Dusty Days With Wheezes & Rales; Randi In Northern Senegal With Peace Corps

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The season for dust has arrived in earnest, and has become a central topic of conversation.   (For context, see The Air We Breathe.)  I'm wheezing and crackling, my ears are sealed (and have been for nearly two weeks), and I've been referred by my lovely German physician to two specialists (ENT and pulmonologist), whom I will seek out next week.  I've twice been on Cortisone, but it's not kicking it this time around (despite the Austrian accent).  Patient as I've been, I continue deaf, or nearly so, my ears compacted.  A creaky door opens with each of my exhalations, a wee bit disconcerting.  It's a dusty place, at least through June, that's the reality.  

As strange as this may sound, I do find it interesting to be deaf, to be cloistered, as it were.  It's not that I'm deaf exactly;  more like I'm walking around with headphones on, or observing the world from a very well-insulated room.  I find the slight separation to be intriguing.  It is easier to remain centered, internal, a little less identified, less prone to drawn to what others say, or the tone with which something is voiced. 

Throughout the day, there persists a sensation of compactness within my ears, within my head.  It's quite different than a sore back, or tired feet.  Here the sensation is much closer to my sense of "I", my experience of myself, and my perception the world.  I've read that it's not possible to experience negative emotion when we're in contact with sensation.  For this reason, the persistent sensation of pressure in my ears is an opportunity for observing it's affect on instances of identification, and negative imagination.

Being deaf certainly changes the experience of teaching.  There is a loss of information coded in the sound of my own voice, and the sound/tone of my students.  I speak with the kids, read for them, provide instructions, feedback, and they seem to respond normally.   While "I" am split slightly, observing myself speaking, observing the strange resonance of my voice, observing the class responding.  My ears become omi-directional microphones, picking up all sounds equally, simultaneously, making it difficult to distinguish one voice from another.  Some tones I cannot hear:  Eric's deep, deliberate tone;  Marie's high pitch voice.  I know someone's speaking, but am unable to decode the sounds into words, like having a conversation underwater.

We need to be flexible enough to find meaning in life's shocks, large or small.  They are the source of real growth, me thinks.  Still, I'll be pleased to be "myself" again.

Addendum (2.7.09):

Since the writing of the blog entry above, I have been seen by an EMT and a pulmonologist.  The acute part of the illness has now passed, and, after a second visit to the pulmonologist, I'm on two inhalers:  Foradil and Miflasone, a corticosteroid.