Chapter 3: Hepatica Transsilvanica – Purpose

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April 13th

𝕬s soon as I woke up, I rolled to my left, my hand reaching instinctively for my glasses on the nightstand. Instead, it found a wall. My eyes opened and I saw the pale green of a different room than I expected. Everything came back to me in waves. I woke up in the basement. I met a woman, presumably my aunt. I am twenty-two again. I inhaled sharply, pushing down the electric shivers that threatened to coarse through my body.

I rolled to the other side and checked the time on the little clock on the nightstand. It was almost noon. I closed my eyes once more, my mind racing for a reason to get up. A part of me knew I had to, I couldn’t lose more time than I already had. I needed to find what had happened exactly, how much was real and how much was imaginary. Yet my arms ached, and when I tried to raise a leg it barely budged. Even walking would be a chore. Begrudgingly, I got out of bed and went to wash my face.

I did my best to avoid looking in the mirror. I didn’t need confirmation that I had lost everything and postponing the imminent moment of getting to know my new face was one of the small ways I could think of to help me preserve the past.

As I rubbed soap over my cheeks, though, I could feel their smoothness and a youthful tightness that felt alien to me. Strands of dark blond hair slithered their way from behind my ears, ruining even further the image I had of myself, of a 63-year-old woman with dark red hair kept in a short bob.

Still, that was enough for that moment. I would have enough time to observe and get used to my new face.

I made my way downstairs with slow, cautious movements. Even if I had started remembering the house and its small intricacies, not being able to experience everything the way I remembered it was making my heart shrivel.

The kitchen was fully stocked. Still, I wasn’t in the mood to eat too much. I grabbed some bread and made toast, then I put some butter and tomatoes on a frilly porcelain plate. Sun shone through a glass door, filtered by an off-white curtain. Pushing the curtain aside, I peered out. A small garden, overtaken by wild bushes, freesias, and weeds, that nearly hid a stone path curving around the house. Tucked to the side, a mismatched garden set waited patiently to be used.

I pricked up my ears, eager to hear if any birds sang outside. No sound. A wistful smile crept on my face. I had forgotten about my hearing.

Yet I was still determined to make the most out of the day, and the thought of enjoying my breakfast among rays of sun and flutter of insects was very appealing. I slid open the door and walked out, closing my eyes to better enjoy the gentle caress of sun rays and grass blades. I made my way through the weeds to the round wicker table and sat on the black stool next to it, careful not to damage the Mandevilla that had latched onto the wall.

The garden may have not been large, or well-maintained, but it had something very special. Was it the sweet collective smell composed of thousands of tiny fragrant flowers? Was it the soft breeze that shook their leaves gently? Was it the sun that peeked shyly from behind thick, grey clouds, while still emanating enough light to bring out all the colours?

It must be all of it, I thought and the wind blew harder in approval, liberating my forehead of errant strands of hair. It was so nice to finally feel warmth, chills, to smell the spring around me. I had gotten so used to watered-down sensations (probably due to experiencing them through a machine), experiencing the real ones was almost a shock.

Eyes half-closed in bliss, I bit into the toast. I couldn’t hear the crunch of the bread, but I could feel it. The taste was harsh, nearly bitter in its realness, miles away from the vague memory I had of toast. Every bite was a new step in this world that I had to discover anew, and with every mouthful swallowed I conquered a little bit more. But a shadow, emerging from the weeds, distracted me. I froze toast in hand and choked down the piece I had in my mouth. The shadow moved to the side and I saw Dalia, furiously waving some kind of small, electronic panel. She stopped waving it when she noticed me looking, pushing it towards me so I could read the message she had written on its screen.

“Can you open the front door?” the large, bulging letters yelled at me.

I hesitated, then I shook my head. My heart pounded in my chest, ready to explode. I told her not to come.

Dalia wrote a new message and turned the device towards me, once more: “Come on, sweetie.”

