My
dad used to say, “Sheila’s got more guts than brains.” Post coma, I did not want sympathy; I wanted
for no one to notice.
Couches,
chairs, wherever we found room, atop the kitchen table, my family read. It was
two years before I could try and lift a book. With my left side, the only one
that worked, I slapped it open to a page and saw blurry nothingness. I tried to
cover an eye and keep the book open at the same time. I looked up at a brother, sister, parent, and
pretended to be like them. I pretended
it made sense and after a lot of pretending, it did.
Family
members pointed at a map - I re learned where Chicago was, why politics exist,
how not to get electrocuted or set myself on fire.
Whoever
said, “Fake it, ‘til you make it”, knew what they were talking about.
Then
when I could hold my upper body straight enough look in a mirror, I saw what I
wanted to, instead of the crippled shell of a person reflected. My second shot waited. I stuck some words together, took a couple of
steps, gained minor independence, and I really started to screw up again. But at least I was getting the knack of
reading, a habit appreciated much later.
Second chances I also learned to appreciate, almost too late. Do wonder why I call myself lucky?
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