort I put forth, cost me and it was recorded on my flesh. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I beheld the sight of me. It was not vanity, or the loss of youth or beauty that motivated the tears. I had never been beautiful, nor vain about my looks. Cried because there did not appear to be anything about my body that indicated the things I remember most. there was nothing to indicate Nadia...nothing to indicate I had rescued other children. There was no evidence that I had sat and held the hand of the dying in hopes of providing some comfort. It was as if I turned to my outward self for conformation of all I thought I had done good in my life, only to see a very tired, old and worn out person. I suppose if I am to ever find anything in my physical appearance that would indicate that this person tried to help, literally put my life on the line more than once, then it is all of the above, because the efforts themselves were not easy, or pleasant or even fun. what they were was satisfying. But now, for my own child, I am unable to do anymore...now, my heart is heavy. For hours I have been unable to lye down for the increased pressure in my chest. It is hard to breath and the shower was not taken