Took Eleanor out this morning for the salad bar. Took her a while to decide, but soon enough figured out what she needed. Ate an impressive amount of grass, then low-crawled to me to go back in. The traffic at this time of morning a bit more than she can take for long.
Turned the compost pile, and it's looking good. I'll sift and spread it right before putting in the tomatoes, which will be next week. For now, just getting the fresh stuff down where it will degrade.
Not up to much more today. Head booming, still chipping away at the deep congestion. Flushing with saline, drugs and tea. Reading online easier, if only because it comes in tiny bites. A novel sits waiting, but I can't seem to swallow it, nor follow the plot in such small sips.
Some coughing through the night, a long session this morning, but productive, and settled now. Still silent, to rest my throat, mouthing words to D as needed, signing or writing.
When I was a kid, I often considered which sense I could most do without. How would it feel to be blind, how could I cope if deaf? I don't remember wondering about losing my voice, perhaps since I already felt I didn't have one. Eventually decided losing my sense of smell would be least annoying, although I've since reconsidered that opinion. A reasonable choice for a city child assaulted by stenches. Anosmia interferes with taste, a whole host of emotional cues come through odor and aroma. Bad enough when I have a cold. Lost sensation of any kind divorces us from our world, a grief, damage.
Loss of sight would be more than stumbling around the house, loss of connection not only through books, but these days, the whole tech world is largely visual. My own vision issues make this a real issue, no romantic story attached.
My current muteness is largely voluntary, a step toward healing an irritated airway, temporary. The loss of my voice, so long fought for, is difficult. To be silenced again, a sort of ache. Intensely frustrating. Dr. H did the Time-outs yesterday when I could no longer be clear nor loud. By the time I left, incomprehensible.
We need all the sensory apparatus we have, we need all we can muster to communicate. Hard enough to listen at the best of times, hard enough to be understood. But sometimes, forcing the hand, demanding the eye, means we must actually look and struggle for comprehension. We think we know, but we don't. We make best guesses and sigh.
5 comments:
Loss of hearing is my choice, largely because I have already lost about 40% of my hearing. Loss of smell and taste would take away too much joy of food, and drink; loss of sight I do not know how I could possibly cope; loss of sense of touch? I remember what a joy it was for Molly our dog in her last days, when she could no longer see and hear, to feel our loving touch on her. That was something we could give rather than take. I'd miss that too much.
I'd go with loss of taste as I'm not a foodie and eat generally for sustenance.
Our cat Leo has been enjoying the outdoors now that it has gotten warmer.
I can't even think that way now. It was an interesting exercise for a kid, but now, it's all too real.
People with loss of taste really struggle with nutrition.
I remember when we were away for GWI, everyone talked about what food they wanted most. ALL THE TIME. Everybody. Amazing how much we all missed favorite foods, or even simple daily meals that we were used to.
i had a friend whose father suffered a traumatic anosmia.
he did not survive it.
seriously. he suffered on for a year or two but could not stand to live that way and suicided.
flask,
That's the sort of condition I meant, a real risk. Our sense of smell, so linked to taste, is so much a part of our emotional lives.
Sad about your friend's father, like a hidden wound that festered and destroyed him.
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