Waking Up: My Septoplasty Story – Part 2

I awoke from a deep satisfying sleep with my first memory being a blurry vision of my boyfriend. Well, it was rather the shape of my boyfriend in a burgundy haze; the colour of the top he was wearing. I was moving past him in my bed. Bleary-eyed, I blew him a kiss. He followed me into a recovery room. The room was brightly lit, and my eyes slowly started to focus. I excitedly told my boyfriend that I had been dreaming. I was so hungry and my throat was sore. I recollect eagerly telling the nurse that I was hungry and that although I didn’t eat meat or egg; that fish was okay. Maybe this was only a thought? My boyfriend told me later that he spent quite some time asking me whether I wanted to keep my mobile phone with me whilst staying in hospital overnight. I couldn’t make the decision. This scene is a confused dream rather than a memory to me. I saw the nurse gesturing with her arm and saying, “Adios”; requesting my boyfriend to leave. He gave me a kiss. He told me that my nose was bandaged, but that I looked okay.

Shortly, I was feeling more awake. There had been only one other patient in the room when I had arrived, and they had since been wheeled away. Now there was just me, in a space large enough for 5 more beds. There was a finger clip attached to my left index finger, which I believe measured the oxygen in my blood. Adhered to my chest in a seemingly random pattern, were circular stickers with electrodes to monitor my heart; these were attached to a machine situated behind my bed. Wrapped around my right arm was a blood pressure cuff which every hour, on the hour, inflated and took my readings. I was intravenously being administered, a steady supply of saline solution, antibiotics and painkillers. I was extremely well monitored.

There were numerous nurses that came to visit me and to check my vital signs. One of the nurses, evidently meaning well, spoke directly into my deaf ear; her lips pressed against it, with the intention of aiding my hearing. She must have been informed of my hearing loss beforehand, although evidently she hadn’t been briefed on which particular ear was affected. I didn’t have the energy or the emotional resolve to tell her that her efforts were being wasted on this ear. Later, after I guess a lack of adequate response on my part, she realised she was speaking into the wrong ear, and for the rest of the time she replicated her close-talking technique, into my hearing ear. I appreciated her committed determination to help me understand the proceedings. The dark green bed sheets were straightened by two other nurses, and within less than an hour of waking up, I was happily straining my eyes to read a magazine. I didn’t want to go back to sleep yet. I already felt like I’d had a period of concentrated rest, albeit brief. I wanted to be conscious. I didn’t like the idea of being unaware of the activity around me.

I asked the close-talking nurse if I could go to the toilet; assuming she would hook my IV bottles onto the moveable pole, so I could wheel it behind me as I walked. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. The nurse collected something from a small cupboard and then returned to my bed with the object in question. It was a bedpan made of thick paper material. She lifted up the dark green sheets and placed my paper throne in position and then walked away. Well, after a few minutes I concluded that there was no way my body was going to allow this to happen. Maybe it was a result of the anaesthetic. Maybe it was simply due to the fact that I hadn’t consumed any liquid all day. Or maybe, and most probably, it was because my body was in a state of stubborn shock. The toilet was only a few steps away from my bed – Why couldn’t I attempt to go there? I was lying down – Surely I couldn’t pee whilst lying down!? The nurse took the bedpan away after quite some time, without much comment.

That night was a restless one with mere fragments of disturbed sleep. My nose was packed with gauze-covered cotton, and there was a pad of gauze taped underneath my nostrils to soak up any blood. I also had gauze and tape wrapping around the outside of my nose. I could only breathe through my mouth. I was thirsty, yet I was only allowed a few sips of water that night before the lights were turned down. I guess this, and the introduction of the paper throne, was part of the aftercare procedure for patients following anaesthesia. I had to sleep propped up at an angle to allow the warm trickle of blood from my nose to drain into the gauze. There was a clock on the wall to the left of me, and I lay watching the movement of the hands. I slept for what seemed like half an hour, yet after observing the clock, I realized only a couple of minutes had passed. Time was behaving strangely. I guess this was a consequence of the anaesthetic or the drugs I’d been given. There was a young male nurse who checked on me every hour during the night; each time making a note of my vitals. With each check, he asked if I needed anything and if I was okay. Between his checks, I realized he was asleep in a chair around the corner from my bed. Early in the morning, he asked me if I wanted to try and pee again. I agreed. I hoped this time I would be allowed to use the facilities. But to no avail. He was soon sliding my paper throne into place. I waited and waited, urging my body to allow this unfamiliar process to happen. And then finally it did! The nurse seemed very happy with my achievement and exclaimed “Muy bien”! I had the impression that this had been a prerequisite task to be accomplished before my release. I breathed a befitting sigh of relief.

Specialist Appointment Part 2: Ear Bubbles, a Blocked Nose… and a Plan

…The specialist only briefly addressed my noise sensitivity. It had been my understanding from my previous appointment, with the previous specialist, that the reason for me meeting with this particular Ears Nose and Throat (ENT) doctor, was to receive some sound therapy. This therapy would help retrain the auditory processing centre of my brain to accept everyday sounds. Instead of therapy, I was given a suggestion of a procedure I could perform by myself. The advice I was given during this consultation was to subject my hearing ear to noise or music, at a volume level which I found too loud, for a period of 20 minutes. I was to do this 3 times a day. I was given the example of listening to nature sounds on my headphones, whilst keeping the volume as loud as I could possibly bear it. The ENT specialist told me that eventually, I would be able to turn the volume up to higher levels. He told me that there were special hearing centres I could go to, but these would cost money, and it was customary and also effective for patients to carry out this treatment themselves. I found it curious that in the same appointment in which I had been told to avoid loud noises in order to protect my only hearing ear, I was also told to subject the same ear to noise that would cause me discomfort.

After feeling yet a little more deflated on realizing the only therapy or support this specialist was going to offer me, was the small piece of advice he’d just given me, and not a series of therapy sessions, which I had been hoping for, I started to hastily ask my friend to enquire about a few more issues; as the feeling of outstaying our allotted time started to encroach upon us.

I asked my friend, who had accompanied me to help with translation, to question the specialist about the operation I had been told about months ago, which would straighten my nasal septum, in order to help me breathe more easily. The specialist had no visible response to this enquiry, and he continued scribbling notes into my medical history booklet. With perseverance, intent on maximizing my time with the consultant, I asked my friend to mention the feeling of pressure I have in my ears, and about my bouts of dizziness, and to ask if there was anything I could do to relieve these symptoms. Without raising his head to acknowledge us, he pointed to an examination chair across the room from where we were sitting, and he mumbled something inaudible. I obediently went and sat in the chair. I had sat in this chair before. I hoped that I wasn’t going to have the customary experience of having a viewing tube inserted into my nose, for the third time. The specialist put on a head mirror and some surgical gloves, and then he reached for an examination tool. This tool appeared less sophisticated than the viewing tube. The tool resembled a pair of metal pliers; with thinner handles, and two hooked jaws. He inserted the contraption into my nose, with both of the metal hooks sliding into each nostril respectively. He swiftly and forcefully lifted the handles of the device upwards at an angle, to view inside my nose; examining the structure of my septum. He said that my nostril was completely blocked on the left side, due to the deviation of my septum. I already knew this. I have been unable to breathe through my left nostril for as long as I can remember. I had also had this same discussion, two times previously, in this same room, with two other former specialists. This information was in my medical notes, in the booklet that was sitting on the desk in this same room.

