Day Nine

The ear infection from Hades

Photo by Silvan Schuppisser on Unsplash

I turn on the light switch, but do not hear the usual soft click.
I close the door, but hear no shut. I close it again, just to be sure.
I pee in the pot but there is no tinkle. What a weird sensation.
There is no flush when I push the lever, but it circles down the drain anyway.
I turn on the water and watch it run out of the faucet, silently.
I turn it up and strain to hear. 
Nothing.

I do not hear the tangles as the brush works through my long hair.
No snap of the make-up case, no bonk of the cupboard door.

I open the dresser drawer, but there is no slide.
Who knew that clothes are supposed to make a sound
when you pull them over your head?

No footsteps as I pad down the creaky stairs.
No happy noises coming from the kitchen.
Is anyone up? Maybe there’s no school today?

I enter the kitchen and happy faces great me from the breakfast table.
I see their mouths move, I hear faraway sound, but no words.
I smile and say, “Good morning, grandkids!” like nothing has changed.
But my heart breaks a little bit more.

No clanking of my spoon as I measure my protein drink,
No swooshing as I shake it up in the jar.
I feel the vibration of my phone, but do not hear the obnoxious alarm.
The kids all yell, “Second bell!” (meaning it’s time to go to school)
I’m glad I can read lips a little bit.

I put on my jacket, but there is no zip.
No footsteps heard with my shoes on the hard floor.
I hear my son’s foggy, far away voice, I assume he’s loudly telling the kids to hurry up.
But there is no sound of flurry, no slide of backpacks onto little backs,
Or clunking of school shoes being put on.

Little hands hold mine as we step outside into the warm sunshine.
No birds sing, no frogs croak, no breeze rustles through the trees.
I can see the neighbor mowing his lawn, but there is no hum.
A neighbor girl passes us on her electric scooter, but there is no whiz.
I can’t even hear the cars as they pass us on the street.
That’s a little scary.

A hand tugs on mine. We stop walking.
I look down at an inquisitive little face and realize Emma’s asking me a question.
“Say it again, please.” And I put my ear right up next to her mouth. 
Nothing.
“You’ll have to talk louder, sweetie.” She looks confused, but does as she’s asked.
I finally understand, smile and respond.
And now that I know the topic of discussion, I can interject with “uh-huh," “oh, nice” and “really?’ as the twins chatter on about snails, rolly-pollies and tulips. 

Another tug on my hand, it’s Daniel this time.
He turns his head directly towards me and says, “Bike coming,” before pulling me to the side of the pathway to let the bicycles pass.
He nods at the mom pushing her baby stroller towards us, giving me a visual warning. 
I smile my thanks at him.

We finally make it to school. 
Teachers greet us on the playground; I respond, hoping they don’t ask me a question. 
The chain on the tether-ball pole flaps in the wind, but there is no clank.
The buses pull in, but there is no rumble. 
I watch the hordes of noisy, rambunctious children silently get off the buses.
It’s like watching a movie on the airplane when you don’t have earphones. 
Only there aren’t any subtitles to cue you in.

Little Mia doesn’t have pre-school today, so she takes my hand after the big kids disappear into the school.
It helps steady me as we make the long trek home. (My sense of balance is still off.) 
We stop several times, so I can try and hear her questions, and so I can take a a few breaks.

“Just a little bit more, Gramma. You can do it!”
And then, “You made it!”
At least, I think that's what she said.

The neighbor's cat greets me on the porch.
I watch his mouth open several times as he tells me I'm late getting his treat,
But I do not hear his meows. 
I hear nothing.

The door opens silently. 
Mia tumbles into the house and runs upstairs to her parents.
I fall into my favorite chair, exhausted.

Day nine of being deaf...