Blind, Deaf and Tetraplegic

On that misty winter morning, I woke up and opened my eyes. Everything was black, too black to be just the light off, since the window was always open, and the street had lamps. I tried to get up, but my muscles didn't respond me. I was devoid of my vision and the movements of my limbs. Somehow the night had made me blind and tetraplegic. The only movements I kept were the facial ones. I yelled my wife's name, who, if I had woken up at the usual time, would still be home.

—Hanna!

There was no answer. I repeated:

—Hanna! — And I added: — I can't see or move!

Probably due to the fact that I had just woken up, I only realized then that I hadn't heard my own screams. Had I really screamed? Just in case, I tried again:

—Hanna! — I still couldn't hear it.

Paying more attention to my surroundings, I couldn't hear any sound, even though I lived next to a busy avenue. There were no cars, no horns, no voices, no renovations in the neighbors' houses—in a way a relief, but also a terror. Either I was also deaf, or everyone had decided to keep silent. Accepting the first option as far more likely, I called again:

—Hanna! I am blind, deaf and tetraplegic!

By now, my wife was probably already in the room, and maybe she had even called an ambulance, but I didn't know for sure about her presence until I felt her finger on my lips, as if asking me to shut up. I knew it was her from the smoothness of her skin and her Channel perfume. That was a wonderful feeling. It soothed my despair and made me feel safe with the love of my life.