At Least They're Committed

My lungs are good, my heart is strong, my oxygen, pulse and blood pressure are awesome. The doc looks in my ears, “Oh, you have a great deal of scarring.” I just say, “yes.”

There’s no need for a translator, thank you very much. A little girl can sense disgust, disdain and dismissal. I’m sitting on the dark hardwood floor between the living and dining areas in my grandparents’ home on Jackson Avenue, stacking wooden blocks with letters and numbers on them. I can hear my grandmother’s voice, the angst amid the buzz, and I’m fully aware she’s talking about me, but it doesn’t occur to me that she might ever have tried to talk to me.  Near as anyone can tell, she never said a good word about me. She would comment on my stupidity to my grandpa, who would defend me saying he didn’t think I could hear so well. I only recently found that out about Grandpa.

The more critical my grandmother was, the more defensive my father became. The more comparisons the elders made to my smart, outgoing sister, the more protective my father was of withdrawn and moody me.

Mom took me to ear specialists and she recalls how the hour before the appointment, my hearing would miraculously improve. Holding up my right hand for the high pitches, my left for the lows. Again and again they tested me, again and again I passed. Again and again they would look at my mom as if there were something wrong with her instead of me. Until, finally, thankfully, I failed.

Surgery. Instructions. Sticky, brown fluid oozed from my ears, I reported it to my mom and she cleaned me up, telling me it was OK. I remember it happening a lot.

I remember not being able to put my head under water because of the tubes and realizing while swimming at Half Moon Lake that my parents were talking about me when they whispered, “Should we tell her?” “She might panic.” And me asking them, “What is it?” And them confessing, “Leaches.” I had two of them securely embedded on my leg. I didn’t freak. I thought it was way cool. But that doesn’t have anything to do with my ears except that it happened while I had tubes. I digress.

DS needed tubes, too. The doctors comment every time they look in his ears as well. I hear just fine now, as does he. Just fine. But, scarring, yes, I suppose there is scarring, but only the eardrums. Not me.

You know, none of this damaged me much if at all. We tell funny stories about Hazel, and her dislike of me is worthy of nothing more than a shrug. Not sure what that has to do with me telling idiotic, salacious stories, but, yes, we’ll continue.