By the end of her first week in the hospital, Olivia gained more lucidity as doctors weaned her off some of the medications. She became consumed with figuring out what had happened to her. She painstakingly blinked out question after question. Her mom explained to her that she'd had a stroke, which had left her in a locked-in state. But Olivia was still unable to internalize that her body had been profoundly altered. 

It was only when her boyfriend, Shawn, brought his family to visit the following week—his parents, aunt, and uncle filing into her cramped hospital room—that the gravity of her condition began to dawn on her. As Shawn and his family stood at the foot of her bed, trying to puncture the silence by sharing lighthearted memories from a summer beach trip they'd taken with Olivia, she sensed their unease. Oh God, they must feel so awkward right now, Olivia thought. Do something to make them feel more comfortable. Fix this. 

Olivia had always been intimidated by Shawn's family. They ran in different, more elite social circles than hers, frequenting the local country club and living in a wealthy part of town. Every time Olivia went over to Shawn's house for dinner, his dad made her feel as if she were being interviewed for a job she had no chance of getting. Convinced that she didn't have his family's approval because she wasn't accomplished enough or pretty enough or sophisticated enough, Olivia had joined them for their summer vacation to the beach, determined to win them over. In the weeks leading up to the trip, she brainstormed ways to show them that she was worthy of their son. Sure, she was currently working as a hostess at a restaurant, but it was her competitive fall internship at a marketing agency that she really cared about. Oh, and did she mention all the books she was reading? Despite her best attempts, though, she had left the trip knowing that it hadn't been enough. She would simply have to try harder next time. 

But as Olivia lay in her hospital bed, she could of course do nothing. With a tracheotomy tube now hanging from her neck and no ability to make facial expressions, she could not project poise and grace. She could not thank Shawn's family for coming or encourage their halting efforts to connect with her. She could not make jokes about the hospital food or nod along and offer reassurance that she knew they meant well—that their nervous laughter and tense body language were totally fine, totally understandable. 

As Shawn's family got ready to leave Olivia's room, his uncle walked over to her bedside. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain about how exactly he ought to say goodbye. He placed his hand gently on hers. "Hang in there, Olivia," he whispered kindly. Suddenly, the room filled with loud, piercing screams—like a hyena's, Olivia thought. Then it hit her. She was the one making the sounds. She was crying uncontrollably, but it was coming out as screeches. Alarmed that they might have said something wrong to cause Olivia's outburst, Shawn's family quickly ushered themselves out. This was more than Olivia could bear.

Afterward, when she was alone with Shawn, Olivia used her blinks to apologize for having made a scene. She wasn't sure why this particular moment had led her to break down. For nearly two weeks now, she'd endured the harrowing experience of being locked in. Why had it taken interacting with Shawn's family for the magnitude of it all to register? Why was she concerned with how she appeared to her boyfriend's family when she couldn't swallow a bite of food, use the bathroom, speak, or move a single limb on her own? 

As the weeks passed, though, Olivia could not shake her self-consciousness—this deep, instinctual feeling that everyone else's opinion of her mattered so much, even more than her own suffering. She cried from embarrassment when nurses discussed her bowel movements in front of Shawn and her friends. She cried when her team of physicians shared every detail about her physical state with medical residents. She cried when one of her closest friends, Emily, brought her new boyfriend along on a visit, and Olivia—her mouth now hanging open by default due to the paralysis of her jaw and facial muscles—drooled on herself in front of them. Olivia cursed so loudly to herself that she wondered if Emily and her boyfriend could hear the words reverberating through her skull. That night, as was now the case every night, Olivia cried, her wails rousing patients nearby. 

It had taken so long for Olivia to feel like other people were accepting her, and now she could no longer be who she wanted to be in front of them. Friends from high school and college came to visit, as did her professors, the dean of her college, and even her boss from her internship. Though she was grateful for the outpouring of care, Olivia resented their visits. She could not stand being so exposed. It was easier to just not see anyone. 

At night, staring at the ceiling from her hospital bed, Olivia thought about evenings back in high school, when she'd complained about doing the dishes after dinner. She closed her eyes and conjured up the green-apple scent of the dish soap. She imagined herself standing in front of the sink, slowly and methodically washing each plate, bowl, and utensil by hand. Then she made a promise to the universe: If I ever recover, I will never, ever complain about doing the dishes again.