Then, without further explanation, I was asked to leave to room. I was instructed to go, for perhaps my fifth visit over the past year or so, to have a tympanometry test. A tympanometry test is often used to assess the function of the middle ear. The results of tympanometry are represented on a graph called a tympanogram. This is a graphic representation of the relationship between the air pressure in the ear canal and the movement of the eardrum, and the tiny bones in the air-filled middle ear space. When the eardrum is disturbed by a sound, part of the sound is absorbed and sent through the middle ear while the other part of the sound is reflected. The information derived from tympanometry provides information regarding middle ear function, especially Eustachian tube function.

The nurse who carried out the test was a nurse I was familiar with. She was friendly and jolly and seemed intent on carefully explaining everything to me. In the interest of respecting her, much appreciated, caring nature, I acted as though I was unfamiliar with the procedure. She kindly explained the process to me, through my friend; my translator. An ear probe was promptly placed, first into my hearing ear, and then into my deaf ear, to test the responses. As the probe in my hearing ear caused the air pressure in my ear canal to change, I heard some low-pitched tones. When my deaf ear was tested, it remained silent, with only the sound of tinnitus prevailing. While the pressure was changing, measurements of my eardrum’s movement were being taken and recorded. The test was over in a few minutes. When the nurse examined my results, she scrunched her face into a painful expression. She asked me if I have the constant feeling of being in an aeroplane. Yes! I have an unceasing pressure in my left ear, and though not as pronounced, in my right ear too. It is the feeling of pressure, comparable to being in an aeroplane and not being able to pop my ears. I also have the occasional sound of little bubbles similar to those in the foam made by bubble bath, or bubbles in fizzy drinks travelling to the surface, escaping into the air with a crackling sound. These sensations are sometimes accompanied by sharp deep and momentary pain. Yes! This pressure is causing me constant discomfort and is more difficult to manage than my actual hearing loss. Yes! This pressure I feel is what I’ve told every specialist about. Yes! This wonderful nurse had immediately identified this as a significant source of discomfort and was showing empathy towards my situation. She was the first person in over a year of consultations, to not just read my results and identify a problem, but to actually show some understanding of the unpleasantness I was experiencing.

I returned to the consultation room and showed the doctor my tympanogram. After regarding it for a moment, he told me with confidence that the reason I have the feeling of pressure in my ears is because I can’t breathe properly. This is not what I’d been told before. I had been told that there could possibly be a link between my inability to breathe effectively through my left nostril, and my ear pressure. I had believed that the pressure was a consequence of my hearing loss. The onset of the feeling of pressure had, after all, coincided exactly with the moment I lost my hearing. I told him that it had not been communicated previously to me that the issues with my nose were the certain cause of the discomfort in my ears. He repeated with a vehement assurance that the pressure in my ears was a direct result of my difficulty breathing. This was something new to me.

The specialist then questioned me about my sleeping habits. I told him how I have struggled to sleep, to the best of my recollection, for most of my adult life. I told him how I find it difficult to fall asleep, due to problems breathing. I told him how my brain seems to wake me up just as the rest of my body feels like it’s going to sleep. I told him that I am only able to sleep effectively whilst lying on my left side. If I sleep on my right side; the side of my functioning airway, the nostril closes up which means I can’t breathe at all through my nose. He told me that I needed the septoplasty. This operation would straighten my septum, allowing for better airflow through my nose.

There are long term effects of a deviated septum. In my case, having a deviated septum has meant that not only have I had many sinus infections, but I also often get throat infections; as I regularly breathe through my mouth. The blocked nasal breathing due to septal deviation also has a negative effect on the Eustachian tube, which means drainage from the nose is not efficient. If what the specialist was saying was correct, having the operation could lead to better tubal drainage from my nose, and as a result, this could relieve some of the pressure I am feeling in my ears.

My hope for this operation is that it will help me feel more comfortable whilst sleeping at night, as I will be able to breathe through both nostrils. After some time I should start breathing through my nose more during the night, and therefore shouldn’t wake up as much; as a result of having a dry mouth, or as a response to my body warning me that I am not managing to get enough oxygen into my lungs. In consequence, I hope I will also feel more refreshed when I wake up. My most cautious hope, however, is for an eventual reduction in the pressure I am feeling in my ears.

And so, after over a year of rapid changes of emotion, I am once again feeling hopeful…

Another Consultation With Another Specialist – Part 1: Distractions

The first thing he said to me was that I would never get my hearing back. There was no greeting. In fact, he didn’t even lift up his head to look at me, as he spoke these opening words.

I was in the hospital again for a consultation with another specialist. My usual Ears Nose and Throat doctor (ENT) had gone to study in England, and so I was again preparing myself to tell my story to a stranger.

Prior to meeting this new specialist, I had carried out some hearing tests. The first test, as always, was a pure tone test, which tests the ability to hear a number of different tones (beeps), using a pair of soundproof headphones. Next was the usual bone conduction test which measures the ability to hear tones, by placing a small bone conductor behind the ear. Normally, these are the two tests I undertake before speaking to a specialist. This time, however, I had been asked to carry out an additional assessment: a speech recognition test. This test is similar to the pure tone one, but instead of listening to different tones, the patient listens to words spoken at different volumes, which they are then asked to repeat. The speech reception threshold shows how well the individual hears and understands ordinary conversation. I had carried out this test before when I had consulted with the specialist in London. That test had been conducted in English; this time, however, I would be doing it in Spanish. When I completed the test in my mother tongue, I found that even if I couldn’t clearly hear the whole word, I could guess what the word was; based on the associated tones I could hear, and my knowledge of the English language. This time I was obviously at a disadvantage. I am not fluent in Spanish, and this felt more like a language test than a hearing one. The audiologist assured me that the words would only be two syllables and would be very basic.

