THE WHISTLE IS BACK

                                               WHISTLE, WHISTLE, WHISTLE!!!

Picture by Frank Bryan

First order of business -- my list of medical problems is long. So, instead of working on a standard "bucket list" [as everybody my age], I focus my attention on destroying the little things, the little pains in my head and my body. The big ones are bigger than me. I have to leave them alone. We will wrestle each other as it pleases them. I am not running away.

As a result of a medical procedure to save my life, I was left with a scar on my throat. There was a time when everyone who meets me will talk about the scar first. But, then I will start with the medical procedure leading to it. That would be the end of the conversation about the scar.  The talk will transition to the weather outside.

In addition to the scar on my throat, I feel my voice is different. No one else has confirmed this. Only I know how difficult it is to talk for a prolonged period of time.

It is not pleasant not to be able to sing either. I want to make it clear: I was never a singer, or aspired to be one. But not able to do karaoke while living in USA -- what a biiig loss!!!!!

What was very difficult to accept was the fact that I was not able to WHISTLE anymore. When you are in a wheelchair with unclear prognosis on your future brain recovery, the doctor has to be very strong to take such a question seriously. I wanted an answer, but somehow managed to distract myself and remain with no answer. The whistling landed on the back burner.

You may ask why whistling is so important when I have so many other "problems." I associated it with two major functions. First -- going to a soccer game with my Dad. Whistle is equal to Booo. Second -- during my teenager days, the whistle was used as a signal between you and your boyfriend. A couple has a special signal to connect them. It is like today's texting, only more romantic. Ha,ha! There is even a song about it.

All in all, losing my whistling skills was as tragic as everything else my disease brought onto me. Occasionally, I will try blowing the air out of my mouth with all the proper whistling techniques I have remembered. A month ago, out of the blue, my whistle came back. I was sooo happy. Please make a note: I am not referring to a simply whistle; it is rock songs, ballads, classical music whistle. It was a whole day of whistling.  Then, I lost it again.  Then, it came back again.

This time, I am not taking chances. I will use it sparingly -- only for the Bulgarian love song from the '70s, named "Our Signal." It is performed by the famous Bulgarian singer Emil Dimitrov. This is a beautiful, sad love song about a couple in love and "their signal." While the man was away, the girl fell in love with another man. When he came back to see her, he heard "their signal", only this time she was whistling to another man.

I whistle this song beautifully.

IN THE ELEVATOR

                                                   IN THE ELEVATOR

Imagine you are in a big hospital elevator. It was a warm weekend. Families and friends have come to see their sick ones in the hospital. Gary was pushing my wheelchair towards the elevator. There was so much fun ahead of me. People everywhere… When the elevator stopped, Gary wheeled me in very cautiously. There were many people already in – some looked like patients, some were visitors. Everyone moved to the back to create enough space for my wheelchair. Rules are pretty clear on how to position the wheelchair. It has to face the elevator door. Gary was not entirely prepared to move the chair. In his defense, he did not expect such a crowd. He swirled so that I was facing the door. 

All of a sudden, I was given the leading position. Being a leader carries its responsibilities. No one but me was close enough to push the button for the floor we were all getting off – the first floor.

Gary did not leave this important decision in my hands. He said, “Push the first floor button.” I already had my mind set on pushing not just the first floor, but all the available buttons. I heard people hustling behind me, whispering something.

Honestly, I wanted to put them at ease. So, I said, “Don’t mind me, I am a mental patient!” It did not take long for everyone to make a decision. On the first stop of the elevator, everyone rushed out as quickly as they could. I may have used the wrong word.