re: The Identity Of The Sinful Miracle

12 | she who started in the end

∽ m i r a c l e ' s ∽

I had to recover quickly. . . I wanted to.

All of the people around me had that kind of agonizing attempts to tell me what had happened, but it seemed like I couldn't fully understand everything. It must be the aftereffect of the gunshot.

My hair was still shaved and the scars after the surgery were still visible. The gunshot wound at the center of my head was prominent. A part of my upper left head area sagged and that would be permanent.

Up to now, three months had passed, I was still an in-patient of this hospital. The main focus of my rehabilitation was to keep my body flexible and doing things like the rage of motion, making my muscles loosed by doing some stretches, and monitoring my skin if there were skin breakdowns or sores.

When I could not move my whole body except the arms, they made me do a lot of series of exercises while I was still lying on the bed. They also made me try the CRT, Cognitive Rehabilitation Therapy. This treatment attempted to enhance my functioning and cognitive impairments as a result of brain damage or the Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) they called.

I did everything that I had been told. Until the time came when my cognitive system started to function in a wide range of activities. It was a good sign, they said. Telling me that my brain was firing more new neurons and it could function more actively.

Soon, I was able to stand up, sit properly, and walk. Yet, my strength wasn't fully recovered. I still had those sensory, balance, and coordination problems. The hurdles that I had to jump was too high—being all so functionally limited when it came to mobility.

All of the persons who had watched me come this far never gave up, still guiding and helping me to go back to normal. But I knew to myself that I would acquire some permanent damages.

I was shot on the left side of my brain, thus my whole right part that my left brain controlled became really limited. My left hand became my dominated hand. As well as to my sights. I now only had a partial vision on my right eye.

Even my speech, it remained the most frustrating part. When I thought of something that I wanted to say, I couldn't just seem to get in the brain. It was awful to say, but the doctors said that I had aphasia. It wasn't that severe, but the fact that it has affected the comprehension of my speech and the ability to read or write, it was always a challenge. Everything was always on the tip of my tongue (lethologica), but not all the way.

At this moment, I was resting inside my room from all the training I did. I was seated on my bed with a portable desk in front of me and a book on my hands.

I was reading about sign languages for beginners. While reading, someone knocked on the door. I averted my eyes to someone who came inside and it was Nathan.

Immediately, I painted a broad smile on my face.

"Hey," he greeted me and jumped beside me on the bed, wrapped a hand around my shoulders and gave me a peck on the head. "What are you reading?"

I never wanted to speak, so I only showed the book to him.

Nathan only pursed his lips, "Why, though? Speaking can make you tired?"

"Yes, yes . . ." I nodded my head, "Tired, yes, tired."

I couldn't speak without repeating the same word. It was not really speaking, but mimicking. It was hard for me to produce words and I only learn through someone else's words. Nathan was a great help for me, because he already knew what was inside my head before I could say it.