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Recently, my dad and I started talking about my past. My dad is an agnostic at best, so it really surprised me when he brought up miracles. I'm the only person in the world to have been cured of Pulmonary Atresia, and it wasn't because of doctors.
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Eating was a struggle for me, especially when I was a little girl. Thanks (or no thanks) to Cystic Fibrosis, my pancreas has been almost completely useless since birth, and the only thing it's been able to produce for the past 17 years have been small amounts of insulin, but even that has decreased with age, and there's never been much I could really do about it. With diet, I could slow the progression, but I could never stop it.
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The next morning was freezing, but thankfully not windy. We arrived at camp just before dawn, after spending a restless night in the hotel, praying and napping as 5:00 am slowly rolled around. Our hunting guides Mike and Tom were already there waiting for us. The truck was already running and heated. All we needed to do was grab my rifle, pack inside the truck, and go.
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My lungs got plugged up on Saturday to the point I couldn't yawn. As the infection makes its way out, it sometimes falls back into my lungs and plugs them up, making them itch and hurt. Still, I forced myself to go on a long walk, and then did a few extra treatments. But the mucus plug wouldn't clear, so I decided to take treatment to the next level the next day.
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I woke up around 5 am this morning. Last night, I couldn't sleep. I was so wound up that sleep didn't matter. When I closed my eyes, I was back out on the plains where the pronghorn were everywhere, and I'd wake up to check the time, just to see when my dream would come true.
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