Halyna stared. Leonid stared at his own hand.
Leonid’s heart hammered. "Can you fix it?" neuromed невропатолог винница
For the first time in months, Leonid felt not a patient, but a student. The treatment at Neuromed wasn't a magic pill. It was a curriculum. Three times a week, he returned for sessions with a rehabilitologist. He played matching games on a tablet. He squeezed therapy putty until his forearm ached. Dr. Sokolova monitored his progress, adjusting his "map" like a patient gardener. Halyna stared
The autumn rain in Vinnytsia fell in a steady, grey curtain, blurring the neoclassical lines of the central square into a watercolour smudge. For three months, that same grey curtain had fallen over Leonid’s world. A former engineer who could once calculate stress loads in his head, he now struggled to remember if he had taken his morning tea. "Can you fix it
He looked out the window. The autumn rain had finally stopped. A pale, hopeful sun was breaking over the rooftops of Vinnytsia. He picked up his phone and dialed the clinic.
One afternoon, six weeks later, Halyna was struggling with a stubborn jar of pickled tomatoes. Without thinking, Leonid reached over, his right hand steady as a rock, and twisted the lid off.
Dr. Sokolova didn't argue. She simply placed a small, cold tuning fork on his wrist, then on his kneecap. She shone a penlight into his eyes, watching his pupils dilate like blooming poppies. Then came the strange part. She made him walk heel-to-toe along a line on the floor, then close his eyes and touch his nose.