Leonid’s heart hammered. "Can you fix it?"
"It’s just old age," Leonid grumbled, avoiding her gaze. 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. Leonid’s heart hammered
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. Sokolova didn't argue
"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."
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."
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.