Well, the test started off OK, with me repeating a few simple words being played into my good ear. Then things got more difficult. I found I was concentrating so hard on listening to the two syllables of each word that I either ended up missing the start of the word or the end of it. And, as asking the audiologist to replay the word wasn’t an option, I ended up just saying the one syllable that I knew I had heard. This carried on with me grimacing at every non-word I was saying. Then the audiologist turned up the volume and I was in immediate pain. I looked through the glass screen at her and pulled a distressed face. She spoke into her microphone and asked if it was too loud. I told her it was, and she said she would turn the volume down. She assured me she had done this, yet I continued in pain, with the distressed look on my face, as she continued to play more words at me. I was relieved when the test was over, and when she came into the booth where I was sitting to change the headphones over, in order to test my deaf ear. I then sat patiently whilst the test was carried out on my deaf ear; aware that the audiologist was on the other side of the screen, busy playing Spanish words into my deaf ear, yet unable to hear them. Some minutes went by, and then she played the words really loud into my deaf ear. I was again in discomfort, yet she didn’t turn down the volume. The noise was distorted, yet I was able to attempt to vocalize some of the sounds. Then the test was over, and I was asked to wait outside.

Over 3 hours later I was called into a consultation room to speak to the new specialist. The head-teacher of the school I work in had kindly suggested my Spanish friend accompany me for this consultation, to help with translation. I had been told that this new specialist would be giving me some therapy to help me cope with my sensitivity to sound. I had also been told that this new specialist didn’t speak any English. I knew I had an adequate level of Spanish to be able to understand the main points of discussion. I would, however, find it difficult to describe any sensations associated with different volume levels or types of sound.

Well, thank goodness my Spanish speaking friend was with me. The specialist mumbled his way through the entire consultation. He barely even moved his lips as he spoke! As someone with a hearing loss, it is very difficult for me to understand someone if they do not speak clearly. Even my hearing friend who speaks Spanish had to move closer to hear what he was saying, and also asked him to repeat himself on more than one occasion. As someone with hearing loss, I also find it difficult to hear speech if there is any background noise. And, a few minutes into the appointment, the distractions commenced.

We were sitting in a small square consultation room, and at the far end of the room was an open doorway which led to a corridor where staff were busily chatting and walking from room to room. In addition to the almost inaudible muffled tones being uttered by the specialist, the added distraction of the staff in the corridor further hindered my ability to follow what the specialist was saying. Then two people entered the small consultation room. One of the people was a young-looking guy wearing a white lab coat. He proceeded to the sink on the right-hand side of the room. He turned the tap on and started to do something which sounded like it involved a scrubbing brush... Chat chat chat, clomp clomp clomp, swoosh swoosh swoosh, brush brush brush… mumble mumble mumble…The brushing and the sound of water flowing rapidly into the sink, mixed together with the corridor noise, forcing the specialist’s mumbling to grow more distant. The other person who had entered the room was a female nurse, who proceeded to the left-hand side of the desk where we were sitting. She started flicking through a stack of patient’s files; pulling them out of slots of a metal trolley, and flicking some more… chat chat chat, clomp clomp clomp, swoosh swoosh swoosh, brush brush bush, flick flick flick… mumble mumble mumble… the specialist’s indistinct tones were drowning in background noise. At one point he even had a piece of paper covering his mouth, which meant that I wasn’t even able to observe any slight movement of his lips to gain some clue as to what he was saying. What if I was a lip-reader?! I imagined a page from a puzzle book; the kind where there is a line drawing where you have to circle what’s wrong with the picture.  Well, if the aim of the puzzle was to highlight the aspects of this scenario that were making it a difficult environment for communication for someone with hearing loss, I’d be circling almost everything on the page.

I watched as the specialist quickly scanned the A4 booklet of notes that had been written about me, by his predecessors. I took a breath and focused on staying patient and prepared myself for the usual inquiries that would force me to relive the difficulties the past year had brought. Predictably I was soon asked the standard questions. When did it happen? Was it sudden? Have you tried a hearing aid? He told me that my right ear was functioning well. I assume he must have discounted the results of my speech recognition test, to come to this conclusion. He told me that the most important thing was to look after my right, only-functioning ear. He advised me on my diet. Since losing my hearing I have had various doctors and specialists suggest many things that I should not be eating or doing, in order to protect my remaining hearing. This time the list included, amongst many other things; no alcohol and no caffeine. I was told to avoid using certain types of hair dye, gold, and numerous types of antibiotics. There were countless other things on the list that could prove toxic to my ear, of which I had no idea what they were. I was to avoid loud music and high noise levels. My friend explained how I work in a school. The specialist said that a school environment was OK…I often think that people don’t realize how loud a classroom, or an infant school playground can be!

The specialist had a blunt manner. He seemed to be highly knowledgeable in issues regarding the ear; having all the textbook-theory knowledge, yet none of the practice. There was no evidence of him showing any understanding of how sudden hearing loss can affect someone’s ability to understand speech, not to mention their self-confidence or other associated emotional factors. He even managed to upset me; when he asked me how long I’d been living in Spain, and he commented on how my Spanish should be better after such an amount of time. Hmm, maybe after obviously being a consultant for such a long time, he should have more on an understanding of how to address patients with hearing loss?!… Nevertheless, as the consultation continued, my friend and I remained collected. We asked our questions, and finally, we started to form a new plan of action…

One Year On… My Thoughts on My Sudden Hearing Loss

It is one year since the day in the auditorium when I suddenly lost the hearing in my left ear. It has been a year spent attending appointments with various specialists, a year of being observed and tested, and a year of taking different medicines and trying hearing aids. I spent almost a year without working; trudging slowly through my days, with the feeling of frustration weighing heavily down on me. A year has passed and there have been no answers and no improvement in my ability to hear. It has been a year that has damaged my confidence. A year that has chipped away at me; with every hurdle and setback diminishing my character. Yet it has also been a year of building myself up; grasping at ways to find strength through my adversity.

It still feels very recent. I still wake up every morning to the realization that I can no longer hear in my left ear. A part of me continues to cling on to the tiniest of hopes that one day I will miraculously wake up with the full ability to hear; that my hearing will re-emerge as quickly and as spontaneously as it disappeared. This hope is an inherent part of me that I’m unable to control or even want to suppress. Yet, this doesn’t mean I haven’t accepted the reality of my situation.

In addition to becoming deaf in my left ear, I have been left with: tinnitus, a sensitivity to loud noises, the inability to identify where sounds are coming from, and difficulty hearing in background noise. Yet worst of all, there is a relentless feeling of pressure I feel in both ears, though more so in my left. It is these other issues that are proving to be more difficult to manage than the hearing loss itself.

