Days of Remedy

Part 11

I have only a few minutes to get to the group therapy. Although admirable, the best way to describe Tao's leaf displays is excessive, and it slowed me down more than I imagined. Dashing through the hall, I am lucky not to come across any medical staff since running inside the building could get me in trouble. As I reach the door, panting like a hunting dog, Dr. Yoshida bumps into me with a big basket full of blankets from the rec room.

"You didn't run here, Koyama, did you?" She says playfully.

Holding my still winded breath, I ferociously shake my head and skip to the corner of the room where the last bean bag remains. Then Dr.Yosida hands out some of those soft blankets, explaining that the other doctor had an emergency, so she will lead the group therapy today.

As always, we start the session with an appreciation exercise. A short introspection, thanking our bodies for supporting us, feeling the heartbeat, listening to the breath, and focusing our minds on the presence. Even though this might be one of the more enjoyable activities, at least more than the run we do every day as a warmup before morning yoga, I still find it uncomfortable. Sitting still and clearing my head isn't something my body would naturally agree with, not to mention my current state of mind, which makes it more difficult to focus.

Apparently, Dr.Yoshida has prepared a special trust-building activity for today. So far, we only did ice-breaking exercises or introductions. Well, if we did an activity. A lot of the group therapies have been just extended free time.

She pulls out an old-looking gray bucket hat from the pocket of her white coat and explains that we will write down our fears on a piece of paper, mix the answers inside the bucket hat, and then read it out loud anonymously. Fear sharing? At this point, the only thing stopping my eyes from rolling back is my promise to Fujino that I would take the doctors more seriously.

Picking up the pen, my brain shuts down even though I try to focus on writing something semi-deep so Dr.Yoshida has something to work with. Staring at the blank piece of paper, I hear her remind us that the time is almost up. I quickly scribble down the only thing that comes to mind—needles. But even though my answer is honest, I regret it as soon as I drop the crumbled paper inside the hat.

"Could I have my paper back, please?" I ask.

Dr. Yoshida raises her thin eyebrows: "Why do you want it back, Koyama?"

"Sharing it isn't that important; it might even sound silly. I didn't know what to write down, so I scribbled something at the last second; I can think of something else." Explaining, my insecure and faint voice cracks a little.

It seems like I am not the first patient who said that to her as she calmly responds: "No matter what you wrote down, it's not silly. Everyone is scared of something, and it's important to take these feelings seriously, even if they might feel small on a grant scale. The goal is to empathize with others and show that our fears have value. Is there anything I or others can do to make you more comfortable with this exercise?"

Her approach wipes out any traces of coherent thinking so I sweep my previous statement under the rug, poorly hiding my sudden stutter.

One by one, the paper balls inside the hat disappear as we read our secrets aloud. Hearing some phobias repeat, like fear of spiders or heights, is surprising to me because, until this point, it didn't seem like the patients here have much in common—except for being similar in age.

Suddenly a boy with glasses a few seats away from me reads my piece of paper, and Dr. Yoshida encourages him to explain what the fear might mean for the person who wrote it. "Needles are sharp, so maybe they are nervous about getting hurt? They also probably don't like doctors' visits here because of the blood test we get once in a while," he says.