Stranger Things: My Septoplasty Story – Part 3

At 8am the night-shift nurses said their goodbyes to me, and new staff started to enter the room.  An hour or so later I was given some antibacterial hand gel to clean my hands and was presented with a yoghurt, a clear jelly, a pack of plain biscuits, and some thick sweet fruit juice. I devoured it all. I paid only momentary notice to the difficulty I was having in swallowing food and eating, whilst only being able to breathe through my mouth. A doctor then promptly came to give me my medical notes and said I could go home. My boyfriend arrived and a nurse changed the bandage on my nose. This time the bandage was wrapped around, leaving a small opening, showing a glimpse of the tip of my nose. My boyfriend later commented that it looked like a beak and that I should paint it yellow. Soon I was sitting up in a chair, back in the first recovery room in which I’d been the night before, just before my operation. We were given my medical notes, a Ziploc bag with painkillers and antibiotics, and an appointment for the next day for me to have the packing removed from my nostrils.

The rest of the day I spent in exhausted fogginess. I lay on the sofa and dozed intermittently; happy to be home. My boyfriend bought groceries, made soup, and washed my hair; which made me feel a little better. My nose was extremely uncomfortable. It felt like the worst congestion I could imagine; like having a terrible cold, but not being able to blow your nose. As the day turned into evening I became increasingly uncomfortable. The congestion seemed to be spreading to my throat, and breathing was becoming more of an effort. My bandage was quickly turning red. I frequently had to clear my throat of bloody mucus, which was unceasingly replenishing in supply. By the end of the evening, whenever I attempted to swallow; little pink bubbles of mucus foamed in the small opening in my beak.

That night I slept. It wasn’t a restful sleep, more of an exhausted crash. I kept waking myself up with the loudest of snores; a consequence of my mouth breathing. On waking each time I realised my discomfort, and I made numerous trips to the bathroom to spit out more mucus. Then around 5am I woke in a panic, almost unable to breathe. I went to the bathroom with the feeling of something stuck in my throat. Whilst looking at my reflection in the mirror through tired eyes, I forced the muscles in my throat to contract and relax in order to remove the obstruction. Then it slowly appeared. I gently pulled on the offender; some gooey, mucus soaked gauze. It was like something from a horror film. I was just happy that the rest of the packing from my nose didn’t follow.

The next morning I had my appointment at the hospital. I walked into the consultation room and was happy to see the initial doctor I had spoken with when I had first lost my hearing. Today she spoke to me in Spanish.  She examined my throat for gauze, and then with a thin metal hook, she removed the packing from my nose. I had an immediate sense of relief. Oh my goodness, I was so much more comfortable. The specialist asked me to try to breathe through my nose. I had a few wonderful moments of clear airways. I was breathing through both nostrils! I felt a little lightheaded. Then rapidly the airways started to clog. The doctor carried out the usual nasal examinations; inserting the thin rigid tube with the light on the end, and then using the metal pliers-type tool to lift up the end of my nose and view my nostrils. She cleaned out my nose using a spray that stung slightly, and told me that the operation had gone well.

When I arrived home that day, I realized I could smell the soup from the night before. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I couldn’t smell anything the previous day. My nose freely dripped with blood all day. I resembled the character Eleven, from the television series Stranger Things, though I was unknowing of what magic I was performing during my nosebleeds.

It has now been 9 days since my septoplasty operation. I still have numbness in my top front teeth and on a small patch of my palate. The headache, stuffiness and pain from the congestion are lessening every day. My nose is still sore, and I am still very tired. A couple of days ago I discovered stitches on the left side of my septum, which I assume will dissolve or fall out over time. Every day I have to perform nasal irrigation to clean out my nose. This entails using a specially designed plastic bottle with a thin applicator spout with a plug on the end, which fits into the nose. I fill the bottle with water and add a salt solution, and then squeeze the bottle; allowing the water to travel through one nostril and then come out through the other. My right nostril is now clear. Although I am not yet able to breathe air in through my left nostril, due to the swelling and stitches, I have been able to breathe air out of this side of my nose; which I wasn’t previously able to do. This is already a positive result.

My next appointment at the hospital is in a couple of weeks, and I am in excited anticipation for the day when I am able to breathe with ease.

 

Donations

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

$5.00

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.

Roses are Red: My Septoplasty Story – Part 1

We were waiting in a room full of voices and echoes and were discussing how to pronounce the word for ‘surgery’ in Spanish. There was a constant movement of people in and out, and around the room. Some would walk into the room wearing orange visitor stickers. Some were carrying a single red rose wrapped in a clear sleeve. It was Valentine’s Day, and the day of my operation to correct my deviated septum; to straighten it, to allow better airflow through my nose.