Living with hearing loss and associated symptoms poses everyday challenges. Even though I have had no actual improvement in my symptoms, I have a better understanding of my hearing loss. I am improving my coping techniques every day; achieving small triumphs that feel like fairy steps of success. Notably, the discomfort I used to feel when this first happened, when going outside my apartment into a world of noise, has now become a habitual sensation. Although it is very present, it is something I rarely think about; an unpleasantness that has now been forced to the background of my focus. Loud noises are still painful. The sound of emergency vehicle sirens, motorbike exhaust pipes, and the clattering of dishes, all cause me physical pain deep inside my ears. But I have also discovered some noises that bring me comfort. The sound of a gentle river, the wind brushing past tree branches, and rustling leaves force my mind from giving attention to any unwelcome sounds of tinnitus. I have found that wearing headphones helps to block out the noise of the Metro and the noise associated with trains and public transport. For short periods of time, I am now able to listen to my iPod through my headphones, and can enjoy music and listen to storytelling podcasts; this is something I thought I would no longer be able to find pleasure in, due to my sensitivity to noise. I have developed my understanding of practices that can affect my condition. I now realise that if I drink alcohol, eat something with high salt content, or if I don’t sleep well, my tinnitus will be stronger. The presence of loud tinnitus and tiredness, in turn, means I will find it difficult to concentrate well on hearing tasks. Socializing can be demanding amongst background noise. In restaurants and bars I have learnt to sit in a corner, or with my deaf ear against a wall and my hearing ear facing the person I am speaking to, in order to have some chance at hearing them in conversation. I have learnt that it is only possible to concentrate on listening to one person at a time. I have also learnt that with large groups of people and circular tables comes a lot of frustration!

It has been a year of firsts. There was my first run since my hearing loss, where I started to feel so much stronger, and more ‘myself’. There was my first train journey, where I watched the beautiful countryside through the train windows, with the sun on my face, and when I felt so happy to be listening to music through my headphones; thankful for the hearing I had left. There was my first time in a restaurant since my hearing loss, which taught me so much about the importance of selecting a table wisely.

It has been a year of being proactive; writing articles for hearing loss websites, and getting involved in fundraising campaigns for deaf charities.

It has been a year of ‘silly deaf moments’ and mishearing words: sitting with my boyfriend on a terrace and mishearing him say the word ‘parmesan’, and instead hearing ‘lederhosen’, and wondering why my boyfriend would want such a thing sprinkled on spaghetti!

It has been a year of feeling vulnerable. When I’m on my own in everyday places and situations, such as the supermarket or walking down the street, I worry about strangers talking to me, and not being able to hear them, or even worse failing to acknowledge them; if they have addressed me on my deaf side. I worry about cars pulling out of parking spaces, and not registering them until they are moving towards me. I worry about crossing the road and hearing the siren of an ambulance, and not knowing which direction to move out of the way.

It has been a year of frustration. I am frustrated in train stations and airports where I can’t hear the Public Address systems clearly. I become frustrated with bars that play their music loud, or that are bustling with chatter too loud for me to tolerate. I am frustrated at people who speak in mumbled words, or who turn their head away from me during conversation; meaning I am unable to hear parts of what has been said. I am frustrated at feeling like a burden with every time I have to ask someone to repeat themselves. I am sad that I am now unable to continue my career as a teacher in a lively classroom. Yet I am proud of myself for returning to work in a less demanding role, which in actuality is one of the most challenging things I have ever done. I still feel upset with myself when I struggle in conversation. It’s tiring trying to listen to conversation or to communicate for long periods of time. It’s tiring to be around noise. I am tired a lot of the time from trying to listen. I feel frustration in learning simple things again, such as keeping my balance whilst walking downhill. I feel frustration at there being so many questions that doctors don’t know the answers to. What caused my hearing loss? Is this going to happen to my right ear as well? Why do I often feel dizzy when I’m walking, yet rarely when I am running? Why do shopping centre lighting, stormy weather, and crowds of people, cause me to feel dizzy?

It has been a difficult year also for the people closest to me. I know it is hard for people to know what to say to comfort someone who is not ‘getting better’. I know it is difficult to know how to help. My friends and family have lived through this with me and have shown me overwhelming support. But, it is my boyfriend who has lived the experience closest to mine, and who has felt not only the frustration that I have, but has also learnt with me how to deal with my hearing loss. The unfaltering support, patience and care he has shown me, and continues to do so has undoubtedly given me the strength to deal with the new challenges I now face.

This year has been difficult. Yet this year has had a huge impact on my personality, where my priorities now lie, and the way I view my life. I am stronger as a result of this year. It is also because of this year that I have realized the enjoyment I have in communicating through writing. By recording my experiences and thoughts in my blog, I have made sense of my feelings and gained strength. I hope also to have given others an insight into my world, and some of the difficulties experienced by someone with hearing loss.  Writing is a pleasure; one which I can thank that day in the auditorium for the moment the world to the left of me abruptly fell into silence.

This article was recently featured on The Limping Chicken – the world’s most popular deaf blog! 

Donations

Please help to fuel my writing by buying me a cup of tea 🙂

$5.00

A Meeting With the White Rabbit

I was sitting opposite her, at her desk. The tip of her nose was a smudgy black, and the area between her nose and top lip was a thick oily white, with a modest covering of black whiskers. She looked at me through her thin, black-rimmed glasses. When she stood up to make me a cup of tea, I noticed a cotton wool pom-pom tail attached to her lower back…

It had been 8 months since I had lost the hearing in my left ear. It had been 8 months since I had been living with tinnitus, dizziness, a sensitivity to loud noises, and the relentless pressure in my ears. It was almost 8 months since I had last carried out a day’s work. My headteacher had asked me to come to the school to attend a meeting with her. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure what the outcome of the meeting was going to be. I couldn’t bear to be around loud noises. Returning to my position as an Early Years teacher – a teacher of 4-year-old children – was not a possibility for me at this time. I wondered if there could be any other options for me; any other work in the school that I would be able to do. I wondered if, due to the amount of time I’d been sick, I would be asked to leave.

I arrived at the school on a sunny Monday morning. As I pushed open the stubborn metal gate, I was filled with apprehension and nervousness. I could hear children playing on the other side of the gate. As I walked into the small patio situated in front of the school, I was immediately struck by a magnitude of colour. The children weren’t wearing their usual dark blue uniforms or stripy blue smocks, but instead, they were all dressed in fancy dress costumes. It was Book Day in school. There were children dressed as Mr Men characters, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Dr Seuss’ Thing One and Thing Two, and animals, pirates and princesses. One of my colleagues promptly came to give me an all-encompassing hug. This alerted the children to look my way, and when they realised it was me, a large group of children, all of whom I had taught the previous year, ran to me and hugged me from all directions. They were chatting to me excitedly; asking me lots of questions, showing me their costumes, and screaming with excitement. My ears were hurting from the noise. I wasn’t able to focus on any of the children’s words. However, it was wonderful to see them, and to be surrounded by the energy of young children again. I stayed for a few minutes on the patio, soaking up the excitement, and receiving more hugs from children and members of staff. I had been working in this school for three years. It was a small nursery and infants school, and I had made close connections with many of the staff members, and of course, with the children. It felt so nice to be immersed again in this vibrant world. It felt so nice to absorb a little of what to me, was my former ‘normality’. I missed working as a teacher. I missed my days of creativity. I even missed the absolute exhaustion I used to feel at the end of the school day; knowing I’d applied all my energy to give my pupils the best possible start to their education I could offer.

