Over lunch today, I did some research on my phone. Laurent had made Murgh Kari, a type of Indian curry dish with a fragrant tomato-based sauce, rice, and browned chicken. It was something I’d never thought to try before, but enjoyed more with every bite that I took. As he ate his meal and finished some emails on his work tablet, I slid my phone out and searched my condition. What I suffered was considered a stroke, though I wasn’t so grievously affected by it as I could have been. I was disheartened to learn that only 10 percent of all stroke victims have nearly full recoveries. A quarter will live on with minor impairments, but the majority need special care or eventually die despite surviving the initial stroke. I was also a little scared when I read it was possible for me to have another one or even contract pneumonia after a few months. I had hoped that since an overdose rather than heart disease caused mine, I might not be at risk. To learn that many people couldn’t speak clearly for up to two years also worried me. I wanted to talk again more than anything else.

I was, however, given a spark of hope by the phenomenon of ‘spontaneous recovery.’ This phenomenon happens when skill or ability that I have lost is suddenly returned to me. The brain heals to a certain point or finds an alternative way to do what it couldn’t for a while. I wondered which part of me I might win back with hardly any effort, fantasizing about regaining my voice or my arm or even my leg overnight. Reminding myself that the only sure way to have any of it back was to keep working at it, I quashed these daydreams. I stared at my hand again, twisting my first two fingers down as the third shook feebly. I was getting somewhere with that, a fact that made me proud. Would I feel robbed if I just woke up with my arm back again, all of those hours struggling to move my fingers seeming like a waste of time?

I shook my head and put my phone to sleep.

My fork sank back into my bowl of curry, and I gave Laurent a sideways glance to see if he’d noticed my distraction. He was still engorged in his emails, his second cup of chai tea in his hand as the other tapped the screen almost casually. Today, he wore a pale yellow t-shirt with a sun on the front. Curiously, I could see the bottom of a violet mandala tattoo peeking from beneath the sleeve on his shoulder. I wondered what the full piece looked like, and if he had more of them hidden beneath his clothes. Even if I could say the words, however, I don’t know if I would have the courage to ask him about his ink. He’d seen mine while helping me dress and clean up, but never brought up tattoos as a subject before.

“Asya.” He blurted, his soft eyes on me and his small gap-toothed grin on his face. “I have a few new exercises I’d like to try out this week. Would you like to hear them?”

I nodded once, intrigued by his subtle excitement.

“I have another list I’d like you to make, alongside your goals list,” He started.

I groaned, and he laughed lightly at my discontent.

“Also, I would like to take you to the hospital again a few times a week so we can do some aquatic therapy. I’ve noticed your hands and toes getting mobility, so you may try moving the limbs soon.”

My chair creaked a little as I perked up at that. I hadn’t gone for a swim since rehab, but it was always a pleasant thing to me. Sure, this wouldn’t quite me swimming, but it was a step in that direction. I pulled out my notebook, flipping to my goals list.

22. To swim

Laurent peeked at my writing, neater than the first entries of my list by far, though still worse than my right hand would have written. He seemed pleased by it, and a little amused.

“I’m glad you look forward to it.” He giggled, taking a small bite of his Murgh Kari. “Would you like me to tell you what your second list will be for?”

My eyes met with his, but I made no movement to suggest one opinion or another on the matter.

“Gratitude.” He stated. “It’s a list of things you’re grateful for. I’m hoping it’ll stave off depressive thoughts and show you what the world still offers, no matter how well recovery progresses. Though, on that note, I think you’re doing well.”

He’d added the last part when I widened my eyes a bit, reminded of my research and the threat that I may never fully recover.

I opened the notebook to a new page, scrawling the words Gratitude List across the top in large, slanted letters.

“I won’t give you an entry goal for this one, because gratitude can be endless. Put anything, major or minor, onto the list. Though, I would like to try for one per day to make a habit out of showing gratitude for life.” He smoothed the paper of the notebook for me, a mindless gesture, as his eyes were locked on mine. Warmth filled them and I became overwhelmed by it, glancing back at the paper.