I was sitting with my boyfriend in the off-white-coloured waiting room. Around the perimeter of the room were rows of chairs, with metal frames and hard wooden backs that curved slightly into the seat. In the middle of the room were two more rows of the same chairs; back-to-back. There was a dropped ceiling with suspended ceiling tiles; the Styrofoam type that are often found in offices or classrooms. Some of the tiles were discoloured or stained with the light-brown outline of irregular shapes, and were interspersed with rectangular light panels. The walls were bare apart from two Van Gogh framed prints: his Sunflowers and a painting of some wheat fields. It was difficult to judge the time of day as there was only one window, allowing a small amount of natural light to enter the room. I sat, looking around the room and watching the movement of people. There were people here of all ages. I scanned the room observing their faces. Like a detective, I assessed every person in the room. Were they wearing makeup? Jewellery? Nail polish? These were things I was told to strip my body before the operation. Were they wearing comfortable, loose-fitting clothing? I was evaluating who was here for an operation and who was simply visiting a relative or friend. There was a small door off from the waiting room to the left of where we were sitting. Some people walked straight through this door, with confidence and without the need for permission. Others had their name called by a nurse before entering. Some people came and went. Some went through the door without returning. Everyone seemed to be here for a different purpose. Every time the door opened, a sharp unsettled feeling attacked deep down in my stomach. Was it going to be a nurse calling my name? The waiting was arduous. After about 3 hours had passed we started to doubt whether we were in the right place. My boyfriend went to check; back to the original reception desk, we’d passed through before entering into the room. My appointment was for 4:30pm. It was now after 7:00pm. We were playing the game again. We were in a Spanish hospital with no idea of the procedure for having an operation here. This was new territory for us. The receptionist confirmed we were in the right place, and that they were behind schedule.

When my name was finally called it was around 8pm, and the waiting room was almost empty. I was hungry and tired, from fasting since an early breakfast. My boyfriend and I walked through the door into a corridor that opened out onto a ward. In a small changing room I dressed in a hospital gown. On my feet, I put elasticated blue foot covers that looked like delicate elf shoes. I completed my outfit by tucking my hair into a blue hair net; an action that reminded me of a short period of time spent working in factories, many years ago. We put my clothes in a locker, and retrieved the key: number 1. Then we went to wait in another room in which there were about 6 beds. I sat in a chair next to a hospital bed with dark green sheets. This seemed to be a recovery room. There were patients leaving the room after being given their hospital notes and Ziploc bags filled with medication. Some patients were in beds, with a relative beside them; waiting for them to feel well enough to return home. We waited here a while longer. I started to feel nervous.

Shortly, I was asked to get into the bed with the dark green sheets. I was wheeled through the hospital, into the lift, and then through some corridors. I was aware of my boyfriend changing position, moving from behind the bed, then to my side; endeavouring to keep up with the fast-moving trolley. The two nurses who were controlling the bed looked tired and had sour faces. At an intersection of corridors one of the nurses mumbled something hurriedly in Spanish. She was telling my boyfriend to give me a kiss and to wait “over there”. The two nurses hardly slowed the motion of the bed, and I could see my boyfriend was still processing what they had said. I told him to kiss me, and as he swiftly moved towards me, I observed his confused face in the moment of our separation.

I was on my own now. I was wheeled to a corridor where I was left without comment from the two tired nurses, for what I guess was about half an hour. I lay in the bed with my good ear facing the wall. I could hear people; I think they were behind me down the corridor. They were the voices of women speaking in quick passionate tones. They didn’t sound happy. Someone was shushing them continuously. During my wait, a few people came to talk to me and to read my medical notes. They all asked me similar questions: Where was I from? How should they pronounce my name? Do I have any allergies? All this was conducted in Spanish. I was happy to talk to people as they came to my bed. Talking was a distraction. During this time I was told that I would have to stay in hospital overnight, as it was now late, and there wouldn’t be time for me to recover from the anaesthetic. One of the members of staff asked me if I was warm enough. I told her that my feet were cold, and she folded a blanket, placing it over them. The anaesthetist also introduced himself. I think he said his name was Pablo. He was handsome and had a kind face.

Without warning my bed began to move backwards. As the bed reached a doorway, the trolley was turned around and I was facing one of the tired nurses from earlier. I was going into the operating theatre. I remember the colour green. I made an effort not to observe the room too much. The kind nurse, who earlier had asked me if I was cold, came to speak to me. She questioned me as to whether I had noticed the feeling of warmth on my feet. She had positioned a heat lamp over them, and I thanked her. The anaesthetist was situated on my deaf side, and he was kneeling down, talking to me whilst holding my hand. Simultaneously he was using his other hand to pat my arm; trying to find a vein. I smiled as he talked. I couldn’t hear him. After a moment I told him I was deaf in my left ear, and he told me he would talk louder. He said jokingly that he would try to make the sound of his voice bounce off the wall opposite, and then back to reach my good ear. The cannula was inserted with a quick sharp sting, and the anaesthetist asked me to breathe some air from a mask made of thick black rubber. I breathed in the air, and then breathed in some more…

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.

