Page 38 of A Wistful Symphony

Recovery Rondo

B eing home is far from the soothing embrace I was hoping for.

It’s better than the hospital for sure—a safe environment muffles the health triggers the hospital adds to my OCD—but none of my problems are actually solved.

I still suffered an assault, I still can’t hear, I still need surgery, and I still had a major fight with my boyfriend.

Not knowing if we’re boyfriends anymore eats at my guts, and the piercing regret about what I said during our last encounter coils itself with the thoughts winding inside my head.

All the uncertainty about my future, about my hearing, about my hopes and dreams, everything convolutes together in a tornado that threatens to make me lose my mind.

I can’t. I can’t deal with you right now.

The day after our fight, you leave a text apologising for what you said.

Relief soothes my chest, because at least it’s not a breakup.

I apologise as well but hastily add that I need some time alone to process things.

Truth is, though I rationally know none of this was your fault, my heart still needs someone to blame.

And while this senseless resentment keeps pointing its claws at you, I can’t risk saying the wrong thing. We’re already hanging by a thread.

Why can’t I just blame Benson? Feelings are such daft things.

After that, I let my battery die and don’t charge my phone again.

Avoidance is hardly a good defence mechanism, but sometimes it’s the only one I can bear.

Like wearing gloves at all times, so touching things won’t trigger the contamination thoughts and make everything worse.

Highly impractical, and it makes it impossible to play the piano, but it’s better than burning my hands raw with soap and sanitiser.

Mum notices what I’m doing and promptly schedules an appointment with my psychiatrist. Talk therapy is fruitless when I can barely understand people, so he adjusts my medication for the time being, at least until the surgery and the hearing aids arrive. For once, I don’t argue.

Stripped of the piano and you, there’s not much I can do with my time.

Ollie comes by whenever he can to distract me with school nonsense or subtitled films—for which I’m forever grateful—but as soon as he leaves, I’m back to roaming the halls like the ghost of a sick Victorian child.

When the thoughts are too much to bear, I take a pill and put myself to sleep.

On the day of the surgery, I shiver throughout the entire car ride to Bath.

Even with the extra dosage of anxiolytics, fear twists my insides, tying my gut in knots.

My future depends on this day. I can’t fathom what will become of me if the procedure doesn’t work.

What will I do then? How will I ever be able to live knowing the one thing I was meant for, the one thing I’m proud of about myself, is out of my reach?

When I wake up after the procedure, my chest is empty. There’s not much of a difference in my hearing. Despite Dr Wilkes warning me recovery would be a day-by-day process, I expected to fall off the curve. How silly of me.

Each day begins with the frizzling hope that something will change.

A louder voice, a more distinctive clang, nuances of music I wasn’t able to perceive before.

Anything. And each day ends with me sullen over the meagre progress, thinking everything I’ve gone through was in vain.

Wondering if I should prepare for the worst.

The first glint of relief hits when the hearing aids arrive.

Despite only needing them for my right ear, Dr Wilkes says it would be wise to wear them on both sides, to spare my left hearing in the long run.

My eyes gloss over, wet with tears when he asks if I can hear him clearly.

A strangled ‘yes’ leaves my trembling lips.

Mum puts her arms around my shoulders and says God has answered her prayers.

The sound of her voice is weird, amplified and metallic, but far better than the alternative. I can get used to this.

My music is not lost .

The days following my discharge from the hospital go by as a blur, mornings and evenings jumbling together in a turbid amalgam.

Thanks to Dr Wilkes’ recommendation, I spend the week at home, putting my pieces back together.

Truth be told, I don’t need a sick leave.

My right ear is almost deaf, and the left one is buzzing, but aside from that, I’m in perfectly good health.

Still, Mum never urges me to go back to school or get out of the house. She knows I’m not ready.

We’ve always had some sort of silent understanding, she and I.

With my mother’s wordless blessing, I concentrate solely on getting back to my music.

Touching the keyboard for the first time after the assault feels like my soul has flown back to my body.

I test a simple chord. C major and its relatives sound akin to a choir of angels.

I try scales, and an old Czerny étude, far below my grade.

My fingers are stiff and have lost a bit of agility.

It’s remarkable what a few weeks of absence can do to one’s skill.

