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The explosion caught me completely by surprise. I awoke 3 days later, tubes and wires snaking from my body, surrounded by shades of white. Absolute silence. I was sure I was dead. The cobwebs slowly fell away. Hospital. I anxiously began an examination of my inert body. It looked like everything was still there. I had a sudden moment of terror at the discomfort between my legs. Gingerly I managed to pull the covers back only to find a catheter rather than any signs of damage. I almost cried in relief.I realized I was dying of thirst and began frantically searching the bed for a call button or some means of getting the attention of medical staff. Fortunately a nurse walked soundlessly into the room carrying a large jug with which she filled a small plastic cup with water. She placed a small straw in the cup and brought it to my mouth where I sucked greedily at the welcome pleasure. I tried to thank her but couldn’t seem to speak. She smiled warmly and silently touched my arm as though she had heard my thoughts.Again I struggled to form a coherent sentence to ask what had happened. The quizzical expression on her face looked rather comical as I lay there half dazed. She squeezed my hand gently then left the room as soundlessly as she had arrived. I lay there, enjoying the blissful silence feeling a wave of exhaustion slowly wash over me. I felt myself slowly sinking in to the warm embrace of sleep. Then sat bolt upright in sudden horror. Frantically I thrashed at the metal rails along the edge of my bed, flailed wildly at the water jug to send it crashing to the floor. Dead silence. My thoughts filled with dread. I was deaf.The next few days were a whirl of doctors, nurses and therapists. With an avalanche of handwritten notes and booklets it was explained that I had lost my hearing due to my proximity to a premature detonation. The loss was expected to be permanent. With cheerful smiles; pamphlets and magazines were pushed into my hands, all expounding on deafness as though it were some special virtue. My angry reaction had no deterrent effect whatsoever. I just lay there in despair. I loved to talk, loved those long conversations that meandered about in to the long deep night, those conversations where you learned, really learned, who a person really was. No more. I sank into a dark depression.On my last day in the hospital a pretty brunette walked purposefully into my room. She pulled out a large pad of paper and scrawled her name in bold letters. “Emma.” She pointed to her name then to herself, handing me the pencil.Deliberately staring into her eyes I snapped the pencil in half and dropped it on the paper pad. I smirked at my small victory.She shook her head at me slowly, smiled and calmly pulled another pencil from her purse. She picked up the pad and wrote a longer series of words. She held it up against her slender body where I could read it. “Emma. Stop being an asshole. I’m deaf too. Since I was young.”I felt a sudden flood of shame. Had she ever had one of those long dawn-capped conversations? Heard music? Enjoyed the gentle engine purr of a kitten? Lost herself to the soft moans and sighs of a lover? I gently pulled the pad and pencil from her hands.“Sorry,” I wrote, fiercely underlining the word until the lead snapped from the pencil.She smiled calmly once again, pulling a third pencil from her purse. “You’re kind of hard on pencils Pendik escort aren’t you?” She wrote. As she held up the pad once again she stuck her tongue out at me then grinned.I couldn’t help but laugh. I didn’t hear it but I felt it. It was my first happy moment since I had awoken in the hospital. I took the pad and pencil from her again, writing a bit more carefully this time. “Asshole,” I wrote, then pointed to myself.She smiled again only this time her whole face lit up. “You and I are going to be friends,” She wrote, “Whether you like it or not. Got it?”I hesitated. Then nodded.Over the next hour she explained she would be my tutor. Her objective was to teach me how to negotiate the clamouring world that would now be silent to me and that she would teach me sign language. She left me with instructions on where to meet her the following morning and handed me an address on a small card. On the back she marked a short message: “9AM. Don’t be late.”The following morning I stepped from the taxi, backpack on my shoulder, thrusting a handful of bills at the driver. I already felt the rising annoyance of frustration at the simple challenge of conveying my destination to the cabbie. I turned and faced the front of the building, a discreet sign stood on the bright strip of green grass between the pavement and the building itself. “LANGUAGE SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF” My eyes locked on the looming words. The shouting insolence of the sign taunted me like a cruel joke. I felt the sudden rise of an irrational anger and turned to stalk off home, more than ready to sink back into wallowing self-pity.The soft touch on my arm startled me and I whirled around, rather alarmed. It was Emma. There was a look of mild concern on her face. She glanced over at the sign that had held my attention, shrugged, it seemed apologetically, then tugged me toward the front door. I had a momentary flash of walking into an amusement park House of Horrors as we stepped through the glass door. She led me up a short flight of stairs and into a small room. Two stiff wooden chairs and a small table sat before a tall window that looked out over a nearby park and small pond. An ugly institutional sofa sat against one wall and a second table held a dusty looking computer. Emma guided me to one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs and sat opposite me, smoothing her skirt as she sat. The brief glimpse of the material tight on her ass gave me a momentary thrill of enjoyment that vanished all too soon.Using a notepad, Emma explained how we would study, providing me with books that displayed various hand positions for different words and expressions. There were flash cards, charts and computer based courses that would all be used over the coming months. She made it quite clear that the crutch of the notepad was soon to disappear. The news filled me with wild panic. We spent the early morning working through the flash cards and she demonstrated how to access the various tools available on the computer. As Emma opened an intimidatingly large, illustrated book, a rising frustration filled my thoughts. I couldn’t see how I could ever learn the awkward positioning of my hands and fingers illustrated on the pages of the thick textbook. It may as well have been Swahili. To her credit Emma immediately sensed my thoughts and to my surprise, suddenly snapped the book closed.