Moving Day

I am 17 days away from having a hole the size of a half dollar drilled in my mastoid bone and I am getting a little weak in the knees.

“Don’t worry. We cover it up with muscle and [whatnot],.” (I didn’t catch what else the surgeon said, my being deaf enough to need a cochlear implant and in a state of shock about the size of the pending hole in my head).

It took my breath away. All along, I thought there would be a little wee hole through which the wires for the cochlear implant would be threaded..

Au contraire, mon amie.

The hole in my head will be large enough for small elves to pass through. They could move in with their caravans and donkeys, cook their greasy hash over open fires and leave dirty dishes piled in heaps. There would be room for that and more. Their clothes, maybe. Their antiques brought from the motherland.

It seems excessive to me, the size of the pending hole in my head. And I wonder if its size is for the surgeon’s convenience, so he doesn’t have to squint so much while he threads the cochlear implant into my inner ear. I wanted to argue with him about the size of the hole but it seemed futile. I am just another piece of metal in a stamping plant. Either agree to get stamped or not. Don’t get jazzy about the fine points. There’s nothing that separates you from the next piece of metal so just it’s just yay or nay, sugar.

It’s yay. But only because there seems to be no graceful way to say no thanks, I’d rather just stay pretty deaf and not have a hole in my head. People are expecting that I would rather have a hole in my head than continue to be so insanely hard of hearing.

They might be right. I’m not sure.