 

Injections and a Bit of Love

The next morning, after seeing another specialist, I had a visit from the doctor who I had initially seen when I was first admitted to hospital, 4 days ago. She told me that there was another treatment called Intratympanic Steroid Treatment which would involve injecting steroids into my ear, once a week for four weeks. I told her that I was willing to try anything, and very soon I was lying on my bed as she tipped drops of anaesthetic into my ear. She went away, after telling me to lie still and let the anaesthetic numb my eardrum. After about half an hour the doctor came back and took me to a room just down the corridor. I was asked to lie down on a cushioned bench and to stay very still. I couldn’t see what was happening, but the doctor talked me through her actions. First, she used a little vacuum-like tube to suck the anaesthetic drops out of my ear. Then I felt a needle pierce my eardrum and travel through my ear, to what felt like deep inside my head. I could feel the needle somewhere between the bone of my jaw and side of my throat and was experiencing a scratchy pain in this place. I was desperately trying to stay still. My eyes were watering with nervousness and discomfort. After the steroids had been injected, I then continued to lie in the same position for about another half an hour to allow the steroids to infuse into my inner ear. I was so tired and lying there on the doctor’s bench in my hospital gown, I felt extremely vulnerable. I closed my eyes.

When I got back to my room, I was given a handful of cotton wool to soak up the mixture of liquid and blood that had started to drip out of my ear. Whilst feeling sorry for myself, and gently dabbing my ear, my boyfriend entered the room.

When I was in hospital my boyfriend was always by my side. Every day he would appear in the hospital room doorway with a smile. He’d bring pastries for breakfast, which we’d enjoy together in the mornings. When I was fed up of the cold milky hospital coffee, he brought me peppermint tea in a takeaway cup from a café outside the hospital. Every day he asked me for a list of things he could bring me from home that would make me feel more comfortable. He’d sit by my bedside doing work on his laptop while I slept. He would hug me tightly when I was upset or scared, and would always manage to calm me with positive words. One day, when the intravenous was uncomfortable, he washed my hair for me – I joked with him, that it was the most intimate I’d ever been with anyone! 

One day I was desperate for some fresh air, and my boyfriend and I decided to escape for a bit. I put my denim jacket over my shoulders and put my plimsolls on. Dragging my IV stand with two swinging glass bottles, we scurried to the lift. Once on the ground floor, my boyfriend carried my IV stand down the ramp to some exit doors, with me following behind. When we got outside we sat on the wall where the hospital staff usually gathered on their smoking breaks. There was a slight chill in the air as summer was moving into autumn; though the sky was a lively blue. I was longing to go home.

Before my sudden hearing loss happened, I would often rush through my days and routines, and everyday life would pass by, without time to pause or appreciate it. It was when I was in hospital I had time to reflect. I had moments of intense emotion, where I felt so thankful and fortunate for the love and care my boyfriend was showing me. I could see he was scared, and that he needed someone to talk to as well. I know it was hard for him, especially going back to an empty apartment with a mind full of worries and questions.

