When All the Sounds Leave

I'm going deaf.

Most of the time I'm too busy living this life to contemplate the reality of a world without sound. But then I get an earache. A pain that most of you would take some Tylenol for and then forget the ache. I wake in the night, my ear throbbing and I imagine the nurse in the ER asking me to rate my pain. "Its a three." A three?  How can it be a three?  I can't sleep. It hurts so bad that I'm crying.

Then I realize I can't hear the fan. I can't hear myself sit up in bed. I wonder, 'Do blankets make sound?' Anxiety hits. I try to remember all the other noises I've forgotten about. Paper rustling. Keys jingling. Feet shuffling across the floor. Birds. Can I still hear birds? Shit when was the last time I heard a fucking bird? I cry harder. My ear throbs. The left side of my face is hot and I can't open my jaw without it hurting. But its only a three.

Instead of counting sheep, I compose a list of sounds I want to keep. The crunch of leaves. The crackle of a campfire. Rain. Waves. Wind. Crickets in the summer. I rush on to the list of music I want to be able to play back in my head as though my brain could function as an MP3 player. From Beethoven to Nine Inch Nails...I want it all there. But what about the bands I haven't heard? Musicians not even born yet?  A lump burns in my throat. What about my future grandkids? Will I get to listen to their voices and laughter as they grow up?

My pain is at least a four. I take a prescription pain killer and put expired steroid drops in my ear. I'll see the doctor tomorrow. I'll get a Z-pack. More steroids. Better pain killer. I'll be warned to be careful. Be told my hearing is precarious. I'll laugh in agreement like I always do. I'll take the meds. I'll get better. I'll forget I'm going deaf. Or at least I won't think about it. I'll thank Heaven that there's nothing serious wrong with me...until I get that little throb again...and I'm reminded that someday all the sounds will leave me.