My basketball-playing arthritic black woman, when I ignored her aching knees and asked about her kids, opened up, chatted happily, and brought her kids in to meet me. When she left, for the first time she forgot to leave a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet. Many of my other patients brought me gifts: my LOL in NAD with the taped-up eyelids brought me her niece, a knockout sabra with a tanned face and shoulders like a fullback and a smile as enticing as a Jaffa orange; my artificial breast brought a bottle of whiskey, and my Portuguese artificial foot brought me a bottle of wine. These gifts were for
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