As I reflect over my unexpected journey with my ear, I am reminded of a conversation Anna, Annina and I had way back in the fall. I believe it was after I moved onto campus, but before I began having ear issues. I don't remember why we got on this topic, but Anna asked us both what we would choose if we had a choice: blindness or deafness. Anna would rather be blind because she wouldn't be able to enjoy music and singing if she were deaf and those are talents she holds most dear. I must admit, I don't fully remember what Annina said, but I believe it was the same. I said deafness because I could dance without music, but not if I couldn't see the space I was dancing in. I guess God decided to give that decision a little test over these past months :) I've thought back over this conversation many times, especially when I first lost some of the hearing in my right ear.
After my second visit with the ENT (or equivalent here in France) and his saying I had to have surgery right away, I was also struck by the difference in my reactions. In my first appointment with him, when he suggested the cholesteatoma may have be back, it took all I had to not cry in his office or on the way home. I felt that this must be the case and that surgery would be in my not too distant future. Several months past, I had my CAT scan and my MRI and my fears were consequently eased and heightened, but mostly eased. In my second appointment I was calm - I had to have surgery, it was serious, I could have facial nerve damage, but I felt fine. It wasn't till much later, back at Mimi's, that it really hit me. I remember a rather tear-filled voice mail to a friend in which I must have sounded quite distraught (and perhaps a bit over-reactive), but then I began thinking, well my best chance of a sound recovery may be having the surgery here. It would mean changing plans with Michelle and put quite a bit of stress on Mimi and mom would visit again, but maybe it would be my best option. I had nearly fully accepted that reality till I was sitting in the hospital, waiting for my appointment with the surgeon, when I realized I wasn't sure I wanted to stay in a hospital in France. Nothing against French hospitals, but being in a hospital in your own country is bad enough. Being in a hospital in another country, even when you can understand the language a bit, is a whole other story. With that said, there was a teensy, weensy part of me that was disappointed I wouldn't be able to add (and subsequently cross off) 'surgery and hospital stay in France' to my non-existent bucket list.
So, rather than plan for a surgery, I planned for a trip to Toulon - which didn't happen :( There weren't enough kids signed up for the camp (the reason I would go), so it was canceled. I spent some of that time at Blanc (and in Paris proper), some of that time at Jill and Patrick's, and some of that time with Mimi.
During my time in Paris, I took a sewer tour (yes, they have a sewer tour and it gives a rather interesting account of how the sewer system in Paris developed). Some pictures below...
After the tour, sushi and bubble tea in a park with a book :)
...Or rather, I tried to read in the park but ended up having an interesting conversation with a stranger, in French bien sûr. So, I had just finished eating and was settling down to read a bit in the sun before returning to Blanc when I heard something to my right - I think he must have tried to get my attention a couple of times, but as it was my bad side, it took awhile till I heard anything. This led to a 'hello' and a 30 or so minute family and cultural history of his people in Algeria (btw, he made it very clear that he was not Muslim, but rather descendant from those who lived in Algeria before it was settled by Muslims - and other's - and were thus so pushed up into the mountains in order to preserve their culture and way of life). It was good practice for my French, but I would have much rather have been reading during that time. At the end, he asked if I would want to get coffee or dinner sometime (aka, for my number) and I graciously declined. Not really in the habit of giving men who look old enough to be twice my age my phone number. It does remind me of my time in Washington DC and all the older men who approached me there - usually very respectfully - but it always made me wonder a bit. Do I really seem that much older than I am? Is it just because of the fact that age difference isn't a big issue right now? Why is it usually someone from a different demographic group (country, race, age... - not an issue, but curious)? And why do I never feel any inclination to take any of them up on their offer for a cup of tea, coffee or dinner. I mean, free dinner, right? Meh - nope, never feels right. And this is with people who at least seemed to respect me. Oh, well. My gut has not led me wrong up to this point - I think I'll keep on trusting it. God gave it to me for a reason, right?
After my second visit with the ENT (or equivalent here in France) and his saying I had to have surgery right away, I was also struck by the difference in my reactions. In my first appointment with him, when he suggested the cholesteatoma may have be back, it took all I had to not cry in his office or on the way home. I felt that this must be the case and that surgery would be in my not too distant future. Several months past, I had my CAT scan and my MRI and my fears were consequently eased and heightened, but mostly eased. In my second appointment I was calm - I had to have surgery, it was serious, I could have facial nerve damage, but I felt fine. It wasn't till much later, back at Mimi's, that it really hit me. I remember a rather tear-filled voice mail to a friend in which I must have sounded quite distraught (and perhaps a bit over-reactive), but then I began thinking, well my best chance of a sound recovery may be having the surgery here. It would mean changing plans with Michelle and put quite a bit of stress on Mimi and mom would visit again, but maybe it would be my best option. I had nearly fully accepted that reality till I was sitting in the hospital, waiting for my appointment with the surgeon, when I realized I wasn't sure I wanted to stay in a hospital in France. Nothing against French hospitals, but being in a hospital in your own country is bad enough. Being in a hospital in another country, even when you can understand the language a bit, is a whole other story. With that said, there was a teensy, weensy part of me that was disappointed I wouldn't be able to add (and subsequently cross off) 'surgery and hospital stay in France' to my non-existent bucket list.
So, rather than plan for a surgery, I planned for a trip to Toulon - which didn't happen :( There weren't enough kids signed up for the camp (the reason I would go), so it was canceled. I spent some of that time at Blanc (and in Paris proper), some of that time at Jill and Patrick's, and some of that time with Mimi.
During my time in Paris, I took a sewer tour (yes, they have a sewer tour and it gives a rather interesting account of how the sewer system in Paris developed). Some pictures below...
After the tour, sushi and bubble tea in a park with a book :)
...Or rather, I tried to read in the park but ended up having an interesting conversation with a stranger, in French bien sûr. So, I had just finished eating and was settling down to read a bit in the sun before returning to Blanc when I heard something to my right - I think he must have tried to get my attention a couple of times, but as it was my bad side, it took awhile till I heard anything. This led to a 'hello' and a 30 or so minute family and cultural history of his people in Algeria (btw, he made it very clear that he was not Muslim, but rather descendant from those who lived in Algeria before it was settled by Muslims - and other's - and were thus so pushed up into the mountains in order to preserve their culture and way of life). It was good practice for my French, but I would have much rather have been reading during that time. At the end, he asked if I would want to get coffee or dinner sometime (aka, for my number) and I graciously declined. Not really in the habit of giving men who look old enough to be twice my age my phone number. It does remind me of my time in Washington DC and all the older men who approached me there - usually very respectfully - but it always made me wonder a bit. Do I really seem that much older than I am? Is it just because of the fact that age difference isn't a big issue right now? Why is it usually someone from a different demographic group (country, race, age... - not an issue, but curious)? And why do I never feel any inclination to take any of them up on their offer for a cup of tea, coffee or dinner. I mean, free dinner, right? Meh - nope, never feels right. And this is with people who at least seemed to respect me. Oh, well. My gut has not led me wrong up to this point - I think I'll keep on trusting it. God gave it to me for a reason, right?
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