My Left Ear Is Ringing So Bad I Think I May Be Going Deaf

I’ve run out of antibiotics and the ringing in my left ear is not only not getting better, it’s getting worse. Maybe it’s psychological, but I think my right ear is going too. I have to turn my head to the side just to try to catch a conversation proper. I can hear myself breathe much louder than anything else that happens around me. And that constant ringing!

I went to the doctor, again.

I’d set my phone to go off at 7:15 but at 7:51 I jerked awake to bright sunlight. Shit! I heard hubby in the bathroom having his shower. Great, the medical centre opens at 9:00 and I’d hoped to get in before that so that I wouldn’t have to sit and rot there till my turn came along. I had no appointment, I was late and I’d have to chance it.

Feeling an otherworldly weariness (how is it that I get so tired in the morning?), I drag myself out of bed and get ready. The cats are yowling their heads off, well Trixie at least, and prancing around the bed whining to be fed. Hubby was ready to head off, so I shrugged off that task to him as I got ready.

My head is heavy like a bowling ball and my eyelids feel like they’re glued shut with superglue. I manage to brush my teeth, get my morning supplementary drink and check Catster for any new updates on kitties’ lists before I head to the shower. Still feeling like lead, I dress and head out the door.

There must be a horde of sick people in this city; the parking lot to the medical centre is just about 90% full and after a few rounds of circling, I shove the beemer into a spot. The sun is glaring down at me as if it’s incensed I should be even the least bit tired because it’s a bright, sunny and extremely hot day out. And I’m wearing my hoodie because I know that it is going to be arctic cold in the waiting room at the medical centre. Argh! Go sun yourself and I mentally show the sky my middle digit.

I managed to trudge all the way to the waiting room and shove my card and guarantee letter to the receptionist, mumbling, “Dr Soni”. Then I head to the washroom. I take a cursory look around the waiting area and notice with glee and surprise that there is only one other person sitting in the chair waiting. When I come out of the washroom, it’s a different story. There are two other people sitting expectantly waiting. As I separate the Saturday paper into its various sections (I absolutely hate how The Star comes in so many parts and is so thick that handling the paper is like trying to fold a giant origami menagerie), I can feel more people settling in around me or looking for an empty spot to park their butts as they wait. When I look up a few minutes later, the waiting area is full. It took all but 10 minutes for it to fill up. Inwardly, I thanked my lucky stars.

I didn’t have to wait long, arriving early has its benefits. Twenty minutes into waiting, my name is called. When I walk across the threshold of the corridor to the doctor’s office, I catch him sending off an SMS on his mobile. I think, “This is the third time I’m here, he’s got to think I’m a hypochondriac. Either that or I must like his company.” As usual, he asks me how I’m doing. And as usual, I tell him, “Not good.” (He should know by now that I if I was doing good, I wouldn’t be here to see him, but nevermind.)

As I plunk myself into the patient’s seat, I tell him my ear is still blocked, it’s ringing and it may be psychological but my right ear also feels like it’s going. He looks at me somewhat perplexed and asks if there is still pain. I have to think a bit. I tell him there is much less pain, in fact hardly. He asks me to get into the examining chair.

I clamber up onto the chair and he sticks the microscope thing into my left ear. He confirms that the infection is gone and that the tube isn’t reddish anymore. He then proceeds to wad a ball of cotton, places it on my shoulder and says he’s “cleaning up” my ear for me. I glance down and see the wad, he chuckles a bit and I ask, “Wah, it’s that bad?” He chuckles some more.

There’s some major suction action going on in my ear when he inserts some sort of suction tube to siphon out whatever wax or fluid he can get to. It doesn’t hurt but is slightly uncomfortable. I feel my feet starting to tense and lift up, a sure sign that my tears are going to start. I haven’t had my ear fiddled with and suctioned since two years ago at Harnam’s. It is not a nice feeling. It is loud and you feel as is something is trying to get at your brains. Like a mini-hoover hovering at the edges or your middle ear.

He does what he can but we both know that the blockage and the fluid is where he can’t reach it: in the middle ear. After he’s done, he swivels me back to face him. I detect a hint of exasperation on his face. I suspect he feels that way every time I see him. I think so because he has told me more than once that my problem frequently occurs in young children, implying that my earlier surgery had hampered the normal development and function of my Eustachian tube so that what should have been happening to me as a kid is now happening to me in my adult years. But the exasperation is quickly replaced by a sympathetic demeanor. I ask him what the best course of action would be from here on.