I entered the headteacher’s office. She was dressed as the white rabbit from Alice In Wonderland. She stood up from behind her desk, and as she gave me a hug. I momentarily became aware of the humour in the situation. The irony that such an important meeting, one that could possibly affect my future work opportunities in this school, would be between me and the white rabbit. It was bizarre and felt somewhat surreal. This is the nature of working in an infant school! She asked how I was doing. She told me that because I was good at my job, she didn’t want to lose me. I hadn’t prepared for this kind of compliment, and the weight of it triggered my emotions. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, but refused to release them; breathing deeply and wiping away any evidence of my weakened character. The past 8 months had been difficult, and my confidence was drained. She asked me how I thought I would cope as a teacher, in a busy classroom. I was honest with her, and told her I would find it extremely difficult. She said she didn’t want to set me up for failure. She then went on to suggest some other possible roles for me. There was a language school that was owned by the same company as my current school, where I could possibly work; teaching small groups of adults. There was also a possibility of working with older children. However, these didn’t seem like favourable options. My teaching background was firmly rooted in Early Years education, and it was with this age-range where my teaching passion lay. We discussed other options and came to the conclusion that working with small groups of children, away from the noise of the classroom, would be a role that could offer me the best chance of success.

After over an hour of talking about my options, my headteacher told me that she could offer me a position as a teaching assistant. It would include some time in the classroom as well as time working away from the classroom; with small groups of children who needed extra support in Literacy and Maths, and in learning English. I had an interest in working with intervention groups, and in Special Needs education. I also had experience in these areas. This role would be a way of seeing how I would cope in a classroom. I wouldn’t be letting people down or feeling guilty if I had to leave the position, as I wouldn’t be responsible for a whole class. I would earn just over a third of my wage as a full-time teacher, but this was an opportunity for me to discover my potential and also recognise my limitations, whilst doing so in a familiar environment.

It has been nearly 3 months since my meeting with the white rabbit. I returned to work for the month of June. It was difficult. It was an experience that proved to be challenging and demanding on my diminished confidence, and hearing. My ears were painful at the end of the day, and on returning home each day I savoured times of quietness. But I completed the month, and am proud of what I achieved. I will be returning to the school after the summer to start the new school year in my new role as a teaching assistant.

I am now enjoying my summer holidays; feeling like I earned them, and am now up to date with my story 🙂

More Alternative Therapy: Part 2 – a Scattering of Needles

…As soon as he entered the room, the practitioner began to work on my neck. It felt like he was using his fists; starting from my collar bone and then rubbing them up my neck with vigorous force. My skin began to burn from the friction, and the procedure felt like it would have been more relaxing and pleasant, had it been performed with massage oil. After about 10 minutes of the neck burning massage, the practitioner began to slowly push down on my head, encouraging it to bend towards each shoulder. I couldn’t believe how far I was able to stretch. It was as though the stinging massage had loosened all the tension in my neck.

The practitioner then walked away from the massage table and when he reapproached I could see him putting on some blue latex surgical gloves. He asked me to open my mouth. He then inserted his index finger inside my mouth and started to press gently inside my cheek. His thumb pressed lightly through the outside of my cheek so that it met with his index finger. He massaged using a pressing motion, and in small circular movements. He mumbled something about the temporomandibular joint (TMJ). This massage lasted a few minutes and was repeated on the other side of my face.

Again the practitioner moved away from where I was lying. This time he exited the room. After a few minutes he returned, and whilst leaning over me he announced, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Acupuncture”. Oh, I wasn’t expecting that! I had never had acupuncture before. I asked if it was going to hurt. He assured me that it wouldn’t. He swiftly placed the needles in different points around my jaw, forehead, and the top of my head and my collarbone. The needles felt like they were being elegantly scattered in to place. The majority of the needles glided into my skin, with ease, and caused only a slight sensation of my skin being pricked. But, the insertion of a needle in the part of my jaw below my ear, where it forms an angle to make my chin, caused immediate and intense pain. A tender soreness radiated deep into my jaw. I was in pain, I exclaimed and alerted the practitioner to the offending needle. He responded saying, “Oh, yes that one will hurt!” I was asked to continue to lie still for 20 minutes. I heard the sound of the door close as the practitioner left the room, and I was left listening to the soft jazz and wondering how many needles were in my face, and what I looked like.

After about 10 minutes a woman, who I hadn’t yet met, entered the room. She greeted me with a jolly sounding, “Hola” and told me as she was turning the needles slightly, that she was there to do just that. A few seconds later she left the room. I was again left lying motionless on the massage table, listening to the soft jazz.

Another 10 minutes passed and again the door opened. I could see from my lying position that it was the same woman who had turned the needles, who was now entering the room. She swiftly collected the needles from my face and neck, with the ease in which they had been placed.

This new practitioner was a comical woman. She told me that she was a nutritionist and she spoke to me about my diet. She presented me with a list of suggestions for a healthy diet, that she told me she had spent time translating from Spanish to English, and to excuse any unusual translations; blaming Google Translate for such errors. The focus of the diet was on eliminating animal products, dairy, and sugar. I was amused by the Spanish theme of the diet. I was allowed a typical ‘Spanish breakfast’ consisting of toasted soda bread with crushed tomato and olive oil; this was something I assumed the Spanish clients would refuse to abstain from. Chorizo and sugary products from the Pastelería (bakery) were ‘prohibited’. I started to think about the foods I liked. Hmm, there was no mention of Marmite or PG Tips tea…There was also a list of suggestions for dietary supplements including Vitamin C powder, Omega 3, a B vitamin complex and Magnesium.

Next, I was asked again to sit opposite the mirror and she began to explain some exercises, which I would need to carry out three times a day. She laughed each time before beginning her explanation and demonstration. Maybe she was unsure of her translation. Maybe she found it humorous to watch our reflections as we performed the exercises together, which involved contorting our faces into different shapes, putting our tongues in different positions, and making clicking sounds with our tongues on the roof of our mouths.  These exercises I would most definitely be performing at home, in private!

And so my experience of the craniofacial rehabilitation concluded.  I liked the holistic approach. I would continue to attend appointments every week in the hope that some of the pressure in my ear could be reduced…

More Alternative Therapy: Part 1 – Skin Popping Included!

My consultation with the maxillofacial doctor, which by this time was 6 weeks previous, had concluded with her recommending some treatments for me to try. One of her recommendations was that I embark upon some craniofacial rehabilitation. This is a form of physiotherapy that can help temporomandibular (TMJ) (jaw joint) disorders, by using a variety of methods; understanding the relationship between the neck and shoulders, and the head and the TMJ.

This would be yet another alternative method I would try, to see if the pressure in my ear could be reduced, by addressing issues with my jaw. At this point in my story, I was continuing to see my chiropractor, who was also doing jaw adjustments. I was also wearing my new night guard to help with my teeth clenching and grinding, whilst sleeping. Maybe this new therapy would complement the other things I was trying.

