into the accelerated phase of the disease, and doctors had given her six months to live. So I had six months to raise enough money to fund experimental treatment to save her life.
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It was a gamble. Every day I'd see the sun set, and I'd wonder if we'd ever be together again. I felt so helpless as I watched time slip awaythe leaves were changing color, the seasons passed me by; and meanwhile, my mother was dying thousands of miles away. I would listen to her frail voice crackle over the telephone wire, and pray that she'd hang in there just a tiny bit longer. How I wish I could've stayed home with her!
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But that was not an option. When we hugged good-bye months ago, I heard her whisper, "If you make it, I'll make it." She wanted to keep fighting, she wanted to believe that dreams could come true. I had to prove her right.
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Every day was the same routine: I'd get up, skate hours through the frigid rain, and fall asleep in the dark tent pitched at the side of the frosty road. And every day I faced the same excruciating pain. The pavement was coarse, and each step stabbed my back. On breaks I would change my socks, which were soaked in blood from my raw blisters.
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Just as I made it over the crest to the final hill, I looked down. In the distance, I saw the glare of city lights. I stopped and stared in disbelief as tears fell down my cheeks. It was so beautiful! Time, mind and feeling were restored, and I could feel every ounce of my physical pain and emotional drain.
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After going through two pairs of skates, eleven sets of wheels, four tubes of muscle rub, three bottles of Advil, sixty batteries, four Walkmans, seven stitches in my elbow, four prescriptions of antibiotics, rice cakes and 150 liters of Gatorade, it was over.
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At that moment, I knew it had been worth it. There was a reason for every blister, for every tear, for every
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