Deafening Silence

Tremors ravage my hands and arms, and my knees bounce up and down like I have springs in my sneakers. Figures in scrubs race back and forth along the corridor, their faces drawn, pale, severe. The smell of bleach is all around me; suffocating, nauseating. A noxious, perfumey scent lies on top of it (gardenias, I think), trying to mask the odor, but it only feeds the pounding ache growing behind my right eye. There's another smell beneath it all - much more potent - that twists my guts up in painful knots. I can't quite place what it is, but it reminds me how much I despise hospitals.

I perk up when a man in scrubs and a lab coat comes near me, but he keeps walking briskly by. He doesn't even bother to glance my way. Normally I'm not bothered by that kind of stuff. Frankly, I prefer to be ignored, treated like I'm invisible. Now, however, it's frustrating as hell. I wonder for a moment if they've forgotten I exist. Or, maybe I actually have turned invisible like I've always fantasized about. If that's the case, the timing for my would-be superpower to kick in absolutely sucks.

Another man in scrubs approaches. It looks like he's going to walk past me too at first, but then he makes eye contact. His eyes are stern but soft, like darkening clouds over a choppy sea. I'm a bundle of nerves as he kneels in front of me, my eyes immediately lowering to his full, mustachioed lips. His head is moving all over the place as he talks, making it impossible for me to understand him. Strung out with nerves and frustration, I wave to make him look me in the eye again. Unsurprisingly, he looks confused, until I swipe my right index finger along my cheek in an arc from my ear to the corner of my lips.

The doctor's puzzled expression fades to surprise, then a blend of pity and annoyance. I'm used to getting this kind of look when people learn of my impairment, particularly from people who don't sign. I've lived like this for sixteen years so far, so it's not like it bothers me. What does bother me, though, is when people treat me like I'm stupid just because I can't hear. Making friends has never been easy for me, but that has less to do with my impairment and more to do with what my teachers call my "attitude problem". If you ask me, my attitude is just fine; it's the other jerks in my class who have a problem with me. Either that, or they just have a sick fetish with shoving my head in the toilet. Both are equally plausible.

I know what you might be thinking: "why not just go to a deaf school?" Gee, Sherlock, I never thought of that. Do you have any idea how expensive those schools are? My mom can hardly afford rent and groceries as it is. Besides, I like going to public school. Aside from the weekly swirlies and fist fights to prevent my lunch from getting stolen, public school is fine. If I didn't go to public school, I never would've met my two best friends, or learned how to lip-read. Although, lip-reading isn't going very well for me right now.

The doctor is trying his best, though, which is more than some people I know. He points to his I.D. badge pinned to his lab coat, which I glance at briefly. The block letters printed under his photo make my mouth run dry as I read them: "Paul Brown, Ph.D. -- Oncology". I swallow, trying to bring some moisture back to my tongue, as my eyes move back to his lips. He's overcompensating, moving his mouth too slow and exaggerated for me to make out anything he's saying. I tense as I eventually recognize three words: "mom... mass... four."

I scrub my eyes with my fist and shake my head, both to indicate that I can't understand it all and to deny what little I have picked up on. There's no damn way my mom could be sick. If she was, she would've told me long before now. She's been extra tired and had a few bouts with the flu lately, sure, but nothing this serious.

Dr. Brown's hand curls around my shoulder and squeezes firmly, centering my attention on his eyes again. They're still soft, and so gentle, burdened with the weight of the news he's trying to give me. News that I can never and will never accept. There has to be another reason for what happened tonight. There are all sorts of causes for fainting spells, right? I knew a kid in fourth grade who passed out in gym class from low blood sugar. Surely, her problem was something simple like that.

Those soft, stormy eyes roll with exhasperation and his shoulders sag. With all the patience he has left for my stubborn ass, Dr. Brown moves his hand from my shoulder to my bicep, pulling me gently to my feet. His grip is firm but not painful as we suddenly start walking together, wending a path down the corridor marked "long-term care ward." I glance at him, confused and still in denial, but he gently urges me to keep walking. Three doors from the end on the left hand side of the corridor, we finally stop.

