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The Death Of The United States

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There was a strong pungent of disinfectants and rubbing alcohol as she was rushed into the lobby. Crying out her last breath to express her agonizing pain as she lied down on the cold gurney. The nurses in a light blue uniform quickly arrived as several doctors in long white gowns rushed to the scene. Her mother was by her side, holding her hands as tight as she could, as the nurses pushed the agitating gurney towards the automatic doors. Soon her visions blurred and as the world turned into a tint of pink and red. As her vision slowly darkened, she solely relied on the touch of her mother’s warm hand and her soothing voice. Notwithstanding the tight grip of her mother’s hands, they was soon torn apart. Fear took over her body as she cried even louder. The sudden yet rhythmic beep was the last memory she could recall. It was March 5th. She had punctured the retina of her left eye and required extensive emergency surgeries over several months lasting up to a year. She was the youngest child in the intensive care department of ophthalmology at the time. She became very close with all the nurses, doctors and even the next door neighboring pirates; they all had a patch over their eyes for protection. To the three year-old, the hospital was her second home, playground, school, and hell. After a year of progressive observation and improvement followed by several more operations, the doctors notified her parents that there still was a possibility where she could no longer see the

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