Chapter 3 prayer

After all, the impact of the wheelchair incident is beneficial.Things became clearer.I will never make plans that cannot be realized, and my friends will not be silent and don't know what to say to me.Since I got sick, they have built a fence around me with their emotions, and they can't bear to cross it.But now that there are no more untouchable topics, we start talking about locked-in syndrome.First, the disease is rare.It takes a lot of luck to fall into this dire trap than winning the lottery jackpot.But this statement does not comfort me.In Belk, it was just the two of us "starred" and it remains to be seen how my locked-in syndrome will turn out.I can still turn my head, so it should not be, basically, in the clinical diagnosis, it is not expected that such a situation will happen.Most of these cases are left in a vegetative state, and the course of the disease remains unknown to the medical community.We only know that if the nervous system decides to restart on a sudden whim one day, it will probably grow at the speed of hair growing from the bottom layer of the brain matrix.In other words, it will be several years before I can move my toes.

In fact, what I had to find a way to improve was my respiratory problem.In the long run, I hope to be able to eat normally without having to rely on a gastric tube; I also hope to be able to breathe naturally, and the inhalation and exhalation will drive the vibration of the vocal cords. And right now, if I could just swallow the drool that keeps pouring into my mouth, I'd be the happiest person in the world.Before dawn, I started practicing moving my tongue to the back of my mouth, trying to stimulate the swallowing response.Then, I prayed for my throat towards the little sachet hanging on the wall.This small sachet is a talisman brought to me from Japan by several devout colleagues who travel abroad.My relatives and friends will follow their footsteps with a praying heart and bring back many blessings for me. These blessings are enough to pile up into a magnificent building, and the small sachet on the wall is one of the buildings. pebbles.In every corner of the world, I have relatives and friends praying to me for the protection of various gods.I tried to make a little arrangement in this vast and boundless spiritual belief.If someone told me that they had lit a few great candles for me in a church in Brittany, or chanted scriptures in a temple in Nepal, I would immediately ask for blessings for a definite purpose .A female friend assured me that African gods are very kind and gentle, so through her, I entrusted my right eye to an Islamic hermit in Cameroon.I also entrusted my damaged hearing to the monks of a church in Bordeaux with which my pious mother-in-law had always been in close contact.They regularly count the beads and pray for me.Sometimes, I would sneak into their monastery and listen to their singing that resounded through the sky.

I don't see any unusual effect of these prayers yet, but when seven monks of this church were murdered with their throats slit by fanatical Moslems, my ears were sick for days.However, compared with what my daughter has done, the blessings of these gods are nothing more than walls made of mud and water, fortresses made of sand, and the defenseless Maginot Line. I offer a little prayer.We fell asleep at about the same time, and with this most intimate support, I rested on the shore in the kingdom of dreams, safe from all evil.