A Petty Theft

The first thing I ever consciously stole was an anthology of Scottish poetry. I say first which implies it has become a habit but I can assure you it has not. I say consciously because I am sure there were more insignificant thefts both before and since; penny mixtures; supermarket grapes and other such petty crimes.

Duo: William Keyes

It was my final day of secondary school and I agreed with a friend that we would each take a book from the school’s library by which to remember our time there. I can’t remember why we decided on what was for us such a rebellious act, but for all my remorse it isn’t something I can bring myself to regret.

We browsed the titles, grasping their spines only to unceremoniously shove them back onto the shelf unselected. Every so often one of us would hold a book up to the other and invite comment. The Bible; The Handmaid’s Tale; The Complete Works of Shakespeare; Mein Kampf. A shrug or a laugh and then we’d move on to the next shelf.

I’d like to say that the book I stole was one which I had gone back to year after year throughout my time at high school. However, there was no such sophistication on my part. It was not a familiar friend but a new companion which I chose to pocket - Scottish Love Poems: A Personal Anthology by Antonia Fraser. My friend selected The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins; as odd a choice as mine.

Poem for a Goodbye: Norman MacCaig

I look back now and laugh at how daring we thought we were. Our classmates were far more destructive than we as they wreaked havoc on every department. We thought the library would go otherwise unscathed, but we failed to account for the stupidity of our peers.

School was the centre of our universe for six long years. The benefit of hindsight tells me those were the shortest six years of our lives. I spent my time wishing the days away and wondering when I would finally be free but now it is past I wish I could go back to the comfort which it held.

In the Reading-Room: Rody Gorman

Strathaven Academy was built in imposing red sandstone at the turn of the 20th century. By the time we attended the walls were falling in on themselves and the building was held up by scaffolding. When we left that scaffolding was supported by scaffolding of its own. Some two years later the school was pulled to the ground.

The building which we knew as a library was originally the school hall and was overlooked by a gallery of classrooms. If the room had been the prison it felt like there would have been netting to prevent missiles from above. However, none such existed therefore it was not unusual for spittle, paper planes and pupils to find themselves launched overboard into those working below.

On our final day of school it was none of these things which our peers chose to throw into the library. For reasons which I am yet to understand, the miscreants elected to liberate an orchestra of crickets from above.

It was an interesting choice by all accounts which threw the building into uproar. We were unceremoniously turfed out of the library, and in fact the school; our final day cut short. It saddens me that my last moments in such a dear spot ended so abruptly. But then in some ways, perhaps it was best to skip drawn out goodbyes with a place of the past.

A Memory, now Distant: Eric Linklater

At 16 we selected our paths and at 17 we had to follow them; not knowing where they would lead. As we left school for the final time we each began to follow our chosen path. Most stayed near but I moved to Stirling, desperate to try spread my wings.

It was a step into the unknown but with me I took my book and it nestled in the shelf above my head. I didn’t read it cover to cover, but I would dip in now and then, to discover something new or return to something cherished.

In my third year I transferred from French to English and regretted it bitterly. But the book came in useful; the treasures within studied during Scottish Literature classes. Like the connections of home it was a comfort which I knew was there but was not always seen.

In Glasgow: Edwin Morgan

My 30 year old self can laugh at the choices I once made because now I am safe from their harm. My regrets have transformed into relief and my trepidation into thankfulness.

As we left the library that day we had no way of knowing where life would take us. Whilst there is always that strong resolve of the young to stay in touch, all too often life simply gets in the way. But now we are back where we once were and the distance of time has galvanised the bonds of friendship, not diminished them.

I have carried that book with me throughout the years and proudly placed this symbol of my defiance on each bookshelf I have owned. It is a constant comfort; the swansong of my childhood.

But the symbolism is about more than rebellion; it is an emblem of enduring friendship. And like the breading of the book my friend purloined, it is as yet unfinished.

Recoil: or how I chose to lose my hearing at 21

Originally published on the Limping Chicken blog:

-So you were born like that?

-what?

-you were born deaf?

My hearing impairment always makes itself known at inopportune moments; be that through a squeaky hug or through me completely missing an entire conversation. When asked how I lost my hearing, I have a variety of smart answers, but the truth is that it was a choice.

I chose to lose my hearing when I was 21.

Hearing loss is one of the lesser known, more permanent side effects of some cancer treatments. In my case it wasn’t the cancer which caused the issues; it was the platinum-based chemotherapy which blasted the decibels. Should a man ever win my heart it will certainly not be with a platinum engagement ring.

My consultant was nonchalant. I was sent for monthly hearing tests and told that she could cope with me losing a few of the top notes. I merrily signed the paperwork; if she could cope, so could I. When you’ve got aggressive, late-stage cancer, maintaining your hearing tends to be the least of your problems. And anyway, the hearing loss wasn’t guaranteed; the odds were good that I’d get by unscathed.

Three rounds of intense treatment saw off the high pitches I’d retained into adulthood but I barely noticed. Sadly, the chemotherapy was as ineffective at killing off the cancer as it was my hearing; the tumour had reduced in some places but was making short work of my liver. High dose chemo with stem cell transplants were required and with that came the likelihood of more substantial hearing loss. At that point, however, my options were clear. Drop a few decibels or drop dead.

I didn’t lose my hearing overnight. In fact, it was the noises I could hear which alerted me to the fact that things weren’t quite right. Slowly little sounds were creeping inside my head. The worst was a ringing in my ears. It was a noise I’d heard before; that heady buzz the morning after a gig. Usually by mid-afternoon following the concert it would wear off, but this was different. No matter what I did it only grew louder and lasted long into the night.

As the days went by I made my visitors move ever closer to my hospital bed so I could hear them speak. The sterile whiteness of the hospital room was deafening; I just needed to get outside and I’d be fine.

Once treatment was over I was passed to different teams of medics to take stock of the carnage cancer had left behind. It soon became clear that the issue was not the hospital room at all, but that I had a lost a lot of my hearing.

I say I lost my hearing; I’m not Deaf and I’m not fully hearing. I’m caught somewhere in between, in the no man’s land of the hearing impaired. Clarity of speech is largely lost which often leaves me repeating conversations in unintended cockney rhyming slang, trying to decipher sentences like hieroglyphics.

Once an intrepid traveller, I had to re-learn airports, train stations and public transport through less able ears. Even now, some 7 years later, flying alone leaves me anxious as so many of the announcements are for hearing ears only.

So many sounds are different to what I remember. I’ll hear a memory of a song I used to love but now the orchestra has taken on a menacing tone; the delicate flutes and piccolos have been culled but the cello plays on.

The thing I miss most of all though, is hearing nothing. Cancer stole my hearing, but it stole my silence too. Whether the drone takes on the guise of running water, a tuneless radio or a high-pitched pinging noise, I never, ever have peace and that’s what I crave the most.

In some ways tinnitus is more annoying than the hearing loss. I slam a broom against the ceiling, determined to make my neighbour turn down his TV only to discover it isn’t on at all. The noise I am surrounded by and which I cannot escape is not real. It’s not in my ears; it’s in my head.

I was told at diagnosis that my future would be about living with cancer. What I didn’t understand is that I must live with its consequences all of my life. The hearing loss, the tinnitus, they will never leave me. The tinniness in my ears is like the ringing of a shotgun blast; long after the shell is fired and the damage is done. My body has healed but the echoes of the shot remain for only me to hear. Constant reminders of a time I’d rather forget; the cost of survival.

Still, ask me once more, decibels and death or silence and survival? I’d choose the same again. I’d pull the trigger myself.