A Destined Tune
A reflection on my extracted jewels, the healing power of Guinness, and new-found singing abilities. This essay is one of many in my Paris series.
I must preface this essay by stating that all names have been changed prior to publication.
In July of last year, I had my tonsils removed. Rarely do you hear of adults undergoing this procedure, so responses to this are always humorous. Similarly, this news is often met with jealousy – supposedly everybody knows somebody who is on the waiting list. I was eligible for a tonsillectomy on the NHS as my resting, non-inflamed tonsils looked like two undercooked meatballs – a judgement which was confirmed and joyfully pointed out by the doctor who went on to remove them. I arrived at the hospital at seven in the morning, alone and outwardly petrified, as it was during the pandemic and I could not be accompanied. Prior to this, I had never been to hospital, therefore, as to be presumed, had never been put under general anaesthetic.
I’d always been sceptical of anaesthetic, even the ‘local’ kind; so much so, that when I was around age seven, I had half of my tooth drilled out without being numbed first – the procedure was long and bloody, and half way through I had to sit in the dentist waiting room to give my small mouth a break. I sat there covered in blood, looking like a freshly dined vampire. I’ve always found dentist or doctor visits to be fretful experiences, though often for reasons brought on by myself. When I was a child and had been complaining about a sore throat, presumably alongside other miscellaneous ailments, I was taken to the doctor to be checked over. Once I’d taken a seat on the doctor’s leather footstool, I was promptly asked to open my mouth. I was taken aback by the abruptness and frankness of the question, seemingly forgetting where I was sat. Due to my preconceived fears, my five-year-old mind and body went into fight or flight mode, resulting in me kicking the doctor in the shin and swiftly heading for the door.
I’ve had similarly poor encounters with dentists, though thankfully lacking any physical violence. My unfortunate experiences have predominantly been in my adult years in which I’ve frequently been scorned for the poor quality of my teeth. Sure, I drink a few cups of tea a day and occasionally smoke resulting in a bit of discoloration, but aren’t they simply signs of a well-enjoyed life? A stand-in dentist once asked me if I had any issues with my appearance, or, more specifically, my smile. Startled by her candour and intrusiveness, I simply responded “Nope.” She then went on to list the procedures, and their costs, that I should undergo in order to improve my teeth. After revealing that my bill for all this would be over two thousand pounds, she concluded that only after I’d had all this work would I be happy with my appearance and, again, more specifically, my smile.
When told I was going to have to be put to sleep, I was petrified that I’d wake up in the midst of the operation, choking on my own bloody tonsils whilst startling whichever doctor was chopping at my throat. Due to this fear, I uncontrollably sobbed whilst being pushed to the operating room, like I was being wheeled towards my assured death. Whilst in the recovery room, dazed and drugged, a woman approached me and asked me how I felt. “Not too bad,” I croaked, feeling slightly sceptical of the inquisitive stranger who didn’t appear to be wearing hospital scrubs. “I’ve never seen tonsils so big! Check out this photo,” she declared, thrusting her phone in my face to show me a photo of my formerly attached organs looking large, lonely, and certainly meaty. The woman, who I only then realised was my tonsillectomy doctor, as she was hard to distinguish without her pandemic-proof PPE and bee-keeper resembling attire, offered to send me the photo of my removed tonsils. I was overjoyed at the idea of having this image on my phone to showcase when at a dinner party and in need of attention. Sadly, the image never reached my phone – I presume it was deemed an inappropriate message to receive from an NHS doctor’s personal number, but who knows.
The recovery process was turbulent. During the first few days, the pain was present but I’d been warned that it would be a lot more gruesome and that I might struggle to eat. The day after I left the hospital, I ate a roast dinner. Indeed, I was still eating my third roast potato whilst everybody else was mopping up their gravy with their grubby fingers, but nonetheless, I finished it all. The hardest days were the fifth and sixth when the scabs started to fall off. Every time I swallowed it felt like somebody was playfully twirling a knife around in the back of my throat. Thankfully, by day ten I was sat in a pub, allowing the cold, creaminess of a Guinness heal my remaining wounds. After a couple of weeks, my throat was settled, with nothing remaining of the large, pink balls that had resided in my mouth for twenty-three years. I was sad to see them go, as for far too long I’d enjoyed the element of surprise and complete repulsion that came when I’d flash them at my friends, and often at newly acquainted people too. To commemorate their departure, I wrote this poem on the evening before their removal:
“Farewell, to the ripe round rubies
that prohibit the release of a destined tune.