I had come to terms with the fact that the hearing in my left ear wasn’t going to return, and I was developing strategies to manage my life with unilateral hearing. However, I wasn’t prepared to accept that I would have to live the rest of my life with the constant discomfort of the feeling of pressure in my ears. The doctors had been unable to provide me with any medical-based relief, and so there was nothing to lose by seeking alternative help.

I arrived at the clinic on a Tuesday morning in May, and quickly found myself sitting in yet another waiting room. It was early in the day and I was the first person waiting. The clinic had a clean feel to it. There were white walls, and a light coloured wooden floor. In front of where I was sitting was a light wooden coffee table, with a white candle placed in the middle. Also on the table was a small metal tray in which sat an ornament of a Buddha, alongside some incense sticks. On the wall opposite me was a circular logo, with an outline of a head pictured sideways-on. Above the head, were the words ‘Integrative Craniofacial therapy’. To the right of me, hung a small print of one of Picasso’s paintings; adding a slight touch of lively colour to the otherwise sterile-white wall. Around the room were a variety of different sized leafy pot plants; some small, and perched on top of shelves, and some bigger and nestling into the corners of the building. The feeling of serenity was complete when the music speakers were turned on; initiating the low and warm tones of Nina Simone singing jazz, that floated around the clinic.

First I met the main specialist. I immediately recognized him from the website, and I believe it was he who had originally set up the practice. He asked lots of questions. This initial meeting was conducted at a swift pace and with seemingly professional efficiency. He asked me questions about my general health, my diet, whether I was stressed, and about my sleeping patterns. He didn’t seem surprised when I told him about my sudden hearing loss. He scribbled down notes in scrawled handwriting. He felt around my neck and jaw and asked me to open and close my mouth a few times. He said I have issues with my TMJ muscle. He then took me to the room adjacent, where I met another practitioner, this time a woman.

The woman spoke in English and gave me a lot of explanation about what my treatment would consist of. She explained how first she would work on my lower back, and then gradually work upwards towards my neck and face. She began by massaging outwards from my spine. I sat in my underwear, on the edge of a massage table in front of a mirror. I watched as she worked her way up to between my shoulder blades. The therapist was very friendly and seemed to be using her time with me as an opportunity to practise her English speaking skills; which I was very happy about, as it meant that I was able to relax and forget any language-based stress. Whilst I was gazing into the mirror, focusing on nothing in particular, she told me she could see (without touching me) that there was inflammation on the left side of my jaw. I glanced up and looked at my face in the mirror. I could see the inflammation too. I had seen it in my reflection since the day I’d lost my hearing. Yet I couldn’t recall if there had been swelling there before my hearing loss.

I was then asked to lie down on my stomach, on the massage table. She started pulling at my skin around the base of my spine. As she pulled there was an occasional loud popping sound. This was a new experience that no amount of massages enjoyed and endured whilst living in Thailand could have prepared me for. It was quite a painful and uncomfortable experience, yet was also quite satisfying – like tension was being forced away from my back with every pop. The practitioner explained that she was releasing my skin from the bone.

I asked the practitioner if she’d ever seen anyone who’d suddenly lost their hearing. She said she had. She said she had seen people with all sorts of problems: problems with facial muscles, problems with senses, neck problems etc… The walls around the small massage room were decorated with posters. The posters were diagrams of the mouth and teeth. The posters showed the connection between the ears, nose and throat. The posters showed how issues with the neck can affect other parts of the body and face. Hmm, these were all familiar issues.

I then asked the practitioner more directly if she thought my jaw problems could be connected to my hearing loss. She immediately replied, “Yes”, as though it was a question that didn’t require any thinking time to answer. She then quickly added, “But obviously I don’t know what’s going on inside the ear…” When I told her that my MRI scan results had been normal, that there was no virus, that my blood tests had been normal, and that the doctors couldn’t explain my hearing loss, she said, “Well, if they don’t know, then 99 per cent I think it could be connected to your jaw.” She also mentioned some other possible attributing factors including stress, serotonin levels, and hormones.

After about half an hour of massage, the woman left the room and the original guy returned…

Dentist Mission Part 1

I was sitting in a waiting room, waiting for an appointment to get a new night guard for my teeth. The type of mouthguard I needed was similar to the ones that boxers or rugby players wear to protect their teeth. This type of dental guard, however, is custom made, in order to fit individual mouths comfortably. I had been aware of grinding and clenching my teeth whilst sleeping, for at least 15 years, and had recently been waking up in the middle of the night with my teeth clenched tightly together. It was as though my subconscious was intervening and was now warning me when my teeth were engaged in this habit.

I already owned a mouth guard which I wore on my bottom teeth, and which had been made over 10 years ago, when I lived in England. I had worn this guard on and off for many years. In the past, when I went to the dentist, the only question I was ever asked about the guard was whether or not I had one. Nobody ever asked me how old it was. It had been expensive to have made, and I never thought about getting another one. It was only recently after my consultation with the Maxillofacial doctor; who seemed confounded that I had been using the same guard for over 10 years without having it adjusted, checked or replaced, that I realized perhaps I should get a new one. Of course, our faces change with age, as do or jaws and teeth.

The relationship between teeth grinding and clenching, and problems with the temporomandibular jaw joint (TMJ) causing problems with the ear are well documented. Curious that this connection was never mentioned by any of the many ear specialists I had consulted with. Typical symptoms of a TMJ disorder include ‘hearing loss, an earache, tinnitus, a sense of ear fullness, and vertigo’. Hmm, I had experienced all of these and continued to do so with all except vertigo. I had even read stories of people who had suffered a hearing loss, and then after wearing a night guard for some months, their hearing had gradually returned. I was not hoping for this kind of miracle, but I did have some optimism that a new night guard could help reduce some of the pressure I was feeling in my ears and my head; this being the most difficult of my symptoms to tolerate.

The dentist surgery was in an old-style apartment block. The waiting room felt as though it was probably once someone’s living room, many years ago. The room was square and dark padded sofa chairs lined three of the walls. There were no windows, and the walls were a plain dismal-cream colour. Around the bottom of the walls was dark brown skirting. There was a dark coffee table, situated in the space made between the chairs, with Spanish magazines arranged on top, in three piles. It was simply decorated, with two large framed pictures, one on each chair-lined wall. In the far corner, situated up high, near the entrance was a small box TV playing a Spanish soap opera with subtitles and low volume. As well as the low rumble from the TV, jingly-sounding elevator-style music attempted to liven up the atmosphere. The surgery had looked so clean and white on the photos on the website. This definitely did not resemble the sterile and shiny images that had been advertised.

