​My older brother urged me to get a traveling medical insurance before buying a ticket to Argentina, “just in case.” So, I researched about best travel medical insurances, picked one, and made a phone call. The salesperson suggested the best insurance that accepted travelers with preexisting conditions. I consulted with Eric, and we decided to purchase it. But when I told the salesperson, they said I had to buy it six months before my trip.
Six months before September 8th, I called the insurance and talked to a different salesperson. I said I wanted to buy the insurance plan. The salesperson proceeded to ask the routine questions you are asked when you buy something with a credit card. I answered, but they couldn’t understand me. They repeated the questions, and I repeated the answers; they failed to understand me. I spelled my data; they still failed. Then they suddenly said, “I can’t understand you. Give me your email address and I’ll send you a link so that you can buy it online.” Apparently, this time they were perfectly able to understand me. A few seconds later there was an email from the insurance with a link.
I clicked on it and saw a form to fill with a star that indicated the required information. It was a whole lot of information. What is more, a warning appeared everywhere in the document about the possibility of losing the password. What password? I wondered. I was about to submit my information, when I decided not to purchase the insurance online; better to call the company again. The next day I called and I was transferred to a salesperson who, miracle of miracles, understood everything I said. I bought the insurance on the phone and gave a sigh of relief.
An Italian friend of mine has the same problem when she talks on the phone: no sooner does she start talking than they hear her accent, classify her as a foreigner, and stop understanding her. To have a useful exchange, participants in a conversation have to understand each other. To understand the speaker, the listener has to be willing to listen. No matter how many speech exercises I’ve done, I still mispronounce words. Despite that I’ve lived in the US for a long time, despite that before my injury my slight accent went unnoticed, when I talk on the phone, I sound as a foreigner. We foreigners are unintelligible.
 
 

​I had the brain injury in April, 2018. Before then I could walk and type on the computer; I could hand in jobs as fast as my clients expected me to do; I could juggle multiple jobs; and I could manage the household money. Then disaster fell upon us. You have to get used to the idea that your life has changed, Eric told me. No, that’s not true, I thought. Someday I will heal, and my abilities will be restored to me: I’ll be able to walk (not to dance, but it didn’t matter) and work (not as fast, but it didn’t matter either). I will no longer need the wheelchair because the cane will replace it. The past won’t come back, but some (distorted) version of it will.
Now, five years later, things have changed but only slightly. I have to keep exercising. I still swallow with an effort and will start coughing if I drink water too fast. And when I’m tired, my muscles can’t function normally. So, after five years, I remember Eric’s words and have to agree with him – the wisdom of hindsight, as they say. I’m a different person from the past “me”: I can’t juggle jobs or type fast or even translate and interpret fast – especially if I’m tired. I can’t walk, not even with a cane. And I don’t know if I will ever be able to set aside the wheelchair, or talk loudly without slurring my voice or twisting my tongue.
            I receive the Brain Pickings newsletter on my email every week. Its editor, Maria Popova, picks a topic and comments and chooses quotes around it. In reading Brain Pickings, I came across Katherine May’s book Wintering. The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. Some of the passages resonated with me. May says that misfortunes happen to everybody, including ourselves; chance is unpredictable. But we can learn from our special mode of disaster – of winter.
            I’m trying to learn from our winter (it isn’t mine alone: it is Eric’s and Nathan’s). I’m learning to get past the fights, and listen to Eric and share my fears with him. I’m learning to slow down and watch him; to keep quiet and hear him; and appreciate who he is. I’m learning to listen to Nathan, and am trying to help him whenever he needs my help (I have plenty of time to chat!). I’m learning that I have to create an opportunity for us to be together; I enjoy our chats (when I don’t feel annoyed) and discovering who he is in the bottom of his mind.
Spending most of my time in bed can help me get closer to them and take pleasure in knowing who they are.