He wakes up every morning, wondering whether or not his world will spin out of control. His ears have what feels like water in them, but he says that he cannot swim. Every day you’re with him, you watch him carefully, hoping he will not stumble about, grasping at the air hopelessly as he crashes to the ground. You sit on the porch with him even though it’s too hot because “It’s one of the only things I can enjoy these days”. You glance at him every now and then, watching him as his closed eyelids flutter because he’s trying to make the world stand still. You watch him scrunch up his nose, one identical to his daughter’s, as he tries to listen to everything around him. He doesn’t hear the annoying Katydid bugs or cars driving by right in front of him. He can only hear his favorite song enough to realize it’s his favorite. Sometimes, unless you speak up, he cannot hear you. No matter how hard he listens. Some days are worse than others, but hardly any of the days are good. He’s been to so many men in the white doctor’s coats, and none of them have really shed helpful light. “Meniere's Disease” one of them finally said.  



There was a time he didn’t need a cane. A time he never asked you to repeat the words you had said. That man was full of joy and hope, escaping his depression since his daughter had been born. He weathered incredible things and wore his loving smile well. His daughter has always been his priority and his entire world. He’d spend days upon days teaching her right from wrong, which sandwiches are best, how to smile in the prettiest way, and how to have a kind heart like her dad. “Don’t you let anyone make that pretty smile disappear” he’d always say, and so she never did. He taught her everything he thought a young girl should know: boys are icky, you always dress to hide your skin, remember that you’re pretty. Always smile at people, even the ones you do not know or like. Don’t ever hate, because that’s not right. He cherished her and the little amounts of time they spent together before she went home to her momma.  



His little girl isn’t so little anymore and he’s having a hard time with that. If it weren’t for the spinning, the falling, and the ringing in his ears, he might not care as much. It’s like everything is being taken from him and he has no say in what goes. He told his daughter, who hates the Katydid bugs, to never hate them or to not say it aloud. He could not hear them at all and probably never would again. “Hearing loss has increased in the right ear. It’s twice as bad as it was the last time you were here.” He never loved barely hearing the doctors say that. “There’s no cure, but this medicine might help make it tolerable.” The medicines never did.



“I won’t go to work because I need to be in the state with you and our daughter.” He said this to his wife, ex-wife. They’ve been divorced since the daughter was 4. He stayed home and watched after his growing daughter, as she was too young for school and momma brought home a very decent paycheck. He stayed at home because it seemed right, because he wanted to. He enjoyed his time off.



He’s unemployed now. He found a new wife with a kind heart and warm laugh. She works, he does not. He feels guilty about the responsibility all falling on her, but he can’t do much. His boss told him to not return to his job. If he fell and bumped his head, he wasn’t under their insurance. But he doesn’t like to talk about that.  



He loves to go fishing. “Go fishing every chance you get, it’s good for you!” is what he always said to anybody that cared to listen. He would fish until there were no fish left to be caught. He’d walk the riverbanks and wade out into the cool water so as if to fully submerge himself in the experience. His eyes would glisten in a way that told everyone at the breakfast table just how excited he was to reel in that bass. It was 22 inches long. He’d display little hints of a smile as his father would then share a fishing story of his own. His fish was always bigger. Everyone would laugh around the table while they ate breakfast, and all was well. The girls would exchange eyerolls and smiles all the same when fishing was the topic Sunday after Sunday. They all loved talking about it, no matter how repetitive.



He doesn’t go fishing much anymore. He can’t keep his balance on the slippery rocks that he has to climb. “That’s where the good fish are.” he’d say time and time again. He can’t hear the warning of a storm when he’s sitting on the lake in his metal boat. He can’t even hardly see to thread his hook onto the line because “My arms aren’t quite long enough,” and his sight was fading. Unrelated to his disease, but a setback all the same. Things were being taken from him; he has no say in what goes.  



He wakes up every morning, hoping for an alarm clock’s ringing instead of the ringing in is ears. He stirs in bed, wondering whether his world will spin out of control. He wakes up and stumbles out of bed, hoping and praying that his hearing is all he loses that day. Hoping that his balance, his family, and his smile can stay strong. There’s one thing he can’t stand from all of this. He’s losing everything and he has no control, no say, in what goes.