The therapist and the boy

When she calls his name in the waiting room he stands up, thin and white as a sheet of paper; he might just fold up. His face is all eyes, not meeting hers. He follows her into the little square room.

 She asks him some questions. Does he have any siblings? Is he following the World Cup? How long has it been this way - the not talking? Mainly he nods and shakes his head. He squeaks a few Yes's and No's, but his watery blue eyes, when they lift, say something else. If I could be blown away by the wind I would let it take me. I would float like dandelion seeds, and no one would notice and no one would mind. Except my mum, but she's a knot of worry and if I wasn't here she might untie.

It happened when he was twelve. His testicles grew and dropped, his Adam's apple poked out overnight, like a chicken bone in his throat. He tried to talk to friends (he had some then) but only squeaks came out. Everyone turned around when he spoke. Everyone. So he stopped. Then he stopped going to football, then he stopped going to school, then he stopped leaving his house. Now he watches telly. He walks the dog, but only round the block and only in the dark. There's not much night at the moment and the dog's getting fat.

She loves this time of year; not much night, scents riding the breeze, flipflops, birdsong. At work she hums. The boy has given her pause today though. This silent boy, all eyes and fear. Brought in by two square women resembling prison guards and each other; brittle with love.

In the waiting room he was all heart thumping and creeping tightness - his shoulder-blades, his jaw, his chest. But here in the small room something is falling about him like ropes releasing. He can breathe and he can nod and he can almost look at her. There is a smile waiting in his cheeks and behind his eyes. It may sweep through his face any moment. He can't say why he feels this way - maybe it's how she's smiling at him, just a bit, while she talks.  Or how she's just made fun of herself not getting the computer to work. He feels important, but not too important.

She asks him to hum, to cough, to yawn, to blow out air, to tap his chest. With this last one his throat cracks into the room. He stops, puts his hand to his throat, looks down. She smiles and nods and keeps talking. Something might happen, or it might not.

He knows with this crack that something can happen. He croaks again and she nods and smiles and he crackles into the microphone and she records him on a screen, and the smile waiting behind his cheeks pushes across his face, into his eyes. She taps something on the keyboard, says something encouraging while she does. Flicks him a look. They smile, briefly, at each other. Something in his chest opens out, and flaps.

She could take him in her arms. She won't do this, of course, no matter how strong the urge. She pats the papers on the desk for her pen lid. That's great, try this. She gives him back the microphone and they hum and Ahh and grunt together. Yep, there we go. Now this. Now this. He crackles and then squawks. His smile wipes away. He puts a hand to his throat, lowers his eyes. No, you're fine, don't worry. Copy me.Yep. And this. And this. See?

He copies her, doesn't want to and then he does. He sounds like an animal. But he likes the rumble in his chest.It's not me - It can't be me.Then a screech, like brakes. Hand to the throat. He's really not sure about this.  

 She smiles at him again, nodding. Perfect. Don't worry, you're just getting going.

His big eyes say I'm really not sure about this. Behind them is a cavern of doubt.

Shall I play it back to you?

His eyes widen to golf balls. He leans forward with his hand up.

Fine. No worries. Maybe next time.

He sinks back. 

There's a long silence. She types something on the keyboard. He sits up. He takes a small breath. He finds he can look right at her. Maybe next time, he squeaks.

Can you say that again? Lower down? 

He says it again, lower down.

He thinks something might happen.

 

Written by Sophie Holland, Specialist Speech and Language Therapist (voice disorders), 2019

*This is a fictionalised version of a possible therapy session, taken from the therapist's own experiences.