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I soon found that I could breathe
with the respirator. This meant trying to inhale
a
little air
and
expanding my lungs as much as I
could.
My
chest
ached, but I continued. After 100
breaths, I stopped to
see if
my lungs would
expand on their own. Nothing happened. Yet the voice kept
saying,
"You must keep trying."
All night long I
stayed awake,
repeating the process: 100 deep
breaths, a five-minute
rest,
another 100
breaths, another brief rest.
When morning
arrived, I was still
practicing. I was not tired, but the pain
in my chest had become
severe. Convinced that I
was
doing
something
that would help me to recover, I
knew that I must continue to bear it. It was as if God were speaking
to me, and I had no right to question His judgment.
My faith never wavered. Despite seemingly insurmountable odds, I
refused to think of quitting. As far as I knew, no one had ever
tried this, let alone succeeded.
From page
41
Thinking
about the obstacles our
forefathers had to
overcome to create this nation
helped to put my own difficulties
into perspective. I
was
fighting against the odds,
too. The well-trained
and organized medical
staff didn't believe that I could
accomplish my goal—full recovery—just
as King George
doubted that the uprising in
the colonies would amount
to much. My hunting musket was the
damaged muscles and organs that I
had to make function like a fine
rifle. My
constant pain
was the bitter
winter I
had to
survive. Those courageous men and women of the Revolution
had made it, and
so would I.
From page 84
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