No matter. Nothing a couple of hours of relentless playing can’t undo.

When I get to my current pieces, however, reality catches up to me.

Playing is hard, even on the digital piano.

Despite being able to hear the whole range of tones, I can’t properly detect the nuances in the dynamics.

I put the headphones on, but if I raise the volume too much, the buzzing worsens.

I know I shouldn’t be exposing my ears at such an early stage, but I don’t care. I need it.

I play night and day. Old pieces, new pieces, even some pop songs no one would ever imagine coming out of my fingers.

Working with my impaired hearing is slow and painful, like carrying a block of stone to build the pyramids.

But my focus lies on the results, not the effort.

No matter the cost, I refuse to give up.

And finally, when the pieces for my audition sound decent enough—though Rach has suffered some setbacks—I decide to make music of my own. The ultimate challenge. If I manage to compose like this, everything will be fine.

Sometimes, the melody comes to me freely, and I write on the sheet with a manic drive.

Other times, I repeat the same set of notes over and over, trying to figure out what comes next until I feel like bashing my head on the keyboard.

My fingers ache, I barely eat, and I’m pretty sure I’ve worn the same T-shirt and joggers for days, but it doesn’t matter.

My life depends on this. A week later, I hold in my hands a piece of raw, terribly scribbled sheet music.

One that can barely be called a song, but it’s mine.

I’ve never felt so pleased with myself.

Going straight to my laptop, I transcribe the score to a clean digital archive. Before I store it, however, my mind goes blank. How should I name my song? I remember everything that passed through my head as I composed it: my pain, my endangered future, my family, and you.

Yes, Andrew, I thought of you while writing it. The stillness you bestow upon my soul, while turning my head upside down at the same time. I miss you, that much I know. We haven’t spoken since our meagre text exchange weeks ago, and I torture myself, thinking I may have pushed you away for good.

I stare at the screen for several minutes. How can I summarise the massive whirlwind of feelings running through me in a single line? ‘Untitled,’ I type slowly, and press save.

On Sunday, I go downstairs for breakfast. It’s late in the morning and the only one still eating is Zoe. My cousin never wakes up early if she can help it. Delia sits across from her at the kitchen table, scrolling on her phone.

“Morning,” I say, passing by them to check the contents of the coffeepot. Empty. As I grab the ground beans to make a fresh brew, my family stare at me like they’ve seen a ghost.

“Look who showed his face. I thought you grew mouldy in that room.” Delia puts her phone away, suddenly interested in my return to the land of the living.

“I have to go back to class, eventually. Might as well practice coexisting with annoying people.” I hammer my fingers on the counter, waiting for the coffeemaker to do its business. Despite our usual banter, hearing my baby sister’s voice brings a soft warmth to my chest.

“Could’ve at least bothered combing that hair, weirdo,” Zoe jeers with a condescending smile. “You look halfway between homeless and crazy.”

“Thanks for the cheer up,” I rebuke, joining them at the table with a hot mug filled with exactly 200ml of filter coffee. “Like your hair is any better.”

“The difference is I can pull this off. You can’t.”

“Well? Aren’t you going to explain?” Delia swirls her hands. “Like, you spent a whole week wallowing in that room and come back as if nothing happened?”

“Pretty much, yes.” I sip my coffee with a smirk.

She crosses her arms and snorts like a horse. “Fine. Be like that.”

The doorbell buzzes—an unusual sound on a Sunday morning—and I raise a hand to my left ear. The hearing aids aren’t properly adjusted yet, and screeching noises make my ears ring.

“I’ll get it.” Delia springs up and races from her chair to the door in zero point five seconds.

“Jeez, where does she get all that energy this early?” Zoe mutters, cheek buried in her palm. I might argue that 10:00 a.m. is far from being ‘this early,’ but I don’t have the energy to engage in a discussion.

Delia returns with her hands clasped behind her back.“It’s for you,” she singsongs, a fox-like grin on her face.

“Me?” My brows furrow. “Who the bloody hell comes by uninvited on a Sunday?”

Delia’s grin widens. “Oh, I think you’ll like this particular visitor.”

“Fine.” I rub the corners of my eyes and drag myself to the front door.