On Surgery and Side Quests

Well folks, sorry to leave you in suspense. The past two weeks have been hectic: moving boxes, Halloween chaos, and vocal cord reconstruction surgery to boot. It’s been a happy, stressful, and at times painful blur, with little time for writing anything that doesn’t come with a grade attached.

I’ve spent my early recovery on the couch, mute. I’ve been surprisingly productive in some regards, and uncharacteristically dry in others. There has been lots of reading, writing, and colouring, but even more unsuccessful blog drafts and paper edits. Somehow, the harder I try to make everything fit perfectly onto the page, the less it works. Only when I allow space for distraction, do things finally start to fall into place.

Enter my latest sidequest. Did you know there’s a two-hour Soviet adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring on YouTube? I’ve watched it twice now: once with Dad, and again with Taylor.

“Wow.” – Dad
“Wtf was that?” – Taylor
“Awesome.” – Me

I’ve since written a seven-page reflection on the production, particularly on how it differs from Jackson’s interpretation, on how Tom Bombadil and Goldbury make an appearance, and how the rock music of Akvarium gives it the surreal charm of a film best discovered while dizzy on painkillers. My words flowed freely and my smile was infectious. Taylor jokes that perhaps I should change my graduate project topic. I told him to rethink that comment, as it would mean 3–5 years of hearing about Khraniteli non-stop.

This mixture of recovery and Tolkien has put me in a reflective mood. The ache in my throat from surgery takes me back to the day I first suffered injury to my left vocal fold.

I had just gotten home from my Make-a-Wish trip to New Zealand, we were out to dinner with friends. In the excitement, I caught a cold, and spiraled into respiratory arrest later that night. Engraved in my memory: the sound of tires on lawn out front the emergency department of St Johns Hospital, the feeling of cool damp on my legs as I was rushed through the doors and past the late-night lawncare, the blinding lights of the trauma bay, and the sting of IV starts. The rough manipulation of my airway, the pressures of intubation, and an unnatural darkness that came moments too late to spare pain. Though it was the force of the endotracheal tube against my panicked voice box that caused the tear, the weeks of tracheotomy which followed did not help.

During this hospital stay in particular, my Tolkien fascination was lifesaving. In my mind's eye, I walked up to the round door of Bag End, looked across the lake water at the reflection of the mill-house, and searched for Pickels the cat in the Green Dragon. My goals in physical and occupational therapy mirrored those daydreams. After learning about 'working holiday' visas on my wish, therapy became a front for a larger mission—to get healthy enough to go there and back again in full. 

Russian fits into this story too. My first formal interactions with the language were really a continuation of speech therapy, after insurance stopped covering the service when I turned 26. At the time, I retained almost nothing about the grammar itself, but I learned everything about letting go and finding joy in the process. Years later, when I returned to school, I enrolled in actual Russian classes—this time pursuing the topic for its own sake rather than as a means to an end. (After all, what could Russian possibly have to do with Middle-earth?). 

Within the lecture halls, classrooms, and band suites of the University of Minnesota, I was terrified of being labeled the “sick kid,” so I overcompensated with Lord of the Rings— and promptly became embarrassed by that as well. In truth, both of these identities shape who I am. There is no point in running from them. I can lie about the root of my hoarse voice the same way I can decorate my house without inspiration from Middle-earth. But denying my disability does not stop people from asking about it, just as shelving my enthusiasm for fantasy did not stop me from skipping down the sidewalk in unexpected moments of Tolkien-themed joy on Halloween. 

[For context, I dressed as a hobbit for Halloween marching band rehearsal. When I got home later that evening, I had an urgent email from my research advisor. He’d been trick-or-treating in our new neighbourhood and stumbled across a Lord of the Rings-themed display. Naturally, Taylor and I left our hot dinner on the counter to see it before it closed.]

The unexpected delight was a fitting way to celebrate my admission to a summer programme to study the History of Fantasy Literature at Oxford, and my being offered a position as a paid research assistant to help fund it. 

Recovery will be a long road, but I am here for the adventure, wherever it takes me next. 

Until next week,

-H