He explains, “It’s quite normal after an infection that there is fluid in the middle ear. What’s happened here is that your tube is constricted and there is not enough ventilation.”

I ask, “How long does it take for the fluid to clear out?”

“It depends on the individual. Sometimes it takes one to two weeks, sometimes longer.”

I take a moment to recall, “I think it’s been about two weeks since I last saw you. What should I do now?” I’m thinking to myself, willing that he will suggest surgery but knowing in my gut he will only suggest it as a last resort.

He decides to do a test. He takes a metal tuning fork that ENTs use for testing hearing. He taps it on his hand and holds it up to my right ear as it vibrates with a dull clang. I can hear it. Then he touches it to my neck. I can still hear it but it sounds as if it’s vibrating from inside my left ear. He repeats the test on my left side and the results are the same, the sound is louder in my left ear. He gives it a final tap and places the flat of the tuning fork on my forehead. “It’s louder in my left ear,” I tell him. "Feels like it's vibrating in the middle ear."

“The fluid acts as a conductor,” he explains. So the test is a confirmation that fluid is still in the middle ear on my left.

I look at him expectantly. He knows I want him to tell me what to do. “Any chewing action,” he starts making chomping and chewing motions, “and gently trying to pop your ears like this,” he holds his nostrils closed and blows his nose softly, “helps to ease constriction of the tube. That would help to ventilate the tube and extricate the liquid buildup.”

“If all that fails, and you feel that the ringing is really irritating you, we’ll normally fastrack the process by performing surgery. We’ll insert the grommet (“Eureka!”) and it will help drain out the fluid.”

“But this measure is only temporary; the tube will fall out by itself after six months,” he is quick to add, reminding me that he has no intention whatsoever of leaving the tube in there indefinitely for two decades or more like my other specialist did.

“So it’s not the T-tube then?”

“No, the T-Tube is permanent.”

“And you suggest I wait?”

“Yes, preferably.”

“So I should start chewing gum?”

“Yes.”

We walk back to his consultation table. I look at him and give a little shrug. I’m feeling a little weird because I have not known a Western-trained doctor that does not advocate surgery. I’ve had doctors suggest surgery for my knee and ankle and have had surgeries done on me for this exact problem when I was a kid. I am wondering if he’s not suggesting surgery for me because I’m on a medical plan or if because he really does not think surgery is necessary and is too invasive. I’m at a loss. I’m still hoping he’ll suggest surgery because I’m not sure how much more of the ringing sound I can take.

“You definitely don’t need antibiotics anymore. What I’ll do is put you on antihistamines to help clear out the fluid.”

“And I should chew gum?”

He smiles, “Yes.”

I shrug again and ask, “When should I come back in to see you?”

He checks my file and points to the date I first came to see him with this problem. “You came in to see me on March 6th. Let’s say, in a month’s time?”

“OK, early April then,” I say. “Thanks.”

He nods, “We’ll see you then,” and starts scribbling on my file.

I walk out in a daze, not quite sure if I’d gotten what I’d come here for. I was so sure he’d prescribe surgery that I feel somewhat cheated that he didn’t.

I sit down and wait for the nurse to bring me to the prescription counter. The bundle of newspapers is irritating. It’s so big and bulky, I’m having trouble balancing my book on it. When it almost slips off my hands, I grab frantically at it only to end up kicking off my slipper. It slides off my foot and lands a metre away on the floor. How embarrassing.

The nurse comes towards me and asks me to follow her. She is all brisk and asks me when the doctor asked me to see him again. “Early April,” I say. She adds, “He asked you to come two weeks from now, right?” and scribbles the note on my card without waiting for me to answer. “Make sure you make an appointment at the counter up front after you collect your medication.”

She points me to the waiting chair as she grabs a number for me and hands me my card together with it. I play Text Twist while I wait for my number to be called. After I pick up my antihistamines, I head out to the front counter to do as the nurse had instructed me. She takes my card and notes that the other nurse wants me to see the doctor two weeks from now. She suggests a date, 25th or March. I ask, “How about April 1,” remembering that the good doctor said to see him in early April. “Doctor’s on leave then.” “Oh, in that case, April 8?” “That’s too late! You’re supposed to come two weeks after this appointment!” I thought I heard the doctor telling me to come back around April 6th. “Err…OK. March 25th.”

And it isn’t till now that I’m writing this that I realize I didn’t tell her what time I’d be there to see the doctor. It looks like another early morning for me on the 25th then.

And so I’m off to get stocked up on chewing gum. I wonder if cows have superior middle ear function since they seem to chew cud 24/7?