I’m sure when extracted these jewels will be priceless,
For they dazzle at all forms of soirees.
When rubyless, these will be the songs I will sing.”
I’d convinced myself that once my tonsils were out of the way, my singing abilities would vastly improve. Though I’ve always been able to carry a tune, I believed that this new available space would enable me to hit some belting notes. As my throat was still healing, I didn’t have much time to try out my new singing abilities before I came to Paris. Ever since I was a teenager and became overly self-aware, I’ve been conscious of my neighbours hearing me sing. When one sings alone, it’s very earnest and can be quite self-absorbed, therefore the thought of singing along to an emotional ballad and meticulously making sure I hit every note, and then moments later having small-talk with somebody who was priorly in earshot, makes me cringe. I think my awareness of nosey neighbours was realised around six years ago. I was innocently trying out how my new electric guitar sounded when plugged into an amp; simply picking the odd string and strumming various chords, when I noticed a message from my parents, who were out of the house at the time. It was a screenshot of a text received from our neighbour – a man entirely involved in everybody’s business within a half mile radius. “Sadie’s playing the guitar”, he wrote, accompanied by two sad faces and a guitar emoji. What a childish message. If I was as rock ‘n’ roll as the guitar emoji he’d used, I’d have turned up the amp and played deliberately poorly, just to rile him up further. Lest, he got what he wanted and embarrassed me into no longer using my amp nor sincerely singing along to tunes in my bedroom.
My housing situation in Paris made it difficult for me to sing freely. In the evenings, I could hear people leaving their rooms to use the communal toilets; I could hear them clear their throats; I could even hear them move something as light as a pen from one side of their desk to the other. That being said, they remained enigmas. I never physically saw any of my neighbours, yet I could tell you what time they would all wake up and go to sleep, and how the guy to the left of me would have a scheduled coughing fit each evening. I did, however, peer inside some of their rooms when the doors had been left open, in order to understand the essence of these people – seemingly they were all young and pretty filthy. All of the rooms on my side of the building were previously used by maids who tended to the fancy apartments on the other side of the complex; it is because of this that all the rooms were small and only suitable for one person. Due to my lack of singing opportunities, I became shy, even with my host kids. I had an acoustic guitar in my room, which Mathilde was fascinated by and often attempted to play when she’d pop over to my room in hopes of finding sweets. She struggled to hold down the strings with her seven-year-old fingers, but she had a natural gentleness when it came to plucking. I’d then be handed back the guitar and told to play, and quite often be asked to sing too, to which I’d habitually decline. This is where my unease around appearing too sincere comes into play; the image of me strumming my guitar and sweetly singing for a child seems too humourless and earnest; this is an opinion I need to try and shake off if I’m ever going to live my childhood dream of becoming a respected musician.
Before Mathilde went to sleep, her mum would sing her a song to settle her. It was a sweet moment between them, particularly as they were apart all day and evening; this, however, proved problematic for me when I’d babysit and was asked to keep up the bedtime tradition. Thankfully, we worked out a routine that was successful. It was something I tried first with Gabriel, and eventually snuck into Mathilde’s routine too. After they had read, brushed their teeth and protested sleep for a few minutes, I’d lie with them on their bed, in the pitch-black, and allow them to play two songs of their choosing on my phone. With both kids, it was always a toss-up between a Carla Bruni song, or one by Francis Cabrel called “La Corrida”. The Cabrel track was fairly humorous when played in the dark, as it’s a seemingly a powerful and passionate song – from the little French I could pick out – which the kids would heartfeltly sing along to just minutes before they’d be sound asleep. I’d enjoy these moments the most, as they’d usually follow a turbulent afternoon where I’d feel nothing but hatred towards them, yet when they were lying there singing with such emotion yet complete unawareness of the songs meaning, it was difficult to recall the days difficulties. I used to wonder what my lasting memories of the children would be once I’d left Paris. Would it be the many occasions that I’d been aggressively shoved in the streets? Would it be the numerous times that Mathilde tried to grab my boobs in public? Or would it be the sight of Gabriel wearing nothing but pants and a pair of his mum's stilettos? I can now confirm it is moments like these, when they were angelically singing, moments from sleep, and my day’s work was nearly over. But mainly, it was how I wish I’d have sung along, demonstrating my new found singing abilities to Cabrel’s “La Corrida”.