She didn't write a prescription immediately. Instead, she pulled up an MRI scan on her monitor—a ghostly image of Leonid’s brain. She pointed a stylus at a small, shadowy area near the basal ganglia.
"See this? It's not a tumor. It's not a stroke. It's a tiny vascular whisper. A micro-hemorrhage that has healed badly. Your brain is sending signals, but the wires are frayed."
The clinic was a sleek capsule of light and silence on Soborna Street. It smelled of ozone and chamomile, a stark contrast to the dusty, Soviet-era polyclinic Leonid had dreaded. Halyna had already filled out the forms. She wasn't asking anymore. neuromed невропатолог винница
Dr. Sokolova leaned back. "I can't give you a new brain, Mr. Kovalchuk. But I can teach yours to build new roads around the damage. Neuroplasticity. We will start with cognitive exercises, a specific physical therapy for your hand, and a low-dose medication to improve cerebral blood flow. But you must work. Every single day."
"It’s just old age," Leonid grumbled, avoiding her gaze. She didn't write a prescription immediately
"Open your eyes," she said softly. "You missed by two centimeters."
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. "See this
"Mr. Kovalchuk," she said, her voice calm as still water. "Your wife says your right hand has started to tremble. And you get lost walking to the pharmacy."