I feel a gentle prod in my back from Dr. Brown, indicating he wants me to go in, but I'm terrified. I don't know what I'll see in there, because I know if I see it I won't be able to deny it anymore. Again his index and middle fingers dig into my spine, a little more firmly this time. I'm shaking and my eyes are stinging, but I find myself pushing the door open anyway.

It's very dimly lit inside. The curtains are drawn and only one light glows softly above the bed, illuminating the dozing figure within it. My throat tightens and my eyes burn at the sight of her. All my life she's been so strong, vibrant, absolutely unstoppable. I find myself shocked and in disbelief now, asking myself when she'd gotten so thin and pale. Those dark bruises beneath her eyes never used to be there either. Until now, I'd just assumed they came with working two jobs, along with all the other bruises on her body that cropped up out of nowhere lately.

Her head tosses lightly and her heavily lidded eyes open halfway, but it takes her glassy irises a moment to focus on my face. Even they look faded, a pale peridot and no longer a match to the vibrant seafoam hue of mine anymore. They're still so warm and full of fire, however. When she recognizes me, she smiles. She's breathing through a tube and connected to half a dozen machines, and yet she's still smiling. I can't fathom it.

Her right hand moves to her temple before coming away from her face in a weak kind of salute, before she cups both arms to her chest and rocks them back and forth: "Hi, Baby". It's a greeting she's given hundreds of times throughout my life, that I used to resent heavily. After all, what teenaged guy wants his mom to still call him "Baby"? Now, I find the greeting very comforting, and I regret ever thinking I hated it in the past.

The tightness in my throat is unbearable, and my knees don't seem to want to work anymore. Before I realize what's happening, I've fallen onto the bed and have curled up in her arms. I feel her lips on my cheek and her fingers in my hair, trying her best to comfort me. This feels so wrong and selfish. I'm not the one whose sick and needs to be comforted. The fact that I can't be strong for her when she needs it the most boils my blood, and I find myself crying harder. I shiver a little at her warm breath on my ear, while my hand finds its way to her sternum. I may not be able to hear her voice, but I can imagine what she's saying. The vibrations rippling through her chest are soft, slow, rhythmic. I realize after a few minutes that she's singing. Never before have I ever wanted so badly to be able to hear her voice.

I close my eyes, feeling the vibrations through my palm and cheek, savoring every silent note. Although I can't hear her song, I know that pattern of vibrations by heart: an old lullaby she used to sing when I was little. It calms me just as effectively as it did then, and as soon as I'm able I sit up and dry my face on my hoodie sleeve. There are so many things going through my head; so many questions and volatile emotions that I don't really know what to say or how to think for a few minutes. Finally, I look her straight in the eye, trying to stop my lips from quivering, and lay my four right fingertips on my brow. With fresh tears in my eyes, I quickly pull my hand away and fold in my middle three fingers, mouthing the meaning of the sign simultaneously: "Why?"

My mother looks close to tears herself now, but she still tries to smile. Her right hand curls into a fist against her sternum and moves in a slow clockwise circle twice - "sorry" - then she holds out her arms for me again. I snuggle into them like a toddler, hugging her a little too tight. Honestly, I'm afraid to let go. She feels so fragile, delicate, like a bubble. If I loosen my grip, even for a second, I'm worried she'll disappear right in front of my eyes. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

My mom is all I have. I never knew my dad, because he split before he even knew he'd made me. For the past sixteen years she's been my rock, my lighthouse, my compass. Without her, I don't even want to think about how lost I'd be. Sometimes it feels like she's the only one who truly understands me... the only one who really cares.

Mom pats me on the shoulder a few times, and reluctantly I let go. Just enough to look her in the eye. Although they're still teary, she stares at me - right through me - with the warmth and power of a thousand suns. I know that look very well: it's the same she wore when she decided we were going to re-do the kitchen ourselves, and when I first told her about the guys at school bullying me. In the right circumstances that look was downright terrifying... but now - like with the kitchen - it was brimming over with determination and positivity. It was a look that said "we will get through this, no matter what it takes".

I feel more tears spill down my face, but I'm not that scared anymore. Not really, anyway. I trust my mom, and I know how strong she is. If anyone can beat this, it's her. I nod, then hug her again a little more gently. I don't know what the future holds for us, but I do know one thing: I love my mom very much, and I believe in her with every fiber of my being.