For A Few Days I Was Deaf :: February 6th, 2002 ::
I’m sitting in a very uncomfortable chair, and I feel I must sit with near-perfect posture in order for all of this to work. The Ear, Nose and Throat specialist has a lamp strapped to his forehead. Gently, though with little warning, he eases the chair back so I am nearly prone, pulls a nostril open with a pair of forceps, then turns the lamp on and it projects a focused beam of light into my nose. Everything seems to be fine in there. He does the same for the other one. With a tongue depressor he checks in my mouth. Then he uses an otoscope to check out my ears.
I’d come in because I couldn’t hear. While taking a bath the previous week, I’d suddenly lost the ability to hear out of my left ear. And shortly after that the right ear felt like it was closing up fast, too. It had been an awful experience: I’d submerged my head to rinse out the shampoo, but when I came up the water hadn’t drained out of my head like it was supposed to. I’d shook my head, I’d knocked the heel of my hand against my right temple, trying to knock the water loose. But I remember it wasn’t until I’d rubbed my ears shut — actually poked around in there and moved stuff around — that it felt like I was going deaf. I was scared, just a bit, but a few hours after the the bath I’d thought it wasn’t so bad, maybe I could just use a q-tip to clear it out. But that just made it worse. Every pass, every swab sealed the blockage tighter, crammed it up further into my outer ear. It took a few days of living like this — of feeling like I was living underwater, of missing my alarm clock if I slept on my right side, of not hearing people when they called my name from across the room, of constantly hearing my heart beat and what I could have sworn was the blood passing though the veins that branched through my head — for me to finally call the ENT, to finally make an appointment to have this problem looked at and, hopefully, taken care of. So he’s here now, looking into my ears.
The ENT has a procedure calls “irrigation.” The concept is simple: fill two glass jars with warm water, attach them some sort of compressed air source, then shoot a high-pressure stream of water into the ear, which will dislodge any obstruction and allow me to regain the ability to hear things outside of my own skull. While he is doing this, it is my job to hold a plastic trough just below my lobe to catch any runoff (if that’s what you call it).
“Hmm.” He says after he’s done. “Seems there’s some inflammation in that right ear. Like you tried go after this with a q-tip? I’m going to give you some antibiotic drops.”
He drips an oily liquid into my ear, then plugs it. With both hands he grabs my head and tilts me side to side, over and over. I can feel the stuff oozing around in there — at first it’s cold, then it warms to meet my body temperature.
After a couple of mild admonishments, which were really just suggestions not to take such matters as the flow of air and sound through my outer ear canal into my own hands, I am on my way. I walk out of the office and onto the elevator and I notice I’m dizzy. I’m not sure if it’s because I damaged my inner ear or because I’m weak from hunger. But I can hear again. The sun is shining outside, and I notice it’s one of those winter days that hits you like sharp ice as soon as you step outside. I stand in the parking lot and listen to the traffic pass by.
