"Tell Dr. Sokolova," he said, his voice thick. "Tell her the roads are open."
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. neuromed невропатолог винница
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. "Tell Dr
"It’s just old age," Leonid grumbled, avoiding her gaze. The treatment at Neuromed wasn't a magic pill