The receptionist called me to her office to speak with her. She had a confident, sociable and easy-going attitude. I stumbled my way through the general health questions and she corrected my Spanish a few times, each time smiling with friendliness. She was the kind of person who made me feel like she immediately liked me. Perhaps it was the child-like Spanish I was speaking to her. For this appointment, I hadn’t prepared any Spanish phrases or helpful vocabulary. I had become accustomed to meeting new specialists, doctors and receptionists, and the taking of basic details didn’t feel too scary anymore. I then went to sit back in the waiting room.

Shortly I was greeted by the guy with whom I had spoken on the phone, who had given me an appointment within 45 minutes of me phoning. He was younger than me, and spoke to me in a mixture of Spanish and American-sounding English, as he led me to the dentist’s room. When I entered, I was met by a small old man, who was wearing a medical face mask, dentist overalls, glasses with magnifying mirrors attached, and whose bald head was covered in age spots. He muffled a greeting through his mask, and I wondered what he looked like under the medical disguise. He resembled a little mole, as he shuffled calmly around the room. He asked me why I was there and whether I had had a ‘ferula’ before. Ferula is the Spanish word for mouth guard – this was my new medical Spanish word of the day. He asked me to perform some jaw movements as he felt around my head and under my jawline. He also examined my teeth. He mumbled constantly into his face mask, directing his speech towards his companion. I could only hear and understand a little of what he was saying. The younger dental technician spoke to me in his broken American English and explained that they would need to do an X-ray to make sure the night guard would fit properly, and then they would be able to do the moulds of my teeth. After that, the dentist left the room, and that was the last time I saw him during this appointment. The dental technician took me to a room to have the X-ray. Later he filled my mouth with pink putty to form the moulds, chatting happily at me whilst my mouth was unable to move. I would return the following week…

Underground Scanning

Back to my story…

Two weeks after my consultation with the Maxillofacial doctor, I went for a bone scintigraphy scan. The scan was to be performed in the basement of the hospital. I walked down some red painted steps into a concealed underground hospital corridor. It was a world of large metal pipes and echoes. Since the scan involved radiation, I guess it was to be performed in an isolated area to protect other patients. The first step of the scanning procedure was an injection of radioactive dye. I was then asked to wait in a room with around twenty other people. The room was square and painted a tired off-white colour. At the entrance to the room were two toilets. There were no posters on the walls. The perimeters of the walls were lined with plastic chairs. In one corner was a table covered with a plastic table cloth and large bottles of water and plastic cups. I was told to drink at least 5 cups of water, and to use the toilet as much as I needed to. I had to wait for the dye to travel in my bloodstream around my body. I watched as people’s names were called. They were asked to go to the toilet, and then they would go out of the door of the waiting room for their scans. As time went on I watched as people started to become agitated with the long wait. One old man started to pace back and forth, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Another man positioned himself near the door, making himself very visible; seemingly hopeful to be the next person called. I waited for 5 hours.

The scan took about 20 minutes. The machine was white and resembled an MRI scanner. At one end of the machine, there was a ring doughnut-shaped compartment. Positioned at the entrance to the centre of the doughnut hole, was a long examination table that had a groove that ran through the middle of it. I was asked to lie down on the table. My body slotted into the groove. My head was supported with a pillow, and another pillow was placed under my knees. I was then wrapped up in a blanket, with my arms hugging my body, and a belt was fastened around me. I imagined that my blanket-swaddled body resembled a snug-fitting battery in a remote control battery compartment. The technologist positioned another part of the machine around my head, and then she went into a small room behind a glass screen and turned on the machine. The robotic arms of the machine rotated slowly around my head, making loud clicking sounds. Next, the battery compartment started to move like a conveyor belt towards the entrance to the doughnut. I was transported inside the doughnut. I looked up and saw the top of the machine was only a few inches from my head. I focused my stare on a small area of the machine above my head, so as not to move, and to prevent my thoughts from drifting to the contemplation of my confinement. More loud clicks followed, and more images were taken.

About a week after I had the scan, I met again with the new ENT (Ears Nose and Throat) specialist. He said he was happy to see me looking well, and asked if I was back at work yet. In my previous consultation, he had been concerned about my well-being. I told him I hadn’t yet returned to work. He said I would have to try soon, but he was worried about me being in an environment with lots of noise, as he knew I’d find it difficult.

Then he changed the subject of discussion. He asked about my breathing; in particular, whether I had any difficulties due to my deviated septum. He asked whether I breathe through my nose or my mouth. I was asked to sit in a big black chair opposite his desk. He then performed a Fiberoptic Nasopharyngoscopy. This is an imaging technique, using a long thin black flexible wire with a light on the end, that is inserted into the nose. It can allow visualization of the nasal cavity, septum, and other structures. The specialist slowly fed the viewing tube down my good (right) nostril until I could feel it brushing past my throat. My eyes started to water involuntarily. I remained in rigid stillness. This was a procedure that one of the other specialists had done before, so I knew the level and type of discomfort I would experience. Then he removed the tube and started to insert it into my deviated (left) nostril. This I had never had done before. He got as far as the top of my nostril; the furthest area you can touch with your finger. Then he stopped. He said the nostril was completely blocked due to the deviation of my septum. But then, to my bewilderment, he continued to feed the tube into my nose; forcing it further down towards my throat. I was in extreme discomfort. My eyes continued to produce uncontrollable tears that streamed down my face. He carefully removed the tube. My body was shaking. The specialist told me that my left nostril was completely blocked. He said that I couldn’t breathe through this nostril – this I was obviously something I was aware of.

I then sat down again at his desk, more relaxed now, and he asked if I wanted to have an operation to correct my septum; that would help me breathe better. He said I would probably need the operation in the future anyway. I said I’d like to wait for the results of the jaw scan first, and then if everyone was OK with that, then I’d prefer to have the operation sooner rather than later. I thought it would be better to have an operation in the present, rather than in old age. Also, I’d like to be able to breathe better, especially when I’m trying to sleep. He said he thought this was a good plan. He said that correcting my breathing should help to make me feel more comfortable, and could possibly help with some of the stuffiness I was feeling in the left side of my head, since my hearing loss. I would meet him again in a month.

Two weeks after the bone scintigraphy I was back at the hospital for a consultation with a maxillofacial (jaw) specialist to get my results of the scan. I was going to find out whether I had Mandibular Condylar Hyperplasia (a rare bone disease that causes asymmetry of the face amongst other things). My boyfriend accompanied me for this appointment, as I was feeling nervous. The specialist explained that the results of the scan showed that I didn’t have the rare bone disease…Breathe…She said that it did, however, show deviation of my jaw. I was then led to the adjacent room where I sat in a dentist-style chair and she examined my jaw; asking me to open and close my mouth. She told me there was a problem with my jaw muscle. My boyfriend asked whether my problems with my ear could be related to my jaw issues. She answered discernibly carefully, saying that ‘the ear pressure could be associated with the jaw’. She wrote down recommendations of treatment for my jaw problems on a piece of paper for me:

  1. Go to a dentist and have a new nightguard made. This would protect my teeth and jaw muscles from night-time clenching.
  2. Try taking Robaxisal (a muscle relaxant) for 5-10 day cycles. The specialist felt my jaw was probably in spasm. This medicine could help release some of the tension.
  3. Seek treatment from a specialist in craniofacial rehabilitation  – this is a type of physiotherapy for the jaw.

