I saw a GP very much like Doc Martin.
"What can I do for you?" she asked
"I'm not sure," I croaked.
"Oh dear. You need to stop talking!" she barked, "What do you do for a living?"
I started to tell her and she quickly interrupted shushing me and saying that was no good.
"I'll sign you off for a week. No talking until Monday and steam for 10 minutes every hour."
I tried to tell her that it happens every seven weeks or so but she put her finger to her lips and said, "No talking."
I had no one to dep for me at the Youth Orchestra so I had a notebook and made myself a sign.
It worked reasonably well but conflict resolution with eight year olds and a notebook is tricky. Sign language would only work if the people you are talking to know how to sign. The LSH does know the few swear words I have learnt.
It is also completely exhausting to have no voice. You are playing a constant game of charades, which although sounds fun, very much depends on who you are playing with.
The Long Suffering Husband finds it very difficult when I lose my voice: He is used to being able to have shouted conversations from different rooms in the house, can't see well enough without his specs (and he can never find his specs) to read my notebook, doesn't have the patience to wait for my phone to speak each word that I type and he is terrible at charades. Really terrible. I have very many fond Christmas memories of him being the worst charade player on the planet. Let's hope he never loses his voice because if he is bad at guessing that's nothing compared to his ability to give clues. One year we were all laughing at him, waving his arms in a circular motion, which we all took to mean, "just keep guessing until you get it." When it was his next go he pulled the card from the hat and looked defeated. "I don't even know how to begin," he said. We were encouraging but resigned to the fact that we would be there for some time. He started by cupping his breasts. "Ship shape and Bristol fashion!" my dad shouted. We never found out whether he cheated or was inspired. The LSH was so shocked that he couldn't speak for a while and stood continuing to gesticulate until we told him to stop.
Both my children came home for the weekend, which was handy, as they are much better at charades.
It was irritating not being able to talk. I like talking and after four days you start to lose a sense of yourself. I found myself checking in the mirror to make sure I was still there. By late on Sunday night, when both children had gone home and the dog was sulking I was feeling quite miserable and not like my usual cheery self.
"The problem is not being able to talk really messes with your mind and my mind is the last bit of me that needs to be messed with," I told the LSH (I might have substituted messes for a ruder word that begins with F)
The LSH perked up and offered his services if I needed him to mess with anything; just give him the nod, tip the wink and he'd be there. Bob's your uncle. Fanny's your.....well, you get the idea.
On Monday, able to talk again, I was driving my mum to her chemotherapy appointment and a programme came on the radio interviewing a man who had lost his voice and whose wife had cancer. It doesn't make great radio; an interview of someone you can't hear but it is odd how everything seems to be about what's on your mind. My mum has decided that the whole world must have cancer because everything she sees or listens to mentions it. If you are someone of a slightly hippy nature and prone to a long flowing skirt and dangling earrings then you will be familiar with the idea of the universe sending you a sign. A Taoist friend once told me that if you hear the same thing three times then the universe is trying to tell you something and you should listen.
Today, in an attempt to get my head together I took a long walk (missing out a couple of hours of steaming) remaining open to any signs that might come my way. Hippy-types get very excited by feathers. Finding feathers is meant to be a sign that angels are near. As I walked along a footpath I noticed that someone had collected feathers and placed them in the cracks of the posts of the fence. It was a stunning sight. There were grey, white, black and brown feathers and then I found a green feather.
If feathers are signs of angels, shouldn't they be white? Who has heard of a green winged angel? Maybe I don't have angels but sick parrots stalking me. I kept holding the feather until I reached the last post, when it felt right to add it to the display that was there already.
I kept walking, thinking about signs.
Who put that sign there and why? The only way to reach this path is up or down a very muddy and slippery slope. It must be a message. Life is a slippery surface.
Closer to home.
This sign made me laugh. I imagined dog owners squatting on this person's garden. I thought about them sitting in their kitchen, watching owners join their dogs in a spot of outdoor defecation. As I dog owner I get the message and will try not to foul.
Finally, one last sign.
CYCLISTS PLEASE USE YOUR BELL! Some of us are hard of hearing and the rest don't hear you coming!
Who writes these signs? What is the message? Should I be using a bell or am I the one not hearing things coming.
I think that's quite enough signing for now.
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