​After a successful exercise day my nurse aid, Eric, and I started talking about what made an exercise successful.  My nurse aid said that I would do well if I really wanted to do it; if I put my mind into it; if I did it with enthusiasm. If I started with the inner conviction that I would fail, I would. Then, Eric went farther: he gave dogs as an example. They never gave up; they would persevere against all odds. I was very puzzled and asked for an explanation, which Eric promptly gave me in the fashion of an account.
An anthropologist who was living with the Kalahari bushmen went with them to a baboon hunt. Baboon hunting is customary among bushmen, and they do it with the help of a dog pack. Since baboons are incredibly strong, dogs corner them so that the bushmen can spear them. This time, however, the anthropologist noticed a change. Amid the pack chasing the baboons, he spotted a three-legged dog running energetically after them.
Who knows what could have caused him to lose a leg? Perhaps a previous encounter with the apes, or a near-death clash with a member of the species. Yet despite his loss, the dog kept running along with his pack, the baboons on the mire. I remembered what my friend had said to me. To persevere, I had to believe –  to believe in life, and in myself; to believe in my ability to triumph. I had to celebrate my small achievements, even if they were small. I had to keep doing my exercises as a gesture of love for Eric and Nathan.
I had to learn from the dog, I thought. I had to want to walk, climb on and off the books, do all my arm exercises: move back and forth, up and out; lift and cross over, move across my right arm and leg; and try to reach my chin, over and over. I should practice without seeking perfection. No matter my tiredness, my reluctance, my sense of defeat, my high standards, I had to want to do my exercises; I had to keep my recovery on the mire.

​We’d been talking on and off with a friend about my writing and the role it played in my emotional healing, so she asked me to send her the link to my blog. A few days later, she told me she’d read some chapters and she had a few thoughts she wanted to share with me. On our next conversation, she said that none of the chapters conveyed to her that I believed in my exercises – that I believed that if I persisted in doing them I would recover my lost abilities. Her words reminded me of Eric’s opinion on the value of faith; that people’s faith enabled them to live through a challenging life. When I told my friend, she agreed. If I believed that constant exercise would lead to progress, she said, I wouldn’t quit.
After we hung up, I spent a long time going over our conversation in my mind. I thought of my disappointment: no matter the extent of my effort, I didn’t make as much progress as I expected. I envisioned I would still be needing help years ahead. Yet every day I woke up and followed the planned routine. Was I impatient? Was I setting high standards for myself? Was Eric right in that I always beat myself up? Were my nurse aids right in that I was too hard on myself? My older brother had once told me that after I described the progress I’d made I would always add, “but.” And it was true. When my friends are happy to see me balance or walk with Eric’s help, I think, “But more than two years have gone by.” When Eric says I’ve made a lot of progress, I mentally disagree. And when he and my nurse aid get excited about the increase in my arm movements, I wonder about the cause of their excitement.
The issue, then, lies on the definition of “progress.” Maybe I should lower my standards. Maybe I should stop adding, “but.” Maybe I should enjoy my improvements instead of pointing at my lack thereof. Maybe if I changed my definition, I would believe that my persistent efforts would make me reach the end. Maybe I should replace skepticism with faith.

​My injury has been the cause of many obstacles that I’ve had to overcome. And despite all the efforts and constant work, it seems they will last forever. There’s a few that have gone partially away: difficulty in finding English or Spanish words, grammatical mistakes I make when speaking English, and tiredness and nausea brought about by Kepra. This coincided with the neurologist’s decision to scale it down gradually due to the lengthening of the interval between seizures – another sign of healing.
The rest of the disabilities – inability to walk or use my arm and hand; tiredness caused by walking; inability to swallow thin liquids (unless I do it veery slowly); and a change of pitch in my voice and a slurred speech – are progressing very slowly, so much so, that on occasion I think that they’re here to stay. Sometimes, when the day comes to an end and all the tiredness washes over me, I feel like staying in bed the next day, and the next, and the next. But I wake up and have breakfast and start all over again.
Yet, despite of all the things that are either impossible to change or very gradually changing (to the point that I can’t believe they will change), there’s something my injury has given me: new and deeper friendships. It gave me friends that are always there for me; who are always ready to give; with whom I can always talk about any topic; with whom I can vent; with whom I can share ideas; with whom I can think; with whom I can laugh; with whom I can sing (with my hoarse voice). These are generous friends who are always willing to say yes, and if I don’t ask, to offer: true friends.