A shiver ran down my legs. A large, cartoonish grin stretched on her face. Was she mocking me? Was she trying to be friendly? I couldn’t tell. Normally I could guess one’s intentions from their tone, but losing my hearing also meant losing that ability. Panic rose to my throat. What did she want?

“I live pretty far and it’s gonna start raining soon”, a new message informed me, shining black on an unnaturally white background.

Maybe I needed to go inside and ignore her completely. What could she do, after all? Ring the doorbell? Pound on the door?

A harsh knock, startling me from work.

“Go away”, I said aloud. My hands rose to my mouth, too late to stop the escaped words. Did I actually say it? No sound reached my ears, yet my throat had pulsed in line with the words.

Dalia looked at me, surprise painted on her face for a split second, before her grin returned. She looked down at her screen and started writing something new. This time, I didn’t wait to read. I got up and ran into the house, ignoring the painful stabs shooting up my legs, pushed the door closed, and pulled the drape over.

Using our real names is no fun.

Face red-hot with shame and anger, I let myself fall to the floor. Why can she hear me, but I can’t? My fingers trembled their way up my face, got tangled in my hair. I pulled, then I pulled again. Short, angry motions, my inner pain spilling out. My mouth opened by itself, and my throat expanded in a scream I couldn’t hear. I screamed louder, again, and again, and again, until my ears rang with the faintest of sounds. After that, all I could do was cry silently on the floor, mourning my hearing, my confidence, my independence.

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Squinting by virtue of my pounding headache, I pushed the drape to the side. The sun had vanished, covered by a thick blanket of clouds, but the garden looked fresh and lush, painfully bright against the dark backdrop. I scanned the edge of the yard. Dalia had left. I released a breath I didn’t realise I was holding in and got up.

I needed to figure out two things: why I had spent so much time in the machine, and how to get used to being out. The day before I thought I could look into the former immediately, and deal with the latter when the time was right. Yet the flurry of overwhelming sensations and disorganised feelings proved the time would never be right. I had to learn to cope with my new situation as soon as possible. The longer I pushed it aside, the harder it would be to focus on anything else.

Two screens covered in rows of numbers.

I shivered. The basement was the last place I wanted to be in, but I needed to use a computer.

Retracing my steps from the day before, I made my way back into the basement. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and I shivered. My breath quickened, and a thought popped into my head: I can just ask Dalia for help. I shook it off. I wanted to do it by myself. I couldn’t trust anyone else. Taking in a deep breath, I pushed the basement door open and stepped in.

The machine stood tall in the middle of the room, like a sick altar to my losses. My vision blurred, and I embraced myself, fingers digging into my shoulders.

Ta-tada-ta-tada-da-dada.

I remember exactly where this came from, I realised. It was the first song I had composed, or, at least, the first one I could remember. Every time I bought a new instrument, I would play “my song”, before even attempting my arpeggios. Every time I prepared for a concert, I would play it to calm my nerves. My fingers loosened their grip. The index and middle finger rose, then came down on my shoulder, beating in the notes. Ta-tada. Ta-tada. I looked up at the machine and smiled weakly. Maybe I couldn’t hear the song anymore, but I could feel it in me.

With slow steps, with the same cadence as my song, I reached the desk. The screens were both dark but sprung back to life after I wiggled the mouse. The numbers were small, carved precisely in the black of the background, interrupted by the bleeding red error I had seen the day before. With a deep breath, I closed the page, then the ones underneath, small stones lifting from my chest with each “x” pressed. They’re not needed anymore.

After a little bit of fumbling, I managed to open a webpage and search for “adjusting to hearing loss”. My headache came and went in waves, but I pushed through. I had to at least try. After a few seconds of browsing, I settled on a website painted in calming blues and read through the advice it gave.

“Find different ways to communicate with your loved ones.

Try learning new skills.

Join a local group aimed at hard-of-hearing people.”

I closed the page and turned away from the screen, cupping my elbows in my hands. I had nobody to turn to. There was no loved one I could trust to help me with my journey, and after waking up in this vaguely familiar place, I was terrified of going out to find someone.

A half-eaten birthday cake, with an empty wine glass next to it.

