Mouthful of Birds

“And what guarantee do we have with this treatment?” I ask.

“We have what we need for everything to turn out well,” says Weisman.

The next day Manuel stays home. We sit at the living room table, surrounded by graphs and papers, and get to work. I write down as faithfully as possible how things have happened from the first moment we suspected that Teresita had come early. We summon our parents and we are clear with them: the matter is decided, the treatment is under way, and there is nothing to discuss. Dad is about to ask a question, but Manuel interrupts him.

“You have to do what we ask,” he says, and he looks at them as though imploring them to commit, “on the right day and at the right time.”

I understand what he’s feeling: we’re taking this seriously and we expect the same from them. They are worried, and I think they’ll never really understand what it’s all about, but they promise to follow the instructions, and each of them goes home with a list.

When the first ten days are over, things are already running a little more smoothly. I take my three pills a day on time, and I respect every session of “conscious breathing.” Conscious breathing is a fundamental part of the treatment, and it’s an innovative method of relaxation and concentration, discovered and taught by Weisman himself. Sitting on the grass out in the yard, I focus on making contact with the “damp womb of the earth.” I start by inhaling once and exhaling twice. I draw out my breath until my inhale is five seconds long and my exhale is eight. After several days of practice, I inhale for ten seconds and exhale for fifteen. Then I move to the second level of conscious breathing, where I start to feel the direction of my energies. Weisman says this level is going to take more time, but he insists the exercise is within my reach and that I have to keep working at it. There comes a moment when it’s possible to visualize the speed of the energy as it circulates through the body. It feels like a gentle tickle and it generally starts in the lips, hands, and feet. You have to try to slow it down, gradually. The goal is to stop it entirely and, little by little, start it circulating again in the opposite direction.

Manuel can’t be very affectionate with me yet. He has to be faithful to the plan we made, and so for a month and a half he has to stay away, talk only when necessary, and come home late some nights. He complies diligently, but I know him: I know that secretly he’s better, that he’s dying to hug me and tell me how much he misses me. But that’s how things must be done for now; we can’t risk straying from the script for even a second.

The next month I keep progressing with conscious breathing. Now I almost feel like I can stop the energy. Weisman says it won’t be long now, I only have to push a little more. He ups the dosage of my pills. I start to feel my anxiety diminish, and I’m eating a little less. Following the first point on her list, Manuel’s mother makes her greatest effort and tries, gradually—that part is important and we underline it many times: gradually, it says—to start making fewer calls to our house, and to not be so eager to talk about Teresita all the time.

The second month is perhaps the one with the most changes. My body is not as swollen now, and to both of our surprise and joy, my belly starts to shrink. This change, so marked, alerts our parents. Maybe it’s only now that they understand, or intuit, what the treatment is about. Manuel’s mother, especially, seems to fear the worst, and although she tries to stay on the sidelines and keep to her list, I feel her fear and her doubt and I worry it will affect the treatment.

I start sleeping better at night, and I don’t feel as depressed anymore. I tell Weisman about my progress in conscious breathing. He gets excited, it seems I’m about to reverse my energy—I’m so, so close, a hairsbreadth from the goal.

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