Survivor by Kaye Draper Page B

 I stopped writing for some time.
    And then fate bitch-slapped me.  When I started to
wake up a little, and get some awareness of what had happened, I was angry,
hurt, and confused.  My brain was feverishly working to make new neuronal
connections as I learned to do even the most basic tasks all over again.  I
needed an escape, something outside the walls of the rehab unit.  During one of
my therapy sessions my mother mentioned, in an off- hand sort of way, how I
used to write.  That’s when my Occupational therapist handed me a pen and a
little notebook.
    My psychologist had urged me to journal, but it held
no interest for me.  I could barely hold a pencil, and typing was a chore.  I
spent all day processing what had happened to me; I didn’t want to spend my
free time that way too.  But writing fiction was different.  This was escape-
something I could immerse myself in until the next therapy session, the next
trial.
    It was very difficult at first.  I started with
single words.  Eventually I wrote short poems, then stories.  As I emerged from
the fog, they even started to make sense.
    In the years since my accident, I wrote almost
daily.  I kept most of my work on my computer, but the really good stuff- the
poems and stories and little bits of insight that had deeper meaning to me- I
printed and put in a binder on my bookshelf.  That way they were easy to grab
when I want to look at them without starting up the computer.
    I dreamed of the color green that night.  My mind
was filled with the soothing color of nature and growing things.  Bright green
grass, muted green moss growing on a rock, green leaves dancing overhead, green
birds twittering in the branches of the trees, a deep green sea of wild grasses
where I lay down and watched an iridescent green butterfly dance across the sky
as soft tendrils of grass caressed my cheek.
    I woke up to deep green eyes the color of emeralds.  Peter
smiled down at me, his graceful fingers caressing my cheek.  “I brought you
breakfast.”  I stretched and grinned back.  Making my way out of the bathroom a
while later, I found orange juice and a breakfast sandwich waiting for me.  The
little deli down the street makes amazing breakfast biscuits, but I can never manage
get there in the morning and get to work on time.
    Peter looked at me in surprise when I wheeled past
the table and turned on the computer.  I blushed self-consciously under his
silent questioning gaze.  I never shared my writing with anyone.  It was for
me.  And I had never written with company- it always felt very private.  But I
had to get my dream into words before the feeling of it left me.
    Peter brought me the orange juice and I sipped it
while I waited for the computer to start up.  When I started to peck at the keyboard,
he looked over my shoulder curiously.  I gave him a warning look and he backed
off.  His eyes had a hint of silver to them-probably thanks to the intense
emotions I had been putting off since he woke me.
    He paced to my bookshelf and took down one of the
thick binders where I store my writing.  Plopping down on the sofa, he lifted
it questioningly, “May I?”
    I frowned.  “How did you know about that?”
    He grinned slyly, “You kept glancing up there while
you were picking at that keyboard.”
    I frowned.  I must have been unconsciously thinking that
the poem about his eyes belonged up there- with the important ones.
    Peter flipped through my work as I typed.  Motor
control is not my strong point, so of course typing is slow, but it’s better
than hand writing things.
    Finally, Peter stood and took down another binder.  “I
need to go to work,” he said, gathering his things.  “Can I take these?”  He
had several pounds of my writing tucked under his arm.
    “Why?”
    He dropped a kiss on my forehead.  “Because they’re
really good; I want to read them tonight.”
    I shrugged.  “Fine,” I said, a bit fearful of what
he might find in there.