Last night I read a book from start to finish. Then in the wee small hours I got up and wandered about the house, straightening this and tidying that. I carried the cup that has sat on the bookself for the past three days, to the sink and washed it carefully. Then I went upstairs and tucked my son in and laid down next to Mark and waited for sleep that when it came filled my head with things that make me blush. Men long forgotten and brought starkly back to life by the power of painkillers prescribed by the emergency doctor.
I can't hear anything. My son stands in front of me mouthing words I understand by telepathy. I watch television with subtitles and feel tired at the thought of conversation. I cry in the night and ring my Mommy and ask her to make it stop. I get to know myself better in the nothingness.
But silence is surprisingly loud. The noise of sensation, of infection, of eating and thinking, enough to drown out the proper senses.
I read a lot. Five big novels, one after the other. I lie with my head on a hot water bottle. Let thin soup fall down my throat with having to swallow. Open my eyes to see Mark standing looking down at me with no warning of his coming home. Give up responsibility to anyone willing to take care of me.
I open and close my mouth, over and over like a fish. Willing the explosion that will bring music back to my ears. I take too many painkillers, but feel like tearing my ears right off when I don't.
I duck Marks hand's, cupped to bring my head to his for a kiss.
It is an infection. Abcesses in both ears that have rendered me deaf, hysterical and strangely calm.
I'll be back soon. When my thoughts aren't carried away in soapy bubbles.