…Next stop the dentist…

A Consultation With the New Specialist

Nearly six months after my sudden hearing loss I was in my Spanish hospital with my boyfriend, yet again for another consultation.

When I first entered the consultation room, I was dismayed to see yet another Ears Nose and Throat (ENT) specialist whom I hadn’t previously met. It was a specialist who was not aware of my story and who I sceptically assumed was going to ask me to repeat my story yet again, and then tell me that he was sorry, but due to lack of research on my condition, he would be unable to offer me any further help and that he would see me again in three months to see if there were any changes.

Before meeting with the new specialist I had carried out the usual hearing tests. As usual, I was told that nothing had improved. The specialist had a friendly and sensitive manner. He asked me about how my hearing loss had occurred and whether I had previously had any ear-related problems. Then he looked at my hospital notes and told me that my MRI scan was normal. This was probably about the third time I’d been told this information. He said there was some ‘shading’ in an area of the image, but I didn’t hear the rest of what he said, and he didn’t seem to speak about it with any importance. Then he looked at my results from my Brainstem Auditory Evoked Potentials test. He proceeded to explain to me what the results showed. This was the first time the results had been discussed with me in any more detail than just telling me that they showed the same as my hearing test – that I can’t hear in my left ear. He drew a diagram of the ear and showed how each peak on the graph produced from the test, related to different parts of my ear. The results showed that sounds weren’t being heard because sound wasn’t successfully reaching my ‘caracol’. In Spanish, they call the spiral-shaped part of the inner ear known as the cochlea the ‘caracol’; which translates as ‘snail-shell’. So for some unknown reason, sounds weren’t able to be interpreted by way of my cochlea, and hence the relevant signals needed to hear, weren’t being sent to my brain.

The new specialist read my notes from the ENT doctor with whom I had consulted a month earlier in London. He didn’t agree with the diagnosis of Cochlear Hydrops as being the reason for my hearing loss. He explained to me that this is usually a condition that is not continuous and comes in episodes. Although I have the symptoms, mine are continuous, not sporadic. I continuously have pressure in my left ear. I am continuously deaf in this ear. My hearing doesn’t fluctuate. He told me, however, that ultimately the diagnosis isn’t that relevant, as the main point of importance was now finding ways to help make things more bearable for me.

The new specialist then surprised me by asking me about how I was coping. I told him that the insistent pressure in my left ear was very uncomfortable. I told him that going outside into the noises of the city was also very uncomfortable and a habitual challenge for me. He commented in English and said, “This kind of thing can make you crazy.” He told me and my boyfriend that I ‘have to be strong’. I told him that I know my situation could make someone crazy. I told him that I know I need to be strong. I told him though, in a friendly tone; appreciative of his even mentioning of these issues. This was the first time any hospital specialist had shown any understanding or even alluded to the difficulties I was facing with the everyday. He asked me about my work. I told him I was not currently at work due to my hearing loss. He asked me why. I told him that I was a teacher and that I worked with very young children. I explained the difficulties I had when I tried to return immediately to the classroom, when I first lost my hearing. I asked him whether he thought I would be able to go back to my teaching job. He said he thought I could try. He told me that everything will take time. I needed to adjust. He said that I am still relatively in the early stages of learning how to live with unilateral hearing. He stressed the importance of trying to return to my normal life and routine. When I told him how young the children were that I teach, he added, “It will be very difficult for you though.”

Then the new specialist widened the scope of his investigations. He asked questions about my kidney. I only have one kidney on my right side. He told me that hearing problems and kidney issues can be directly related, as the kidneys regulate the fluid in the body. My hearing loss was possibly an issue with the fluid in my inner ear. Often people with fluid problems in their ears are given diuretics to force the kidneys to excrete more salt in the urine. He was keen to try this measure, as the diuretics could possibly help with my ear pressure. However, he wanted to check first that it was safe to prescribe me diuretics. So he made an appointment for me to have a consultation with a nephrologist (kidney specialist).

He also asked about my jaw. Oh my goodness, I couldn’t believe it! From the very first moment I entered the hospital, at the start of my story, I had been asking the hospital doctors if the problems I have with my jaw could be contributing to the problem in my ear. I had been constantly told that there was ‘probably’ not a connection. This time I hadn’t even mentioned my jaw. The new specialist had asked me the question! He said that my jaw problems could also be a cause of pressure in my head and my ear, and hence could be making my condition worse. So he made an appointment for me to see a maxillofacial doctor (specialist of the head, neck, face and jaw).

He suggested I go to a private audiologist to discuss hearing aid options and ways of helping with my discomfort. He said that there were four options that could be worth trying:

  1. Wear a normal hearing aid in my deaf ear to try and amplify the sound to a level that might help to give me some hearing. It probably wouldn’t be a useful level of hearing, but it might help with the feeling of disorientation, tinnitus and pressure in my ear.
  2. If the first option didn’t work, then I could try a Contralateral Routing Of Signals (CROS) hearing aid. This type of hearing aid would take the sound from the deaf ear and transmit it to the ear with better hearing. This could help me hear better in background noise.
  3. If the CROS hearing aid didn’t work, then there was an aid called a Bone Anchored Hearing Aid (BAHA). Having a BAHA would involve an operation where they attach a hearing aid on to a bone near the ear and it would pick up sound vibrations – this would obviously be a more invasive measure.
  4. There was also a device that could ‘mask’ tinnitus sounds in my deaf ear. This would play sound, or noises, or music, into the bad ear. Although I wouldn’t be able to hear the sounds, it could help with my tinnitus.

It was so refreshing to speak with someone who was curious about the other issues affecting my ear, and who seemed to genuinely want to help. Maybe this is the same treatment I would have received from any of the other ENT specialists at this point in my story; now that immediate treatment had been administered; now that we had waited for six months; and now that acoustic neuroma,  stroke, or an autoimmune disease had been discounted. Even so, this specialist had shown a deep understanding of the day-to-day issues I was facing. He knew about and acknowledged that I would be having some difficult days. This comforted me. I wasn’t being weak or over-accentuating my difficulties.  What I was going through was hard. It was supposed to be hard. I was dealing with it. I was having good days and difficult days. This was normal. Also, he explained things in so much detail, and had given us suggestions for further actions. I was incredibly grateful to have consulted with him. I now had a new plan with many elements, and I would be seeing him again in a month to discuss any new findings.

This time when leaving the hospital I didn’t cry. I walked out of the hospital with my boyfriend, breathed the fresh air, and was full of positivity.