Silence

Age has made me increasingly less patient. I had been standing in the hallway outside the examination room playing on my phone while the nurse got the chart prepared. In the span of five minutes, the typical social media apps had somehow left me both anxious and annoyed. After responding to six comments of varying levels of ignorance and malice I was pacing to work off the excess anxiety. During the walk, I fiddled with the stiff fingers on my right hand. I despise confrontation above most things. It often makes me feel judged and looked down upon, but it is a necessity.

The sound of steps joined my own as Nurse Bailey approached with a metal clipboard. She handed it over but stopped maybe an inch short of my hand when she got a clear look at my face. The brows furrowed, the eyes narrowed, and the mouth became a hard line. She let out a loud snap that demanded my attention. “Hey. Focus up. You’re helping people remember.” Her voice was edged which spiked the anxiety in me even higher, but it did help me focus that unruly bubble of energy. I nodded and took the clipboard. The line of her mouth softened, and she walked off. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

I spent very little time actually looking over the chart. It just reaffirmed what I had already suspected. Race: White, Gender Male, Height: 5’11, Weight: 182, and Age: 38. No significant medical problems. No history of physical or speech disability. The only time he had ever gone to the hospital was for his birth and an appendectomy five years ago. A man of remarkable health. I allowed myself one deep breath and then entered.

A man matching the chart’s description sat on the examination table slowly kicking his feet like a bored child. With his right hand, he grabbed his left arm which hung uselessly next to him. This fog of boredom he displayed hid the secret pits of fear that surely resided beneath. Fear is good. This would be a lot harder if he wasn’t afraid. I took a seat in a rolling chair nearby. “Hello, Mr. Mattews. How are we doing today?” I asked. In these situations, it's best to go through the typical motions. Protocol brings comfort which helps them accept things they don’t want to hear.

He cleared his throat and did his best to stop the boredom fog from parting before speaking. “Fine doctor, I guess. It’s just my arm. Can’t seem to move it around like I used to.” He lifted the left arm and let it flop down to exhibit his point. I set his chart down on a counter and scooted closer. Without moving my eyes from his arm, I pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a pocket and dawned them. “I’m not a doctor, specialist is a more appropriate title,” I said. “Right,” he responded.

With the gloves on I grabbed his arm and made vague gestures. Lifting it, gently twisting it, and randomly prodding the tissue. Falsely looking for something I knew wasn’t there. “About how long has it been like this?” My close examination was making him more anxious. Probably worrying about what my diagnosis would be. Cancer, ALS, necessary amputation, or some myriad of terminal diseases. In actuality, it was nothing so final. Honestly, he was pretty lucky.

He answered, “It’s been going on for around two months now. Started when my fingers were getting stiff then it crawled up my hand and arm. I thought it would pass but my wife kept bugging me to get it checked out.” He’s stubborn. That could make things complicated. “Finally went to the doctor two weeks ago and they ran a bunch of tests. They sent me here when they couldn’t find anything.” 

I took the gloves off and tossed them in the trash. “It’s a good thing they sent you to me. You have Silence.” The muscles in his face contracted making this tight knot and I could see his eyes dilate. Good. He’s focused. “What...um...what does that mean?” he asked. “Do you volunteer anywhere Mr. Mattews or vote in any local elections?” I asked back. Those big dinner plate eyes stared through me for a bit. “I don’t. My job keeps me pretty busy.”

“Do you have any social media presence? Are you active online?”

“Uh...no. I got one account I made like five years ago. It was just to keep up with friends and family. I’m sorry doc. I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”

“I’m a specialist. To call me a doctor would imply that there’s something medically wrong with you.” Mr. Mattews was white-knuckling the examination table now.  “You have Silence. It’s a form of selective paralysis. The subconscious of your brain is disconnecting you from your body. Everything still works. Your body won't atrophy. But you won't be able to move any of the parts affected and it will spread.”