New Medication

My first night in the room was an upsetting one and I felt like I was also imposing my distress on my roommate. In the early evening, a nurse entered our room with a small, cubic-shaped machine and an intravenous stand; which looked like a cheap metal, unembellished hat stand. What I understood from what she told me in Spanish, and what her actions were telling me, was that she would be giving me some medication which involved the machine. The medication I’d previously been given had not required a machine, so I was puzzled at its presence. She proceeded to attach the machine to the stand, tightening a clamp at the back, and then clumsily secured an IV line to my arm; passing this thin plastic tube through a gap in the machine. She attached a small brown glass bottle of corticosteroid liquid to the top of the stand, and told me to press the emergency call button to alert her if the machine made a beeping sound. Within a few minutes, the beeping started. As instructed, I pressed the red button that was attached to a cord next to my bed. ‘Beep Beep Beep…’ With each Beep, I felt more and more awkward as I was certain I was disturbing my roommate. The nurse came back to the room to see what the problem was. She had short brown wavy hair and wore red glasses. Her glasses were on a string around her neck that she kept taking on and off in order to look at the machine, scrunching her face into an unnerving expression. She straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and again told me to call her if the machine beeped. A few minutes later, ‘Beep Beep Beep’. Again I pressed the little red button, and again I felt concerned about disturbing the calmness in the room. This time the nurse took longer to return, and my roommate asked me if I had pressed the call button. I reassured her that I had. Back came the nurse, looking even more frustrated. Fumbling with her glasses again, she straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. The third time it beeped, the nurse entered the room looking puzzled and exasperated, and this time she decided that it was a problem with the intravenous line in my arm. She then proceeded to check my arm for more suitable veins; taking her glasses off and putting them back on, to be certain of her choice. She decided on a rather uncomfortable location where my wrist meets my hand, just down from my left thumb. I turned my head so as not to watch her make the initial puncture in my skin, and tensed my face as I felt her awkwardly insert the IV line. She taped the tube to my arm, and again straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. Once she had left the room, and the machine had been quiet for a few minutes, I lay back on my bed and tried to relax. Since the medication bottle was small, I naively expected its contents to have been transferred into my body quite quickly, and then I assumed it would be unattached from my arm and I would be able to sleep comfortably. However, I soon realized that every few minutes when the machine made a mechanical clicking sound, only the tiniest of drops was released into the tube, and into my arm. I fell asleep, thinking that I would call a nurse when the bottle had finished, so they could disconnect me. An hour or so later, I awoke with an acidic stinging sensation in my arm. My arm had started to become swollen just above the line entrance, where the unpleasant liquid was entering my body. With every tiny drop, came more pain. I lay there, drifting in and out of uncomfortable sleep, until around 4am, when the machine finally beeped to signal the emptiness of the bottle. After only a couple of beeps, in came another nurse. This time it was a short, middle-aged man, with a calm and friendly nature, and who entered the room with a torch in his mouth, so as not to disturb us with the room lights. I told him I was in pain, and his demeanour seemed to suggest that this was normal, although I was very tired by this point, and could not focus on what he was telling me in Spanish. As he removed the tube from the bottle, I heaved a sigh of relief. But a second later, to my dismay, he attached another identical bottle to the line, straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine and pressed the button to turn it back on.

By the second night, my arm was so swollen from the excruciating buildup of medication that the nurses had to try two more IV locations in my other arm, and I also finally ended up getting a different machine.

A New Room

It was Monday, three weeks after I’d experienced the sudden hearing loss in my left ear, and there was still no change in my condition. That morning I was taken out of the ward. I was wheeled out in a wheelchair through the hospital to the Ears Nose and Throat area. I remember feeling so happy to be away from the ward, where I had spent every moment during the last 2 days, and I smiled at my boyfriend who was accompanying me.

First I went into a room with a small booth where I had another hearing test. It is difficult to do a hearing test when you have pressure and roaring tinnitus in one ear, and I found it challenging to distinguish between the beeping sounds that were being transmitted through the headphones, and the tinnitus. I also had the problem that when the technician played a loud sound into my deaf ear, I wasn’t able to hear it in that ear, but instead could hear it in my right ear. My head was conducting the sound that my left ear couldn’t hear. To solve this problem, a loud wind-type sound was played into my working ear to mask the conducted sound, to help me concentrate my left ear on the beeps; in actuality, this meant that it was even more difficult to concentrate. Next, I was wheeled down the corridor and around the corner, to another room where a man put small plugs into my ears to check the pressure. Then I had a consultation with a specialist. She was a different specialist to who I had seen on the Friday when I was admitted to hospital, but was friendly and also spoke good English. She explained to me that there was no improvement in my hearing test, and that I’d have to stay in the hospital at least until Wednesday, as they wanted to see if I would have any response to further treatment.

Later that day, I was finally taken off the A&E ward and into a room that I would be sharing with one other patient. My new roommate was an older woman of whom I found it very difficult to guess her age, as she seemed to look younger with every day as she recovered from the complications she’d been having after surgery. Our room was simple, but comfortable. There was a window which allowed natural light to illuminate our days. We had a shared bathroom with a shower and sink, and two large plastic orange tubs of some mysterious liquid of which I never discovered its purpose.  My new roommate was a perfect hospital companion. She occupied the bed near the window and she valued her privacy. We often we passed our days with the curtain drawn between our beds, engaged in our own worlds either side of the curtain. She would spend her days reading, and I would spend time anxiously trying to relax, alternating between activities; reading, writing phone messages to friends and family, and sleeping. Every now and then, my roommate would peek around the curtain and check I was OK. She would always insist that if I needed anything then to let her know and she would get it for me. She told me that she had been in the room for three weeks, and hence she knew how things worked in the hospital. My roommate also kept me amused. I had heard her having discussions with the doctors who told her that she was to continue to just drink water and liquids, and not to try eating solids yet. However, every day her sister would come to visit her, and I would hear rustling sounds from behind the curtain. A little peek around this curtain revealed them eating rice cakes!

Early that Monday evening a nurse came into our room to give me my new medication, something which I wasn’t prepared for.