He came a little over two weeks ago, invited in moments of quiet desperation, a psychical therapist with a melt-me-away french accent, who was intended to show me how to get myself up out of my wheelchair, recliner and bed. After weeks of, slowly but surely, climbing out of the haze clouding my mind and the weakness permeating my muscles, I was suddenly losing the battle.
I could no longer remember days, let alone minutes or hours, each day was spent with eyes mostly closed, body barely moving, mind closed, thoughts too muddled to make sense of much of anything at all. Things were inexplicably taking a turn for the worse.
I had no strength, no hope, barely any faith. I had not given up on God, but I could feel myself giving up on myself. I began to talk about moving to long term care as my family hopelessly looked on willing me not to give up, afraid that such a move would mean all was lost.
Thankfully, I have such a family to pull me up, refusing to let me give up so easily, just as I had been so unwilling to give up just weeks before.
Now, I can see myself fighting the fight. I can visualize myself walking to the bathroom, to the dresser on the other side of my bedroom. Its not quite time yet, but I will get there. I've begun to put little goals out there and taking the steps I need to make these goals a reality.