"Maybe I shouldn't travel," I proposed, glancing in the opposite direction of my bared left arm...the arm across which I could even now feel a cool, moist cotton ball sliding. This was it. Years of existence, months of planning for Uganda and weeks of planning for Mexico had accumulated to bring me to this point. A needlepoint.
"Which hand do you use to write?" here came the voice of the nurse.
"Left," I responded.
"You're right-handed, dear," corrected my mom...
