“We have to amputate your legs. Today.”
That’s what the doctor told me as I lay in a hospital bed.
The blinding, florescent lights buzzed overhead, and my nostrils filled with that bleach hospital smell, overpowering me in the cramped, chilly room.
My wife squeezed my hand, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“No,” she cried. “He can’t live the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”
“Without the amputation,” the doctor told me, “you’ll be dead within a year.”
I couldn’t believe it. My passion had always been hiking, and my wife and I had dreamed of one day hiking the Appalachian Trail.
But 4 years ago, the doctors wanted to put me under anesthesia, and cut off my legs… leaving nothing but worthless stumps.
All because I was one of 115 million Americans with
prediabetes or diabetes…
…the disease that ran rampant through my body, thrashing the blood vessels in my limbs, until it practically cut off the circulation to my legs.
The doctor made it clear that if he didn’t amputate, my legs would rot like spoiled meat.
So what happened? And why am I telling you this?
I’ll answer the second question first.
My name is David Andrews, and I’m telling you this because…
“I don’t want you to go through the same horrifying experience that I did.”
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