𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 | ¹⁹⁹³

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑

I remember my time in the rehab hospital like it was yesterday. I was five years old when the universe decided to change the rules and confront me with a challenge I barely understood.

A stroke, the doctors said, a word so frightening that even the adults around me whispered.

I was in a hospital in New York, a city that never sleeps, but I, I slept way too much. My world had changed, I was slower, more tired, and everything around me seemed overwhelmingly big and loud.

My father, Derek, tried to spend as much time with me as possible, despite his crazy schedule as a neurosurgeon.

In my little universe of hospital beds and long hallways, Dad was my superhero. He would bring in his patient files, place them on his lap, and work while I had my therapy sessions and adjusted to the new limits of my body and mind.

Even as a child, I sensed how hard the double burden was for him. His eyes had rings darker than the coffee he drank all the time.

He looked tired, stressed, almost as if he could collapse at any moment. I wanted to help him so desperately, wanted to make him smile, even for a brief moment.

In my childish logic, I thought that those pages could use some colors and drawings to make them less gloomy.

So, one day, when he briefly left the room to speak with a doctor, I reached for one of the many folders he had brought.

Equipped with my colored pencils, I set about adorning the margins of his documents with colorful images of flowers, stars, and magic.

I even drew a picture of the two of us holding hands with big smiles on our faces.

When I finished, I felt like a little hero.
I was five, after all, and I truly believed that a little color and a few scribbles could make his world a better place.

And the next time Dad looked at his files, my heart stopped in joyful anticipation. But the reaction that followed was not the one I expected.

"Missy, what the hell is this?" he yelled, louder than he probably intended, and a shock ran through my limbs. His face turned red with anger and I could see the veins on his throat swell.

"I just wanted to do something for you," I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes as I tried to understand what I had done wrong.

My father looked startled for a moment when he heard me crying, his anger fading as quickly as it had come, replaced by concern.

"Oh, Missy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm not mad at you, sweetie." He rushed over to give me a hug, but I pulled away, still sobbing, still hurt.

My crying had already taken on a life of its own, driven by an emotional dysfunction that had been a part of me since my stroke.

I couldn't stop, the tears just kept coming, and the more he tried to soothe me, the more I spiraled into my fear.

The monitors next to my bed began to alarm - my heart rate was way too high. But the shrill beeping only made things worse.

Dad got even more anxious, and the loud noises completely overwhelmed me.

In the midst of my tears and the chaotic sounds, he pulled me close. He pressed me gently but firmly against his chest and covered my ears with his big hands to protect me from the sensory overload.

"It's okay, Missy. I'm right here. Let's calm down together, okay?" Dad whispered as he rocked me carefully, his voice a comforting murmur that slowly drove away the shadows of fear.

"I love you so much, Missy."

It took a while for my tears to subside, softened by the love of my dad, who stayed there while the world outside continued to spin too fast and too seriously for a five-year-old girl.

"It's okay, sweetie. I know you meant well. How about next time we draw together? On paper, which isn't that important?"

I nodded, though I still didn't fully understand the relevance of these papers. All I knew was that I had done something wrong, something that had upset my dad, and that weighed heavily on my heart.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drawing, actually drawing, on a large piece of paper that we later hung in our living room.

It was a picture that said more than a thousand words, a picture that spoke of love, forgiveness, and the little moments when we found what was truly valuable.