When I was in college, first time through, someone who had one leg in a cast struck up a conversation with me. He was clearly not having a good time.

His leg, particularly his foot, was healing from a motorcycle accident. It hurt. Even worse, he worried that when the muscles grew back, they wouldn't work right.

He had legitimate concerns. He may also have expected somewhat more heartfelt sympathy than I showed. He'd started talking with me because he noticed that I was walking with a cane.

I tried to provide the social connection he apparently wanted. How successful my effort was, I have no idea.

The conversation did, however, help me appreciate how lucky/blessed I was. Being born with defective hips, I never faced the adjustments he was dealing with.

On the other hand, I live with the results of a doctor's decision to use me for his research. Without my parent's knowledge.

More at A Catholic Citizen in America.

(A doctor used me for his research. Without telling my parents. They learned, eventually, that I had hip dysplasia; and had it treated. With mixed results.)

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