I’ve known since a Friday in mid-July that the turning point has also arrived in my medicine cabinet. That morning I left my diabetologist’s practice in Hamburg-Altona with a pale pink prescription slip. It is only a few steps to the pharmacy. How many times had I taken this path, all these years? And yet something was different this Friday. For the first time, I didn’t get what I came for: the insulin that I need, without which, so much pathos must be allowed, I can’t be.
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