When I woke up on Sunday morning, I was very happy: I’d been counting the days one after the other, without the need of a calendar – or my phone, as my sister-in-law had suggested. I knew it was November 8th and the day before, November 7th, it had been three months that I’d gone seizure-free (in August 7th, I’d had a seizure just four days before three months would have gone by, as I said). Three months, including day seven!
My nurse aid came, and after I’d eaten my breakfast, I started doing my exercises. At noon, when I got to the last stage, which was walking with the crutch (Eric doesn’t work on Sundays, so he can walk behind me to catch me if I fall), I could walk from the dining room to the kitchen, turn around, and walk back to the threshold (I was too tired to continue) without falling more than once. All the while, I did everything right: lifted my left keg, locked it and lifted my right, and went on, slowly but surely. I only lost my balance once, when I was turning, but Eric caught me. Both things represented real milestones. I felt it was a significant step forward: an achievement. It was a sign that I could do it; that I could say good-bye to my disabilities.
After triumph, however, defeat might take its place. And the sense of accomplishment, the elation that it caused might fade away in just a few days, and I’d be frustrated again and long for the unforeseeable end. But this event has shown me that even if I took two steps backward after one step forward, I could still add each single step ahead to reach the end, if slowly. So, I could finally reach the end, step by step.
My nurse aid came, and after I’d eaten my breakfast, I started doing my exercises. At noon, when I got to the last stage, which was walking with the crutch (Eric doesn’t work on Sundays, so he can walk behind me to catch me if I fall), I could walk from the dining room to the kitchen, turn around, and walk back to the threshold (I was too tired to continue) without falling more than once. All the while, I did everything right: lifted my left keg, locked it and lifted my right, and went on, slowly but surely. I only lost my balance once, when I was turning, but Eric caught me. Both things represented real milestones. I felt it was a significant step forward: an achievement. It was a sign that I could do it; that I could say good-bye to my disabilities.
After triumph, however, defeat might take its place. And the sense of accomplishment, the elation that it caused might fade away in just a few days, and I’d be frustrated again and long for the unforeseeable end. But this event has shown me that even if I took two steps backward after one step forward, I could still add each single step ahead to reach the end, if slowly. So, I could finally reach the end, step by step.
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