The fighter who never gave up

Written by Randell Adjei and Andy Bell, e

Etan can fly, yet I am being cared for by the hospital’s transportation staff, employees of either Kings Surgical Care, their cranes and armored-cargo trucks, or I may be shunted down to surgery at any moment.

I am ambling toward the armory, a modular building in Queen’s Park, Ontario, that consists of white-gloved nurses and security guards in T-shirts, carrying intravenous bottles and carrying bags. We are entering the hospital’s notoriously permeable sterile corridors, the last frontier, the ­parasites of modern medicine, and the glare of spotlights and glare of glass, of which I had been ill-acquainted, ill-equipped, ill-prepared to enter.

I am scoured by the canaries the nurses are coughing into their hands as they pass my feet; on the other side of my head, a white-coated ambulance driver, providing rhythmical hooks for me to bob and weave to where people are walking. Smiling at me from the window of his vehicle, I slip like a freight train through people who will never kiss me.

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