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because he insists I leave my private room and move back in with my roommate, Kimberlee. Which makes me feel bad for Kimberlee, because I know she is uncomfortable around me. I'm uncomfortable around me. Kat rolls me into my old room after dinner and Kimberlee is sitting in the corner chair, watching television. She looks at me before averting her eyes and returning her attention to the television. She's in here because she had a stroke and had to relearn how to do many mundane things, including talking, which I must say she does very well now. Kimberlee was talkative the first night I moved in, telling me all about how she is prone to seizures and that those seizures were related to her stroke. She had to relearn how to walk, and eat with a utensil, and write. Everything. But she recovered fast, and I'm sure she'll be going home soon. I wouldn't know though, because that's the last time she spoke to me. When someone doesn't respond to you at all, there is no reason to keep communicating with them. I didn't respond. She doesn't talk to me anymore.
    Since I broke down and cried two and a half days ago, it's harder to keep my emotions in check. My throat is constantly hurting from holding back more tears, and my eyes burn from keeping them from falling out. But Dr. Rappaport doesn't want me to be by myself. He says that would be counterproductive and so I need to be out and attempting to socialize with the rest of the patients and staff. Socialize? I've forgotten how to do that.
    The night is quiet and I fall asleep quickly, one thing that hasn't been hard for me since the accident. I love to sleep. I long for it during every waking hour. But morning comes too soon when I wake to Lou nudging me in the arm.
    "Come on, love, it's time to get up." She places some wipes and a washcloth on my table tray and helps me sit up in bed. "Let's try to do this on your own today. Please?" she asks, and I feel bad that I've been so uncooperative. But today, I find myself reaching for the wipes.
    I know Lou wants to scream with pleasure, because, yeah, I just attempted to do something for myself, and I don't even know why. But she refrains from singing "Hallelujah," and I'm grateful.
    "Would you like me to leave you alone?"
    Yes, I do, but I don't think I can stand on my own yet. Not because my good leg may not be strong enough, but because one look at my half-leg may send me straight into another breakdown and I'll fall. And if I fall, how will I get up? These are the thoughts that scare me. The normal everyday tasks I took for granted before my accident have become the exact things that scare me now.
    I attempt to shake my head, so Lou knows I don't want her to leave. It's a start, right? Shaking my head, as imperceptible as it may have been.
    Lou's smile brightens. "Come on, girl, let me help you up." She lifts me up, and instead of putting me in my wheelchair, she places a walker in front of me. "I think it's time now, sweetie, to use this. I know this is all new to you, but you need to help yourself. You got fitted for that prosthesis, and it's going to be here any day now. You need to be ready, and..." She pauses, because she sees me frown.
    She sits me back down on the bed and sits next to me. With her hand on my left thigh, the thigh that doesn't have a whole leg attached to it, she sucks a breath in. "I know this is hard on you, honey. And I'm not your psychotherapist or psychiatrist, I'm just your nurse, but as your nurse, I'm telling you how important it is for your recovery to do things for yourself. Sitting here in this slump you've been in—" she shakes her head "—it's not going to help you move forward." She tips her head in Kimberlee's direction, even though the curtain's drawn. "Look at our friend over there...you over there, Kimberlee?"
    "You bet I'm here," Kimberlee announces joyfully.
    "She came in here with no idea if she'd ever be normal again, and look at her. She's ready to leave. You know why?"
    She waits for a