The difference between Saturday and Sunday

The weekend just passed was strange, useful, demanding but not too much, thoughtful and so on and so forth. But what I noticed was the real and abysmal difference (I’m talking from the point of view of the disease, soon I’ll be able to explain) between Saturday and Sunday.

Let’s go in order.

Saturday destination Portobello Road. I had to go back to my silver counter, to see if there were knives or butter and other things I had asked the gentleman (too nice a guy). Obviously, the tour around the market is always fun, the stalls, the crowd (too much), the heat (it was tolerated). But this time I decided to go and see Portobello School Yard too. Very nice, a courtyard with tables for street food, in the shade of a beautiful tree, some stalls and then the road that continues with other stalls and things to buy.

We ate Jamaican with a lot of sordamaldestra misadventure. While I was eating something got stuck in my teeth … I didn’t quite understand what it was. However, my maneuvers to get rid of the intruder attracted the attention of the cook, who poor thing immediately ran thinking I was wrong or who knows what (imagine the moves I must have done). However, then after several maneuvers with the tongue (bent down to not let me see), I solved and continued to eat and drink.

A great Saturday, where I was out for lunch, went into the shops, looked for stalls, went shopping. I didn’t feel disabled or deaf. I was calm in doing things, now I’m also understanding the lip in English. It was a little hot, but let’s say the wind helped a lot.

Sunday

Let’s say that until lunchtime everything was normal, and I was looking forward to a relaxing day watching some series or some movies in peace. Instead it all started with “the dialogic phase” as I call it, with her husband. We started talking, and I don’t know how we ended up talking about me (not out of mania for being a protagonist), but because of my condition.

More than the disease, being immunosuppressed and always having to go around with the mask (rituximab breaks with the covid in short) is being deaf that screwed me. It is true that my gorgeous autoimmune meningitis will stay with me, but the purpose of chemo and therapy should be to keep it under control. All the cortisone I am doing now (with an atavistic hunger, the heat, the fluctuating mood and so on and so forth), should help relieve the chronic pain of my pachymenings, so no more headaches.

Let’s talk clearly though. Yes, I am a sick person, I try to improve my lifestyle. But how do I do with deafness? When I was ill, I always replied to those who said something to me or made jokes “you don’t know what it means”, or even “you want to change”. Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, her husband told me things about being deaf that he had never told me before (I don’t know what was wrong with him … maybe the pasta with meat sauce may have put him in a good mood).

So after lunch, and after the chat, I didn’t even start crying, I was silent. I realized that even if I wanted to give the waitress an example, I can’t do it because I don’t understand Italian, let alone English. It is not so much a fact of what I want to do as it is realistically a fact of what I “can do”. Are there no limits or barriers? this is not true. It’s harder, it’s harder. I have to be able to understand the nuance of sounds in a language that is not mine. The sounds … yeah.

And so yesterday I started doing everything I had postponed. I started to evaluate and understand … I gave myself a time to try to be able to give a new direction to my life. I don’t know why all this happened to me (apart from maybe having shit karma) I just have to learn how to manage it and unfortunately this is not easy. For nothing.

Meanwhile, yesterday I was a doctor, bank, social security number, three new opportunities, a master’s degree. structural differences between Saturday and Sunday.

see you soon for new updates.