Testing Testing

Eight weeks after experiencing sudden hearing loss in my left ear, I was back at the hospital to have a test called a Brainstem Auditory Evoked Potential (BAEP). I had read that this test involves monitoring responses to a series of ‘clicks’ using electrodes positioned on the scalp. In my case, the BAEP could be used to assess conduction through the brainstem and auditory nerve pathways that are not as accessible to other testing procedures. In other words; the results could give the specialists more of an idea as to why I couldn’t hear anything in my left ear.

I arrived at the hospital early in the morning, slightly before the time of my appointment. I was on my own, and feeling somewhat nervous about what was going to happen. I watched as people went into the room where they do the hearing tests. I watched people who arrived after me, go in before me. I guess that due to the amount of time the test was going to take, they saw the people first who were going to have the, less time consuming, routine hearing tests.

My name was called, and a man explained to me what was going to happen. He cleaned my forehead and behind my ears with what I assumed was alcohol, and then used what felt like a small piece of sandpaper to rub the same areas in order to help the electrode pads stick to my skin. Then he stuck two pads in the middle of my forehead, one above the other, and also one behind each ear. My face stung slightly as the alcohol permeated my newly exfoliated skin. The electrode pads were white circles of thin plastic with a silver metal circle and raised bit in the middle; where wires would be attached. They looked like small targets on my head. I asked one of the staff members who, after my many hospital visits, I was now well acquainted with, and who always greeted everyone with a smile and a joke, for something to tie my hair up with. He shortly emerged from one of the rooms and handed me an elastic band. So there I was, on my own; hair roughly tied up with an elastic band and white targets on my head. I waited for the next step of the process. I was sitting in a doorway. Nurses and hospital staff kept passing by, taking a look at me and making little comments such as, “Pobre!” or “Pobrecita!” –  Literally translated as “Poor person!” or “Poor dear!” Every time someone came in or out of the room of the doorway in which I was sitting, the people in the waiting room opposite were presented with me, the ‘pobrecita’, with the electrodes stuck to her head. When the doors slid open, there I was for all to see! I waited for over an hour. They were carrying out the test that I would be having, on a young child, and it must have been taking longer than they had planned for.

When it was my turn, I was shown to a small room with white walls, two chairs, a desk and a computer. I was asked to sit on a chair that was covered with a white sheet. Wires were then connected to pads on my head and behind my ears. I put on a pair of headphones and I was told to relax and listen to the ‘clicks’. My brain was going to do the work for me; I just had to sit there. I was also told that sometimes people fall asleep during the test. Throughout the process, I could hear lots of ‘clicks’. Some that were played into my good ear were almost painfully loud. I have no idea how anyone could possibly fall asleep; sitting in a small room with a stranger, with electrodes attached to their head with clicks being randomly played at loud volumes! I had the thought that, what if my brain was picking up the signals from me hearing my tinnitus noises and confusing them with the real sounds that were being played into my ears. Would this show on the results? I’m sure this isn’t the case, as most people with hearing loss also have tinnitus. But it was a thought that intrigued me. The test took about an hour. The electrode pads were removed and I was free to go home.

Three weeks later I was back at the hospital, with my boyfriend, for a consultation with an Ears Nose and Throat specialist. We were there to talk about the results of the BAEP test; whether the steroid tablets and steroid injections had helped me; whether my hearing had improved; and how I was feeling in general. My boyfriend and I had unintentionally placed a lot of hope in this appointment. We hoped the specialist would be able to tell us some more information or give us a plan of what to try next. We walked into the specialist’s office with all of our questions written down, so I wouldn’t forget to ask them. Things always feel a bit rushed in the hospital, and they are always so busy. My heart sank when I realized it was a specialist whom I hadn’t previously met. I had hoped to see one of the many specialists who were familiar with my story. I had done a hearing test before I went into the consultation room, and the specialist explained that the test results were the same as when I first lost my hearing. He told us that the MRI results were normal: I already knew this as I had received these results weeks ago from my GP. He also told us that the BAEP test had shown the same as the hearing test – that I couldn’t hear. The test results weren’t explained in any more detail.  He said that sometimes there are cases of sudden hearing loss where, within a 6 month period, a patient’s hearing comes back naturally. He told me to wait for three more months and then come back for another consultation. Maybe a hearing aid could help me if there was no change in my condition.

Deflated, we went outside of the hospital and sat down on a bench in a park across the road.  I cried. They hadn’t told me anything I didn’t expect or already know.  I didn’t really expect them to have any more answers to tell us. But I couldn’t help but raise my hopes for a solution. I didn’t want to stop trying things that could help my situation.

We needed to put our minds at rest. We decided to seek a second opinion.