"It has just been weighing on me," Carlton said, sitting stiffly on a couch across from the therapist he had been seeing several times a week since the incident. "I haven't been home in five months. I haven't worked. I have just been sitting here, taking up space."

"But you haven't just been sitting here, Carlton," Kathy said, leaning forward to look at him more closely. She was only a little older than him, but something about her made him feel like he was talking to his mother. She would ask him questions or listen thoughtfully. She never seemed to forget anything he said, which only sometimes annoyed Carlton when he was trying to lie his way out of a question. "You had a massive stroke. No one thought you were going to make it through that first night, right? That's what Juliet told you? And now look at how far you've come? You are up and about, even if you need a wheelchair. And your fine motor function and memory are improving so much. You're not just sitting here. You're working your way back home. From what you've told me, you're working so incredibly hard, every moment of every day, to do so."

Carlton nodded, quietly. He knew that was the case. He knew that he had been working hard- especially the last two weeks, to get better and go home. But when Marlowe was working so hard to support their family and take care of Lily, and Juliet was still fighting for every single breath thanks to him, it was hard to feel like he was helping anyone.

And yet, he was definitely feeling better. Once he finally told his doctor (with a little persuasion from the chief) what he had been seeing, they were able to get him the help he needed. ICU delirium, they called it. It was apparently quite common in people with extended stays in the ICU, and there were ways to manage it. He was able to accept the shame and embarrassment that had consumed him over what he was seeing and hearing as just another side effect of his circumstance. With some help from his therapist, he was able to work through the experience and process it for what it was, a loss. Even if he didn't lose his life. He had experienced a loss, and it was acceptable to feel grief over what once was.

"You are doing absolutely wonderful, Carlton," Kathy said, folding over her notebook and collecting some of her things. I am very impressed with the progress you are making. When are you breaking out of here?"

Carlton tried to smother the smile that filled his chest at the thought of going home. "Four weeks, as long as I get the all clear from the doctors."

"Well, that is very exciting Carlton," Kathy said, walking behind his wheelchair to push him out of the small conference room and into the common area. He usually tried to avoid the common area at all costs. The constant internal battle of thanking the lord that he didn't end up as bad as this person, while cursing his body for still not being as strong as that person who was so much older than him made him dread spending any time trying to make small talk with other patients.

"I will see you again on Friday," Kathy said, pushing his wheelchair towards one of the groups of empty chairs.

"See you," he said shortly, his eyes darting around the room for the path of least resistance back to the comfort of his quiet room, away from prying eyes.

Before he could make a break for it, his eye caught on a man who appeared to be even younger than him walking towards him. He was slow, relying heavily on a cane to get him from the edge of the room to the chair next to Carlton, but he was still walking, one foot in front of the other, without a gait belt of a crew of people swarming around him to make sure he didn't fall. It was hard for Carlton to ignore the pang of jealousy that overtook him as he watched the young man in awe.

"Did I startle you?" The man asked, still not quite at the chairs.

"Hu?" Carlton asked, refocusing his eyes on the young man's face. He had curly hair that flopped over a round, unhelmeted head, which alone was enough to make jealousy overtake Carlton. He was completely over the soft helmet he had to wear at all times when he wasn't in bed, sick of how sweaty it made his ears or how heavy it felt on his neck. And he was so sick of feeling like a toddler who had to be wrapped in bubble wrap by the rational adults so he didn't hurt himself. Seeing as he could no longer be trusted to maintain his own safety.

"You know with this high-tech walking device, I can hit upwards of 1.7 miles an hour." The man said, waving his free hand proudly to show off the metal cane. "I just wanted to make sure I hadn't startled you traveling at the speed of light over here.

Carlton tipped his head, trying to make sense of the man's joke. He knew that it was sarcasm, but he couldn't make sense of the appropriate response.

"Oh um, no." The words fell dumbly from his mouth.

The man shrugged. "So, how's it going?" he said when he finally reached Carlton, focusing hard to take a gentle seat on the couch next to the wheelchair.

"I'm okay," Carlton said, cautiously slipping into common small talk. "How are you?"