1. Good food.

The scent of the fragrant dish lingered in the air, a small but pleasant thing. Laurent smiled, touched, as he read my first entry.

We finished our meal in silence after, as he continued to work on his tablet. He washed the dishes, and I helped myself into my chair. With one leg and one arm, it only took time to learn how to move from one chair to the next. Sometimes it was nearly impossible for me to get into it without help, as I lacked an arm to establish balance during the move. Plenty of times I didn’t need this so much. It was wonderful to have regained some of my independence.

2. To do more things without help

I wrote that with a bit of pride, recalling this morning when I hadn’t needed Laurent to undress me for my bath. I could always get clean on my own, but I still needed help with more than I wished. Dressing and undressing, getting in and out of the tub, and getting into my chair much of the time were all things I depended on others for. When I lived with Digitalis, it had been Francine who would help with such things. To ask Digitalis to be a part of the daily ritual would have been mortifying. Even with Laurent, I wasn’t quite comfortable with it. At the very least, Francine was always just a medical professional in my mind and not much more. Laurent was a man to me. Even coming into my world as a medical specialist, I was simply too intrigued and interested in him to see him in the disconnected way that I regarded Francine.

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I couldn’t push myself into the living room with only one arm, unless I intended on making circles over the tile. However, my wheelchair was easier to relax in than the low-backed dining room chairs we’d been sitting on. I tried to think of more items for my list. I closed my eyes and reached back into my brain for those lovely moments of life that I could still grasp.

3. Cold water on my hands

As I wrote it, I thought of this morning: the icy coolness of the faucet as I washed for breakfast running over my fingers. They were still hot and a little sweaty from being inside the strange nerve stimulating glove Laurent would put on my bad hand each morning. It was so refreshing to feel the water that I had closed my eyes and thought of mountainous waterfalls.

4. Sweet scents

That point conjured up an array of wonderful smells. There was the salivating smell of my meals, the floral aroma of Laurent’s clothes. Notable was the faint scent of leather from my wheelchair that reminded me of a nice jacket I owned once.

When Laurent finished the dishes and pushed me into the living room, I put my list aside. He disappeared for a moment to his room. Arriving again, he had a cushion, a glass jar of liquid, a lighter, and a terracotta dish that looked something like a gravy boat. Curious, I tilted my head at him as I watched him set up the dish on the table. He placed a string into it and filled it with the thick, gold fluid. Only when he set the string alight did I realize that it was an oil lamp. He sat on his cushion, pulling my wheelchair forward by the footrest with an extended foot.

“I’d like to show you how to meditate today.” He announced, noticing the confusion on my face.

I looked down on my legs as he crossed his own, knowing that I couldn’t copy his sitting technique even if I had been on a cushion like his.

“Now, we are going to start with some breathing, okay? Just go in…” He paused, and we took a slow breath together. “Out.”

We exhaled, and I watched his eyes close, a calm washing over him. We repeated a few times, and I closed my eyes to attempt that same peacefulness.

“Focus on your breath.” He interjected into the silence, his voice soft and low but still disruptive like a toe in a still pond. “Where do you notice it the most? Think of your answer and focus on your breathing.”

My mind focused on my nose, where each breath passed in and out. My chest rose and fell and got a strange sensation, like I was growing and shrinking. My thoughts wandered, and I recalled the last time I had been so aware of my breathing. A time when I was out of breath…

***

My hand had fallen from the strings of my bass and I was gasping for air. My hair fell down from where it had been whipping around me in my dance. My smile overtook my face and the screaming of fans seemed to rush into my lungs as I inhaled, filling me up with their excited energy. I couldn’t hold still, holding my pick in the air and pacing along the stage to run the energy back out. I waved at the thousands of people that cheered for my band.

Gael bowed and waved from behind his microphone as he always did, each shake of his hand riling them up all the more.

“Thank you!” He called out to them. “You’ve been an amazing audience! Who wants one more?”

They went insane with noise at that, each voice joining into one enormous chant: Encore, Encore, Encore!

