Chapter 1: A Lesson in Pain

In the quiet of my home, a sudden scream escaped my lips, echoing off the walls. My breaths came in ragged gasps, filling the silence that followed. The cats fled in fear, except for my little deaf companion. He sensed the vibrations of my agony and stared at me with wide eyes.

I tried to scream again, but the pain was too intense; even sobbing only amplified my cries. It had never occurred to me that pain could incapacitate someone so completely, yet here I was—another lesson in life, albeit an unwelcome one. A slipped disc in my neck had pinched nerves, rendering the right side of my body nearly useless, and the slightest movement sent waves of pain that manifested in my screams.

My home was indeed humble; my kitchen was merely ten steps away from my bed, and I had to reach it to feed my cats. Each step became a treacherous journey. I feared losing consciousness, passing out on the cold concrete floor, and waking up with even more injuries.

"Please don't let me split my head open," I chanted inwardly as I screamed, shuffled, and cried with each agonizing step. The routine of feeding my cats was paramount, a responsibility I couldn't abandon.

For twenty days and nights, this was my existence. I had no idea I could scream like that—what a shocking discovery.

People often poke fun at my devotion to my cats, teasing me about rushing home to feed them or worrying when one of them is unwell. They don't realize the extent of my commitment or the lengths I would go to fulfill my responsibilities. The mental struggle of knowing I would inflict pain upon myself just to care for them was a battle in itself. Sleep eluded me; I became intimately familiar with the ceiling above me, watching time pass by, waiting for either light or darkness.

If there was a silver lining, it was the time to contemplate. I devised a mental map for my tasks: rise, feed the cats, grab a glass of water, pick up clean clothes on the way to the bathroom, take a shower, and return to bed. This routine consumed half my morning and evening.

Initially, I ate whatever I could find, driven by a sense of need. But when the food ran out, I stopped eating altogether. Some friends noticed something was off, and I confided in two of them. It was a revealing lesson in friendship, highlighting my knack for attracting narcissistic personalities—something I won’t dwell on.

Each day and night was a personal struggle. I required a mantra to transition from the thought of "You're going to scream and cry, wishing for death" to the act of actually getting up and enduring that pain. I needed a phrase that was simple and swift, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

"Three, two, one—go!" became my rallying cry, and it worked. It still does, though thankfully, I seldom need it now. This phrase allowed me to take a deep breath, release a forceful "GO!" on the exhale, and commence the action.

EPILOGUE

When I first injured my neck, the uncertainty of my condition was terrifying. On the twentieth day, I managed to navigate to the kitchen without a single scream. My deaf cat watched over me, having kept me company throughout my ordeal, never straying too far.

That day, as I glanced at my dusty table, I wondered if I could finally clean it. Before I could act, my little deaf companion sprang into action. He dashed around the room, his claws scraping against the concrete, celebrating my small victory of wellness.

His name is Sol, which means "Sun" in Spanish. But for me, he is more than just a name; he is my soul, my son, my source of light in every language.

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Chapter 2: Embracing the Journey

This video titled "I Can Count To Three" serves as a reminder that sometimes, we just need to take small steps to overcome our challenges.

In the second video, "I Can Only Count to FOUR," a humorous take on life's difficulties reminds us of the importance of resilience, even in the face of pain.