After what felt like an hour, I turned again towards the screen and opened a new page. The blinking line waited patiently for something to search, but I had trouble expressing what I needed. Eventually, I wrote “deaf support group” and pressed enter.

A nearly infinite list of options popped up instantly, and I scrolled in a daze, unsure on which one to click until I saw the welcoming adage of “online forum”. It was safer to try to meet someone online, rather than go out into the unknown. I clicked on the blue link, then on the first post, written just a couple of hours before.

“Hello everyone! My name’s Vincent and I’m new here. I’m actually hearing, but I’m learning sign language to talk to my friend who’s deaf. If you want to practice with me, hit me up!”

I let the mouse hoover over Vincent’s name for a few seconds before I clicked. A place as good as any to start. I quickly made a profile, leaving all the fields but my name empty, then sent Vincent a private message.

“Hi, Vincent. I’m Celia. I recently became deaf…”

I stopped, wincing at the half-truth. I couldn’t tell him what had happened, though. The truth sounded like a lie even to myself.

“… and I’d like to learn sign language. Where did you learn?”

I clicked send before I could change my mind and pushed myself away from the table, heart racing in my chest. I did it. I connected to new people. I hadn’t considered learning sign language before sending him the message, but maybe it would be a new way to fill my time. I closed my eyes, trying to visualize myself cheerfully signing to a group of people, all of us laughing at some unknown joke, but the image failed to materialize. With a sigh, I opened my eyes and scanned my youthful, thin hands. Maybe I’ll be able to see that once I’m more familiar with how I look now. I lifted my gaze.

A red bubble popped up next to my smiling, nondescript avatar. Hands shaking, I clicked on it.

“Hiya, Celia! I guess it depends where you’re from. Can you find any classes in your town? I mostly watched videos online. I could send you a link if you want.”

I wiped my hands on my pants, trying to compose a message in my mind, but the words were once more escaping me. Hundreds of questions swarmed my mind, yet something deep within stopped me from putting them down. Finally, I settled on a message and sent it. “I’d like a link, thank you.”

His reply came soon after, forcing a smile out of me. “There you go! Let me know if you need help with anything, or if you just want to talk.”

This time, my fingers flew on the keyboard: “I think I’m okay for now, but thanks. I’ll check the link.”

The next couple of hours went by in a flash, as I repeated the alphabet again and again following the video Vincent had sent me until I could sign my name with my eyes closed, a speck of hope alight in my heart. A crumb of hope I tried to stop from growing into full-fledged cheer, in fear that any semblance of happiness would invite loss back into my life.

Eventually, I got up, leaving the computer on. I felt as if turning it off would sever the only connection I had to my previous life, as well as the small progress I made with my new one.

Slowly, I made my way upstairs once again. I needed to write into my diary, to complete my ritual. Rituals mean routine, routine means getting grounded. Being grounded means belonging and God knows that’s what I needed to feel the most.

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With a sigh, I let the pencil drop from between my fingers and I leaned back. Absentmindedly, I picked up a book from my desk that I had ignored so far. A herbarium containing just three flowers, fixed with yellowing sellotape. In a childish, yet calligraphic handwriting, I had mentioned the date I had added them to the collection. Snowdrop, the 3rd of March. Daffodil, 10th of March. Petunia, 6th of April.

A small café, covered in plants, playing soft music. Charcoal-stained fingers, shading a drawing.

Going around town was still a terrifying prospect. Unfamiliar streets and shops and people to get to know when I couldn’t hear anything wasn’t something I was comfortable with just yet. Looking through old memories in the house was too painful and confusing. I needed to start something new and I needed to have a purpose. Continuing the herbarium was the closest thing to a goal I could think of that didn’t painfully remind me I had lost my most important asset.

I trailed the delicate contours of the flowers with my finger, a faint smile tugging at my lips. What I hadn’t finished then, I would finish now. I would find what life I had had before the machine. I would tie all the loose ends and, maybe, along the way, I would find who I really am and the purpose I so desired.

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