Squeaking is Speaking

 Doctor Gonzalez suggested I make a pros and cons list to consider the efficacy of the new treatment. But looking at the completed figure, my situation is simply absurd:

Pros:

-Better sleep

-Single inner monologue

-Impulses more controllable

-Feel like I did before the infection

Cons:

-I’ve been talking to mice

Since barely surviving the brain eating nematode a year and a half ago, my life had all but ground to a halt. The brain damage had been severe and most doctors forecast a grim future when they predicted one at all. Physically, I was fine: full motor skills, senses functioning properly, good balance. My lizard brain was untouched. It wasn’t the information going in or out that was a problem, it was how poorly it seemed to bounce around my head that had caused me so much trouble. At the start, I was a vegetable with human characteristics. It was difficult to form a thought I’d be willing to call my own, but as time progressed, against most predictions I improved. Some neurologists chalked it up to a young brain, though others had argued that plasticity couldn't explain so much recovery in a 22 year old. In spite of my recovery from potato status and befuddling the neurology field, I hadn’t felt incredibly lucky. Relearning to hold a train of thought was not the same as directing where that train was headed, how fast it was going, or when it would stop. The result was a kind of schizophrenia that schizophrenia medication couldn’t treat.

It had been months with little to no improvement and none of the nasty drugs I had tested out seemed to be helping any. So my trip to Mexico for psychedelic therapy was an act of desperation. I was prepared to loose my mind permanently, however the treatment superseded everyone’s expectations. Overnight, a divinely banal and familiar state of normal clarity blessed my awareness. I didn’t mention the mice chatting in Spanish at the clinic. Initially they didn’t even catch my radar. I was too used to fantastic voices and hallucinations to care at first. As the week spent in the clinic progressed without any demons, elves, or children shouting from the window, the mice did eventually gain my interest. They appeared to be miniature versions of the human nurses that bustled about the clinic. They wore the same blue scrubs and I often saw them wheeling miniature carts full of medicines and scribbling on clipboards as they chatted with one another. Used to constant distractions and unwanted stimuli, ignoring the little creatures was no difficulty. For my entire stay, though I took note of them, they would have never noticed. I had long since learned that the best way to loose one’s place in reality was by engaging in curious fantasies. The mice were clearly aware of the humans in their environment, pausing here and there in clearly memorized safe points to avoid being stepped on. My own nurses appeared not to see their miniatures even when the mice burst into tittering laughter at some some Spanish quip I couldn’t understand.

Ultimately, I decided not to mention the mice to my doctor. I’m sure if I had, he could have recommended an additional treatment, but apart from the mice I really did feel just like my old self. I figured some recurring medication might take away the mice, but I didn’t want to deal with anymore horrible side effects if I could help it. I figured I could always bring the topic up later and with any luck the tiny hallucinations would fade with time.

The plane ride home had been interesting; the mice had certainly not done any fading. In one of the closed security lanes. Miniature officers monitored miniature X-ray machines and passengers took off their miniature shoes. Upon boarding, I almost lost it when in between announcements for first class and business class to board, a squeaky voice came onto the intercom and explained, “Todos los roedores con destino a Denver, diríjanse a la puerta trece.” then again in English, “All rodents bound for Denver, please make your way to gate thirteen.” I managed to hide my shock with a sudden fit of coughing. All the plane’s smallest passengers fit into tiny seats that took up the empty spaces near the emergency exit. A baby mouse’s crying was mercifully cut short by a near-microscopic pacifier. Interesting that there was only one child and not a whole litter. After that note, I reminded myself not to entertain the delusion and tried not to pay them anymore mind.

Two flight transfers later, I made a small sigh of relief when I arrived home to an empty home. My parents, overjoyed by my recovery were of course there, but no mice seemed to cohabit our halls. For the next two weeks I busied myself by reaching back out to my college to enroll for the next semester. I also reconnected with friends who I hadn’t been able to speak to for over a year. Walking around, I occasionally spotted a whiskery resident here and there, but Frog Creek, PA was a small town with few people and apparently fewer mice. This put me at ease, I was ready to accept the minor distraction and get on with my life. All until I met Miss Monterey. That’s when I realized I wasn’t hallucinating, and that’s when my life was turned upside down.