​To add an exercise to my walking routine and enlarge my practicing, my nurse aid suggested that I walk with the crutch from the bench where I do my arm exercises, to the wheelchair where I stretch at the end of my day. So, every day I walk with the crutch before stretching. The first time I had to do it, I was apprehensive; I felt tired. What if I lost balance? Eric wouldn’t be behind me to catch me. But I moved to the end of the bench, got up with my nurse aid’s help, balanced carefully, and grabbed the crutch that she handed me. I looked at the chair, which was ahead of me and on my left. I recalled her words: think of what you will do before you start; lift your left leg and lock it before you step; hold your lock; balance; then, take a step with your right leg; make sure your steps are small. And I started walking on my own.
I walked slowly forward until I reached the chair. Then, I turned, stepping backward with my left and forward with my right. When I finished turning, I walked backward step by step until I felt the wheelchair against my legs. This was the sign I could sit, which I did carefully and slowly. And I had walked here from the bench without losing balance and without having Eric to help me in case I did! My nurse aid and I did the high five the way she’d taught me: you slide hands and you walk with your fingers against the other’s palm. The rest of the day went by fast: I had lunch, worked on my writing and translating, and did my regular phone calls. We had dinner, and I went through my routine with Eric.
The next morning, I asked Eric to help me go to the commode. Eric has established a change since he witnessed my falling from the chair and bleeding as I hurt my forehead with my glasses and he couldn’t do anything about it (he was in the middle of a meeting). I was still confused when it happened, and my core was week. But the image stayed with him, and he insisted that I take his help to go to the bathroom instead of transferring to the wheelchair and do it on my own (as my older brother had taught me when he’d visited years ago). When I’d finished and stood up, he enticed me to walk without any form of support. And as I did it, he surrounded my body with his arms.
I took very small, hesitant steps as I strived to keep my balance: first the left leg, then the right, always locking and holding the other leg while keeping my body straight. I constantly focused on my legs, making sure I lifted them and locked my knees as soon as my feet touched the ground. I turned, crossed over to the left, stepped back, and sat very slowly on the bed, stretching my right arm and resting my hand on the bed. And I breathed deeply. I’d arrived without needing Eric’s help. My eyes teared up. When my nurse aid came the next morning, Eric told her about my feat. Right away, my nurse aid countered with my other feat. I didn’t know whether I deserved to feel proud or not.
Then Sunday came, and it was my turn to walk again. I did my speech and leg exercises. Eric asked me if I wanted to rest before walking. And I felt tired and apprehensive at the same time. I decided to turn a blind eye and pay no attention to my feelings – I’d raise my head and walk, as I decided to do in the past. When he ran into them on the street or talked on the phone, Eric “bragged” (his words) about me to our friends. I’d walked without any means of support! They were all impressed and happy for me, but I don’t know if I should feel proud; better wait, and practice.

​Every other day I check my email to keep up with all my friends and family and make sure my inbox stays clean. Every day a week I come across some work-related emails: old clients who haven’t found out about my injury asking me to translate or interpret for them, and prospective clients with a request for a translation.
I can choose to answer “yes” or “no” to the old ones, depending on my experience with working with them (as I write in another chapter). An old client, a Peruvian author of short stories, recently contacted me to ask me to translate his stories into English. I had enjoyed translating them in the past, and we got along, so I answered that I would do it if he didn’t have tight deadlines. I’m currently translating one of them for him. On the other hand, I’ve answered “no” to quite a lot of organizations for whom I’d worked before the injury and had not been pleased with them as a client.
I have yet another kind of emails: from a professional network letting me know about job openings, and from a job site where both employees and employers can post. Some have remained unopened, but while I did open the others, I didn’t click on the link: do I want to take the risk of getting a job if I’m going to be forced to fulfill my obligations nonstop for several years? Would I be sufficiently healed to take on this responsibility? And if I did get the position, for how long would the job last? I vaguely picture myself working there, and every image is somewhat daunting. I want to and don’t want to make the move. The only job for which I’d like to apply is the interpreter one at the Beacon School District – it feels familiar; I think I’d be able to perform. I know the people who’ve worked and had kids there: I’ve years of memories stored in my brain about Nathan’s schools.
But I’ve never held a post in the other organizations. They remind me of all the jobs I had when I lived here years ago. When I wonder what my performance will be in the new workplace, I think of my bad arm, my slow brain, my accent. I say to myself, if you don’t try, you’ll never get a job. But it’s so easy to follow my own pace; to read and write and translate at home; to remain apart from everybody; to let Eric bring the income while I slowly heal; to avoid commitments. I have to open emails when I get them repeatedly. I have to apply for potential jobs. I have to take that step, but I don’t. Every time I see the name of the sender, I move it directly to the corresponding mailbox.