Days of Remedy

Part 10

It may have been me getting used to the pills or the memory of Fujino's visit that made waking up almost effortless for the past few days. Still, buzzing thoughts keep distracting me from my math homework this morning. The doubt that my emotions could be under control again, regardless of my efforts or the doctors' attention, is creeping up, and so does the insecurity about my future. However, the buzz seems more bearable today, so the pile of crumpled papers with incorrectly solved math problems doesn't overflow the bin like last time.

Most people here choose to use the study room later in the day during the second block of group activities, but I prefer to have it all to myself, sacrificing my morning free time. The study room is on the ground floor and has a nice view of the small outside garden. Sadly, the flower pots were winterized before I came here; I would enjoy some other gardening activities than watering the one palm tree at the reception.

Nonetheless, I must say that the greenery outside looks prettier than ever. The trees are now fully covered in the deep color of carmine and maroon, the dry grass lost its rich green glow and put on some yellow coats, and the wildlife visits the hospital grounds every day. Hungry squirrels keep trying to get to the bird feeder hanging from a wooden pole, chattering about new strategies to try the next day, and the Bulbuls watch with enthusiasm, provokingly twittering at them. Looking outside, the scent of the frost lingers in my nose from the morning open-air yoga, and so does the musky-sweet smell of leave piles we raked up yesterday.
I hardly get a chance to dive fully into the romantic autumn atmosphere when a child's voice breaks off my train of thought: "Is that math?"

A boy with a buzzcut and bushy eyebrows looks over my shoulder, analyzing the paper and a textbook in front of me. Based on his height, he can't be much older than my little sister Aiko, maybe eight or nine? Smiling, I answer his question with a nod.

"But why are there so many letters?" He asks, confused.

That's a good question, I think to myself, but I decide to give him a more constructive answer: "Well, this is math for grown-ups. You will also learn this when you are older."

"But you are not a grown-up," he says confidently, and he is right; I am far from a grown-up, so I just agree.

Curious about what he is doing outside the kids' ward, I ask what he is looking for inside the study room. He whispers that he is playing hide and seek with nurses, but my guess is that the nurses don't even know they are playing.

Suddenly one that I have never seen before rushes in, calling the boy's name: "Tao! You know you are not supposed to be outside the kids' area. Come on, we are going to play outside, and you need to wear some warmer clothes."

As soon as he hears that, he starts fussing about the activity. She tries to persuade him, but nothing works, and then turns around at me, saying that he will go if I join. We lock eyes with the nurse since we both know this is not going to happen, I need to finish the homework, and my group therapy session starts in twenty minutes, but looking at the desperate woman's face, I want to at least help prevent a tantrum.

"You know I really need to finish this homework, but I can watch through the window. What if you looked outside for some pretty leaves, I am still looking for the perfect one to put in my scrapbook this year."

And just like that, he runs off to grab his jacket. The nurse thanks me, promising to bring me a pudding, but I politely refuse; I didn't do much after all.

He looked like a normal kid; if this encounter had happened anywhere else, I wouldn't think much of it, but it meant something more here in the mental hospital. "I feel terrible; he is so small, almost my sister's age. I don't know what I would do if she had to be here," I say to the nurse.

She keeps quiet at first but then changes her mind and speaks up: "Yeah, it is sad, but unfortunately, illnesses don't discriminate by age. You don't have to feel terrible; Tao misses his sister, and I think you reminded him of her. So appreciate how you made his day better just by being friendly to him."

"That's a nice way to think about it," I respond.

"Well, most things in life we can't change, but we can affect how we approach them, so it's good trying to think positively. It isn't easy for most people, especially for patients here, but you can make it a habit with some effort and time," she adds.

Then Tao runs back in, wrapped head to toe in winter clothes, rushing the nurse to go outside. As they leave, I wave goodbye at them, promising to look the whole time he plays with the other kids. In a few minutes, I see him showing me a bunch of leaves over the glass, reminding me not only of Aiko and how I miss her but also that the nurse was maybe right, and I could try more consciously appreciating even the slightest sparks of happiness around me.