"You will not believe what they just had me do," the man said, leaning in to whisper. Carlton tipped his head forward to hear the man better. "They just asked me to feed myself- with my right hand!"

Carlton silently stared down at the man, trying to understand what the problem was.

"You think I did all this just so I could feed myself?" the man said, smiling. "Nah, man. If I have to be here, I'm being fed like a king!"

Carlton tilted his head, still not quite sure what to make of the man so full of energy. He seemed happy to be there. Happy with his life. How was that even possible?

"So, what happened to you?" the man said, nodding towards Carlton's wheelchair.

"Uh," Carlton said, looking around the room full of stroke victims. "The same thing that happened to you?"

"Oh my gosh!" He said, shock lighting up his face. He leaned in and whispered again, "Are we okay?"

Carlton thought about it for a moment. But the words that came out, slowly and calculated as they always seemed to be now, surprised him.

"We will be."

"Good answer, kind sir," the man tipped an invisible cap towards him. "And what is your name?"

"Carlton," he said, sticking out his right hand.

"Sorry man," he said, flipping his left hand over to shake Carlton's. "That's my bum hand."

"Right," Carlton said, shaking the man's hand awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it!" he said. "It's really become more of a liability. I'm considering getting it removed. Know any good surgeons? Or even a five-year-old with a chainsaw? I'm open to anything at this point."

The man laughed when he saw the confusion wash over Carlton's face, unsure of what to make of the words coming out of his mouth. He seemed so confident, so light-hearted. Like despite all this, he still didn't seem to have a care in the world.

"The name is Rob, by the way. I don't mean to scare you. This is just how I am. You've got to make jokes, right? Our bodies may not be as efficient at getting our heads from room to room anymore, but hey- at least we still have our heads!"

"I mean, I guess," Carlton said, using his right hand to adjust his paralyzed arm in its sling.

"You've got to celebrate the milestones- big and small. We started over from scratch, so every time we relearn something, it's exciting. Just like we're a new little baby."

"I don't want everything I do to be celebrated like my five-year-old going potty for the first time."

"Why not?" Rob said. "Remember how exciting that was? Remember how proud you felt of her? So what if you're not five anymore? Let yourself be excited! It's exciting! You're a survivor!"

"But what if I don't want to be a survivor? What if I just want to be me again."

"You are still you," Rob said, shrugging. "Just the version of you who survived some massive brain injury that didn't kill you. I'd say that's a pretty badass version of you. Isn't it?"

Carlton was about to say more when Rob's phone began ringing, interrupting the conversation.

"That must be my wife here to pick me up."

"Wait, you don't live here?" Carlton asked, jealousy that Rob was getting to leave while he was still stuck there day after day coursing through his veins.

"Nah, man. I'm outpatient. I just visit a couple times a week for my therapies. And the rest of the time I do therapy at home." Carlton watched Rob's calculated movements as he stood up. "Anyways, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Carlton said, nodding as he watched Rob walk towards the exit and disappear around the corner.

Outpatient. He hadn't thought about that before. He hadn't really known that was an option. He could still be home, but could still get better. That was exactly what he needed. He was gonna get out of here. He was going to go home and be with his wife and be with Lily. They were going to be a family again.

He turned his head to see his own reflection staring back at him. He saw his overgrown, somehow gray now hair sticking out at spontaneous angles from under the helmet. Just over his right eyebrow, he saw the shadow of his head still dipping inwards under his admittedly impressive flowing mane. He saw his feet in the tight braces that supported every step he took and his arm in the sling that kept his shoulder from falling out of the socket. He saw his still slightly dropped cheek and the wheelchair that he needed to get from point A to point B.

And yet he also saw himself, living, for the first time in months. He had survived. This thing, this major, life-threatening thing. It had tried to kill him and it didn't. He was still alive. That was a milestone. Making it through every day. That was a milestone. Every time he ate without choking or took a step without help, those were milestones too. He was going to come back from this, no matter how long it took.

He nodded at the man in the reflection, who nodded back at him.

You can do it. A voice said, echoing inside his heart. And for the first time in months, he knew the voice was right.