“Look Beykoz escort bayan at me,” She scribbled.She began moving her fingers and hands, slowly demonstrating a long series of words of which I understood not a single damned thing. Her motion seemed like a fluid poetry and I found myself leaning forward. I enjoyed the elegant grace with which Emma formed various signs and the expressions on her face. Something about her seemed to burst into vibrant life as she fought to engage me in to her silent world. Unfortunately I remained as stubborn and reluctant as the moment I had arrived.Weeks passed in a dull monotony of my irritation and poor Emma’s unceasing encouragement.She’d sometimes have to leave the room to deal with administrative issues. Invariably I’d take the opportunity to shirk my lessons, amusing myself with doodles and scrawled musings on a pad of paper I had secreted in my backpack. I was always sure to be facing the door so I had time to hide my scribbling from Emma as she re-entered the room. I’d always enjoyed writing and now it seemed more important than ever. Inevitably she caught me.I became rather engrossed in a particular poem one day that described the terrible isolation I felt at being deaf. Once I finished I felt compelled to read it over and over again, soon losing myself in the words. Sensing movement I looked up, startled to see Emma regarding me with a definite look of disapproval. I hurried to stuff my notebook back into my backpack when she firmly took hold of the tattered pages. I pulled back but she wasn’t to be denied. Finally I surrendered the notebook to her, realizing, with no small amount of chagrin, that she would see my aimless doodles that undermined all her hard work on my behalf. As she leafed through the pages of mindless scrawl and cartoon figures I had to stifle a grin; she looked like the perfectly prim schoolmistress disappointed by her recalcitrant student.Then something changed. She had been turning the pages fairly quickly when she suddenly stopped on one specific page. The poem! I lunged forward in alarm, my words had been deeply personal and I had no wish to share. Anticipating me as usual, she stepped back and turned away from me. Long minutes passed. When she finally turned back there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She seemed utterly unconcerned that I could see her vulnerability made so bare.She turned to a fresh page of the notebook and wrote a few words.“Beautiful. Asshole. You made me cry. Being deaf can be beautiful too.” She fiercely underlined the last sentence snapping her pencil. It seemed my pencil aggression was contagious.I felt immensely pleased that I had finally managed to connect with her. Conversely I was mortified that I had wasted her efforts in trying to help me learn. The graffiti evidence of my lack of commitment covered almost every page. I sat there feeling foolish and confused, dying to just put my arms around her but frozen to my chair, a bashful schoolboy.To my surprise she took my hand, leading me from our schoolroom prison, out the doors and across the street to the park opposite the language school. Her hand felt so warm. Eventually she slipped her arm through mine and while I missed the warmth of her hand the intimacy of just being with her outside was exhilarating. The close proximity of Emma made it difficult Escort Cevizli to concentrate as she pointed at various objects in the park, then slipping her arm from mine, she signed the appropriate word or phrase. It would have been so much better if I’d understood what she was trying to communicate. She would lay her hand against an object like a tree, sign something but I was never sure if she was saying “tree”, “bark” or “wood”. I felt incredibly stupid. Despite my usual frustration it was a wonderful afternoon that was less about learning and more about just enjoying her company.Sign language is far more than just positioning the fingers and hands. Much of the actual communication is done through facial expression that adds nuance and meaning to specific signs. While I was mostly lost in terms of understanding a specific sign we did manage to communicate in other non-verbal ways. Best of all, Emma had an incredible smile and I found myself constantly trying to make her laugh. As the afternoon passed by I found myself forgetting about school and started to realize how much I genuinely liked Emma.The days lengthened into the blustery wet of autumn. Our sign language lessons continued, peppered with all too brief outings where Emma led me around, trying to immerse me in everyday life. I just couldn’t grasp it. Despite her infinite patience I could see even Emma was becoming frustrated with my lack of progress. After yet another lacklustre effort on my part she finally slammed our study material shut and sprung from her chair. She pulled her previously banned pad of paper out and wrote a simple message.“You’re blocking it. If you embrace it, it will come.”I shrugged in response, perhaps in some dark corner of my mind knowing she was right but I just couldn’t climb that wall. It loomed above me as though about to fall and crush me beneath its weight. Emma slowed pulled me to my feet so we stood facing each other, only inches apart. She took each of my hands in hers, forming them so the fingers and thumb of each hand pushed together. Then slowly she pulled my hands toward each other touching the fingertips against those of my opposite hand. The warmth of her soft hands and scent of her filled me with a longing for another time. Then she kissed me. A soft, lingering kiss that seemed filled with the promise of a thousand dreams. As we drew apart she formed my hands once again into the same form and drew them together. Kiss! The connection was both vivid and immediately intuitive. I felt enormously proud of myself. And I felt something else.I lunged toward the pad and pencil wanting to put into words, aching to say something, anything, to Emma. But she was faster. She snatched the pad away, wrote a short message then folded the paper in four. She handed it to me with a smile and pushed me toward the door. As I began to open the note she covered my hands with hers and shook her head. Emma put a finger to her lips and led me to the door, unceremoniously ushering me out. As the door closed behind me I stood there, momentarily panicked that she might be sending me away. I opened the note.“I can think of at least one good reason to learn sign language. Can you? Go home and think about it. See you next week. Emma.” She had drawn a small heart after her name.I don’t know how long I stood there. The roar of emotions in my head whirled in dervish thought. I wanted to burst back into the room, push her against the wall and kiss her. Hard. I could feel my heart pounding. I took a long deep breath steadying myself. Hesitated. My hand reached for the doorknob. Hesitated. Finally I walked to the stairs, heading for home. I had a lot to think about.

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