Silence breaks your heart.*
Oct. 14th, 2007 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesAs always, there's hours of backstory to this drabble that I ought to have written first. But since it's the first thing I've written in months, and these measly 454 words took some 4 or 5 hours, I'm calling in some slack.
The point of the backstory and current drabble is to explore one's reactions to imminent aphasia caused by a brain tumour. (...yeah.) I am certainly taking dramatic liberties with causes and syndrome, but hopefully not excessively.
So the summary, as it pertains to this drabble, is that Francis and Ethel met a few months ago at a bar where Ethel worked. They became close acquaintances after their meeting, with Francis being generously supportive of Ethel as her symptoms began and slowly getting more involved.
When they met, Ethel was just starting to go through the required tests to find out what was happening to her and had just gotten a preliminary expected-progress report from her neuorologist. The report was that they would have to wait a few months before being able to consider opperating, by which time symptoms would have begun to show. One such symptom, appearing near the end of the enforced wait was aphasia. The extent of the aphasia couldn't be determined that early on, but later tests showed she could expect to lose the ability to comprehend spoken and written language.
This drabble starts a few days after Ethel's last visit to the neurologist. During the meeting to discuss how soon they could operate, he warns her that the tumour is encroaching on her language center. Here described is her first day of full-on aphasia where she desperately tries to understand speach and text.
***
Francis heard the music the moment he stepped out of the elevator. He stood still for a moment, listening to the throbbing beat that made its way down the hall from Ethel's flat, thinking about her phone call. The fact was, he'd been expecting it - dreading it - for a while now. He'd spend days thinking about Ethel, mentally counting down the grace period the doctors had given her, going over different scenes in his head as to how to deal with it when it happened. Now that the call had come, he didn't know what to do.
The elevators closed shut behind him, bringing Francis out of his reverie with a start. He rubbed his hands against his jeans in one quick nervous gesture, then made his way towards the music.
Reaching apartment 47, last on the left, he gave the door a perfunctory knock and reached for his keys. Ethel had given them to him shortly after her last visit with Dr Kincade. He'd taken them without a word, without even asking what Kincade had said; he just took the keys and placed them by his beside, waiting for the call. He fumbled with the lock, knowing from watching Ethel that there was a trick to it but damned if he could remember what it was. From within the apartment he could make out voices and beats blaring in disharmony.
Finally unlocking the door, Francis stepped into the apartment and walked toward the living room. From the doorway he could see that both the radio and television were turned on, music and news reports blaring out so loud the noise filled the room. Strewn over the sofa and coffe table were dozens of books, some open, some leaning together half-standing, balanced precariously on sofa cushions where they'd been thrown.
Ethel was standing in the middle of the room with her eyes close and look of intense concentration on her face. In her hands she held a large envelope. Francis could just make out the seal of the Northwestern Memorial.
"Ethel?"
She flinched at his voice and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were swollen and red, while dishevelled strands of hair, escapees from a low ponytail, framed her face. She caught his eye only for a moment before turning away, as if in embarassment.
Francis took a step closer to her, feeling rather than hearing the music as it reverberated against the walls. It was strange how, despite the glaring radio and television with myriads of voices clamoring, watching her filled the room with silence and stillness. He saw she'd started crying again, tears overflowing down her cheeks. His breath caught in his throat at the defeat he saw.
Deleted:
- as if they'd been thrown into the sofa's corner
- no longer hearing the music and news announcers
- the room seemed to be full of silence and stillness
* Phyllis McGinley
The point of the backstory and current drabble is to explore one's reactions to imminent aphasia caused by a brain tumour. (...yeah.) I am certainly taking dramatic liberties with causes and syndrome, but hopefully not excessively.
So the summary, as it pertains to this drabble, is that Francis and Ethel met a few months ago at a bar where Ethel worked. They became close acquaintances after their meeting, with Francis being generously supportive of Ethel as her symptoms began and slowly getting more involved.
When they met, Ethel was just starting to go through the required tests to find out what was happening to her and had just gotten a preliminary expected-progress report from her neuorologist. The report was that they would have to wait a few months before being able to consider opperating, by which time symptoms would have begun to show. One such symptom, appearing near the end of the enforced wait was aphasia. The extent of the aphasia couldn't be determined that early on, but later tests showed she could expect to lose the ability to comprehend spoken and written language.
This drabble starts a few days after Ethel's last visit to the neurologist. During the meeting to discuss how soon they could operate, he warns her that the tumour is encroaching on her language center. Here described is her first day of full-on aphasia where she desperately tries to understand speach and text.
Francis heard the music the moment he stepped out of the elevator. He stood still for a moment, listening to the throbbing beat that made its way down the hall from Ethel's flat, thinking about her phone call. The fact was, he'd been expecting it - dreading it - for a while now. He'd spend days thinking about Ethel, mentally counting down the grace period the doctors had given her, going over different scenes in his head as to how to deal with it when it happened. Now that the call had come, he didn't know what to do.
The elevators closed shut behind him, bringing Francis out of his reverie with a start. He rubbed his hands against his jeans in one quick nervous gesture, then made his way towards the music.
Reaching apartment 47, last on the left, he gave the door a perfunctory knock and reached for his keys. Ethel had given them to him shortly after her last visit with Dr Kincade. He'd taken them without a word, without even asking what Kincade had said; he just took the keys and placed them by his beside, waiting for the call. He fumbled with the lock, knowing from watching Ethel that there was a trick to it but damned if he could remember what it was. From within the apartment he could make out voices and beats blaring in disharmony.
Finally unlocking the door, Francis stepped into the apartment and walked toward the living room. From the doorway he could see that both the radio and television were turned on, music and news reports blaring out so loud the noise filled the room. Strewn over the sofa and coffe table were dozens of books, some open, some leaning together half-standing, balanced precariously on sofa cushions where they'd been thrown.
Ethel was standing in the middle of the room with her eyes close and look of intense concentration on her face. In her hands she held a large envelope. Francis could just make out the seal of the Northwestern Memorial.
"Ethel?"
She flinched at his voice and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were swollen and red, while dishevelled strands of hair, escapees from a low ponytail, framed her face. She caught his eye only for a moment before turning away, as if in embarassment.
Francis took a step closer to her, feeling rather than hearing the music as it reverberated against the walls. It was strange how, despite the glaring radio and television with myriads of voices clamoring, watching her filled the room with silence and stillness. He saw she'd started crying again, tears overflowing down her cheeks. His breath caught in his throat at the defeat he saw.
Deleted:
- as if they'd been thrown into the sofa's corner
- no longer hearing the music and news announcers
- the room seemed to be full of silence and stillness
* Phyllis McGinley