Gael turned to nod to us, signaling our planned song for this moment. His eyes met mine, touched by the crowd’s excitement, and I remember my breath catching at the sight. I wanted to kiss him and my legs took me towards him without my consent.

I stopped short when I realized where I was going, focusing harder on my hands to put them on the strings. I disguised my walk as stage charisma, leaning backwards towards him to strum the bass and kick off our song. He laughed, looking back at me with a sidelong glance as he fixed the microphone back into place to hold his guitar.

It was so warm and wonderful then, always leaving me breathless to think about it.

***

I opened my eyes and Laurent was looking at me with an amused smile, the light scent of the fragrant oil hanging on the air.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? How your thoughts can just wander away from you when you’re so focused on just breathing.” He commented, and I realized that my breathing had paused for my thoughts, though it never got out of control as it used to.

The impact of that moment Gael and I had shared never failed to leave me breathless, yet I was breathing just fine this time.

“That’s why meditation is so good for your mind. It allows you to wander through your thoughts without attaching to any one thing. It teaches us to see that thoughts are a part of us, but aren’t who we are. We as humans are active beings, not passive ones. We have the power to control our thoughts and bodies in ways that will always surprise you.”

He rose and placed a hand on my chest.

“You can learn how to feel everything that you always have, but have the power to decide how it affects you. If a dark thought enters your mind, you can learn through this practice to acknowledge it, but let it go. You can learn to see more than what your thoughts are bringing into play, and go beyond mere impulse,” He continued. He took a step back to return to his seat.

I blinked, looking down at myself.

“Our minds are like machines. They work in patterns, and if you’re stuck in a terrible pattern, it’s a big fight to move out of it. When you suffer from intrusive or unwanted thoughts, you must work to recognize them and deny them agency over your actions. Avoid letting them become the focus of your mind. When your thoughts tell you things like, ‘I am worthless,’ for example, you can hear it and let it pass by without putting it under a spotlight. You can remember your gratitude and the positive things about yourself and the world. Recognise that it was nothing more than a passing thought, a part of a pattern that you don’t want to control you,” Laurent recited. He was closing his eyes again, moving his legs back into position.

I pondered his words, but I knew that that hadn’t been the reason that my memory was ineffective to me. I wasn’t ‘letting the thought pass’ in that case, but just didn’t have the same reaction as I used to. I didn’t understand what was different this time.

My eyes closed as I breathed again: In and out, in and out. My mind faded back into the rhythm of it. Again the thought of why I didn’t react to the memory as I usually did arrived in my head. I focused on my breath, and I waited for it to fade away.

“You can open your eyes, now. Slowly.” Laurent’s voice eased into my mind, but I hadn’t gotten so deep down that his presence left me.

I suppose I wasn’t as good at meditating as him, yet. I wasn’t lost by it like I thought I was supposed to. Even though I tried to let my thoughts pass, they kept coming back to try again. It seemed like I was fighting them off sometimes instead of ‘letting them go’ as I was meant to.

I opened my eyes, and the world seemed bright after I had closed them for so long. Laurent was getting up from his cushion, stretching his limbs out.

“I often do some yoga afterward to get my body loose again. While I do that, would you work on the gratitude list for a bit?” He asked, looking as refreshed as if he’d taken a nap.

I pulled the notebook out from the pouch that was velcroed to the side of my chair. I watched him stretch out across the floor, bending and twisting and folding. It would have been hard to do before my overdose, I thought, still longing to join him and try it. To get a taste of it, I stretched my arm over my head, dragging the other up with it in a clasped hand.

I stared at my gratitude list, but wasn’t overly inspired to add anything new. I stared at my motionless right hand, struggling to bend the fourth finger this time. If Laurent saw, he might ask me to wait for movement therapy, but I wanted my hand back too badly to obey him.

My first two fingers curled almost effortlessly now, the third struggling to make it, though assisted by the tendon it shared with my middle finger. My fourth twitched, but seemed so much weaker than the others. I took in a deep breath and focused.

I would make them all move today.