While I was waiting for the elevator, a woman was wheeled into the corridor where I was waiting. She was probably no more than forty-five years old, and maybe even less. She was clearly riddled with cancer, so it was difficult to gauge her real age. Her face was pale with pain, and her eyes were sunken with fatigue. An elegant, floral scarf covered her head, and she carried a girly purse in her lap that was dripping in charms and gold chains. Only one leg dangled from her wheelchair—the other one being non-existent.