“Am I going to die?” His breath was picking up incredible speed now. He wouldn’t stop blinking either. He was desperate to keep those tears back. Such a blatant exposure of emotions made me want to cry with him. I was glad to tell him that he wouldn’t die. “Let me run you through how this whole thing is going to work. The paralysis in your arm is going to spread through your body. Gradually but consistently. When it hits your legs, you won’t be able to walk any longer. When it hits your throat, you won’t be able to speak. Eventually, you’ll be completely immobile. Your eyes will be the only thing you have control over.”

A great and visible despair overcame Mr. Mattews. “I think I’d rather die. How does this even happen? Did I catch some disease or something?”

“Nothing so dramatic as that. Silence is more of a survival mechanism.”

His face became flush red as the rage set in. “How the fuck does this help with survival?” I did my best to maintain my own fog of professional apathy so that my pits of fear did not show.

“Not your survival.” Slowly I drew a line in the air between him and myself with my finger. “Our survival. As a species. Think of it like kuru.” I could tell this confused him. “It’s a disease you get from eating the brains of other humans. Eating other people isn’t good for you. Medically. Holes start to develop in your brain, you get neurological problems and eventually die.” My recital of medical facts did little to ease his anger and confusion, but it greatly comforted me.

“The point I’m making here is that hurting those of the same species as you isn’t a good way of avoiding extinction.”

“But I haven’t hurt anyone. Ever.”

“Maybe not directly but the same logic applies. Those within a species that don’t help it progress are weeded out. This is the draft. A stomach that doesn’t receive food shrinks, a limb that isn’t exercised atrophies, and a voice that isn’t used goes quiet. From a Darwinist perspective if you will not use these tools to protect and help your species grow then why even let you have them.”

“So, you're saying this is happening because I’m a bad person?” 

He was asking the wrong questions. His perspective was so narrowly limited and individualistic. I needed him to see that it wasn’t about him.

“No. I’m saying this is happening because you refuse to help the extended members of our collective family in even the slightest way as they are starved, beaten, persecuted, imprisoned, enslaved, exploited, raped, and killed for their mere existence. What is happening to you is an entirely neutral thing. It’s simply life telling you and everyone else that your indifference will no longer be tolerated.”

“What do I do to fix this?”

It was a better question. Not the best but at least his attention was on solutions.

“Ignore nothing. See and learn as much as you can. Vote if the right is made available to you. Listen to those speaking. If they must live it the least, you can do is understand it. What can be given without loss should be given freely.”

“So, I have to spend all my time doing this if I want to get better?”

“No one is asking you to give your life to a cause. No one is asking you to give all you have until there is nothing left. You just can’t do nothing. There will be opportunities when you can help ensure the prosperity of your entire species. Take it. Do you understand?

“I think so.” 

“Good. Nurse Bailey has an assortment of brochures on various activist projects if you want to be proactive about this. She’ll also give you my number if you have any questions.”

Mr. Mattews stood up from the examination table and I rose to meet him. I extended my hand out towards his good arm and presented him with an open smile. With a bit of trepidation, he shook my hand and returned my smile with a nervous grin. Leaning in I said, “Remember, it's never too late to come back from this.”

Mr. Mattews separated from me as if he was in a stupor. Each step was taken with absolute concentration. A new level of danger in the world was revealed to him. Hopefully, it would be the motivation he needed. Eventually, he drifted out of the room and down the hallway until he was standing in front of Nurse Bailey’s desk.

I stayed behind just outside of the room squeezing the paralyzed fingers on my right hand. My heart was racing, and my throat felt so dry and tight that I was convinced that I was suffocating. I despise confrontation above all things. I bit the inside of my cheek and demanded calm from my body. For the next minute or so I took deep breaths until my heart returned to a peaceful rate and my throat relaxed. 

Feeling more comfortable I stared at those frozen fingers on my hand. With an absurd amount of focus and effort, they twitched. Only slightly but it was undeniable that they moved. Progress. I guess the stress, anxiety, and discomfort of it is worth it. Within the misery of it all is a bit of excitement and joy. I was quiet and immobile for so long. It feels good to speak and act again. The violence committed in my passivity can be redeemed. I don’t plan to stop.