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Back in January, I picked Dick
up at the airport when he returned home from Florida. He had
just received the grim prognosis from his Dermatologist, that
his cancer had reoccurred once again. Dick counts 14
operations since the first discovery almost 17 years ago. But
after overcoming the odds so many times - this time the cancer
had spread to places inaccessible by outpatient surgery under
general anesthesia.
He knew it was bad. On the way home from
the airport we stopped at a favorite restaurant. In response
to the "How ya doin'?" Dick announced that he had four weeks
to live and he had cancer and it was bad, etc.
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