August 1, 2017--Earful: An Audiological Tale

I was relieved that it was time to see my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg. It had been nearly six months since my last adjustment and it was overdue. Minimally, I needed a boost in volume. I noticed I was again asking Rona to repeat most of the things she said and when eating out, using the restaurant setting, I was assaulted by a cacophony of ambient sound. Just the opposite of what was supposed to happen. The hearing aids were programmed to filter out much of that.

Perfectionist that he is, Dr. S was for a moment upset by my report but he was also optimistic. He always says, "I want you to have high expectations because I know I can significantly improve your hearing."

How rare is that these days--to allow oneself to have high expectations for anything.

So he disassembled the hearing aids, gave them a good cleaning, and then hooked them up to the computer through which all analytics and adjustments are made. "This doesn't look good," he said, humming to himself.

At this, as I am prone to do, I immediately began to feel anxious. Sensing that he said, "I wish you were here all year long so you wouldn't have to wait so many months between adjustments. Next winter I'd like you move to Maine and . . ."

He winked to indicate he was joking, though as long as I could see him regularly, that would be an incentive to relocate. Not only is he the best audiologist on the east coast, he is also among the most interesting and good-humored people I know.

"But since it doesn't look as if you and Rona will soon move up here, before you leave for the City in the fall, I'll give you the name of someone to see in New York. They'll be able to do the needed adjustments."

"That sounds good," I said.

In the meantime he was fiddling with my left hearing aid and murmuring, "I see what's happening. I think there may be a malfunction in this one. It may need a repair or replacement. Not to worry," he quickly added, he knows about my propensity to fret, "I can take care of it and you."

"You always make me feel taken care of," I said with a bit of a quiver.

"Let me see what I can do." With that he popped out of his chair and said he'd be right back and then would let me know what needed to be done.

While he was away, I said to Rona, "That's why I love this guy. He can do anything."

Frequently the skeptic, Rona said, "This is his business. Of course he can fix hearing aids. Don't get me wrong, I also love this guy and . . ."

"Can you repeat that?" I said, "I can barely hear you."

"I've gotten so used to you hearing better," Rona said, much louder, "that I've been speaking to you in my normal voice. Not too much shouting is needed anymore."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," I said, "He's a wonder worker."

"He's an audiologist," Rona said. I didn't hear her well enough to know if she was giving me grief--who could blame her, she had had it with me and my hearing problems. So I didn't ask her to repeat what she said.

By then, Dr. S had returned and was smiling broadly. "Here's what I'm going to do for you. I have a replacement device. For your left ear. It's a different color, bronze not gray, but it should work very well."

"I'm colorblind," I said, "So it won't make that much of a difference.

"But then there's the rest of us," I think Rona said. But she was smiling, enjoying having a little fun with Dr. Schwartzberg and me.

"It's only temporary," he said, "I need to have yours repaired and when you come back in a few weeks you'll have two perfectly functioning gray devices. How does that sound? No pun intended."

"It'll be like having two different color eyes," Rona said. She was back to being her usual playful self, "It's called heterochromia, a crossword puzzle word."

"That's why she kills me in Scrabble," I said.

Dr. S placed the replacement aid in my left ear and had the computer program it to my required settings. "How is that working?" he asked.

"I think good," I said. "It may be a funky color but it seems to be working fine."

"Let's see how you do. It you have a problem before your old one is back from being repaired, give me a call and I'll set you up for an immediate adjustment."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, getting ready to leave. "One more thing," I asked, "Do you have spare hearing aids for this kind of purpose? Sort of like loaner cars when yours is being serviced?"

"Not a bad analogy," he said, "Actually, this comes from another patient of mine." His voice trailed off.

"She traded them in for a newer model?"

"Not exactly," he said.

"And?" I asked, curious about why he seemed to become uncharacteristically subdued.

"She . . . "

"What?" I said. He was speaking under his breath. Too softly for my devices to pick up, "Can you say that a little louder?" I smiled, thinking I was being amusing.

"She died," he said loud enough so that I would have been able to hear him without aids.

"Died?" I thought about that for a moment, "I'm OK with that," I finally said, "Though it feels a little funky. Sort of like having a lung transplant or something."

"Now you're being silly," Rona said.

                                                         *   *   *

"What's that whistling?" Rona asked later that day.

"A little feedback," I think.

"You never had that before."

"Maybe I have them turned up too high and it's causing feedback. Like with a microphone sometimes. I'll turn them down." I did, one click, but still there was occasional feedback.

"Can you hear?" I nodded, "So maybe turn them down one more notch. It's quite annoying. If there's a problem, we should make an appointment to see Gary for an adjustment, or whatever."

I turned them down some more and though as a result I couldn't hear well, I thought it was time to move on from hearing aid obsessing since it had already been a long day. But after an hour of peace and quiet, again, my hearing aid transplant began to whistle again, this time in a rhythmic on-and-off cycle.

"That is so strange," Rona said, "I used to be lead singer in a folk-rock band and had lots of experience with microphone feedback, but never anything this weird."

"We shouldn't get crazy about this," I said. As Gary said, it's only temporary for a few weeks and then . . ."

"With my hyperacuity, if it doesn't stop soon it's going to drive me crazy."

"I'll shut it down for the night. We can pick up tomorrow. Maybe it just has to adjust to a new environment."

"That's a new one," Rona said, "The hearing aid itself has to do some adjusting?" She rolled her eyes, "Let's remember not to mention this to Gary. I don't want him to think you're losing it."

"They're very high-tech so who knows what needs to happen. Again, all this is temporary."

"So is life," Rona said.

                                                              *   *   *

I typically wake up very early to write and read and catch up with the news on the radio. I listen at very low volume in order not to disturb Rona and so I use my hearing aids. Also, the morning after seeing Gary, I was curious to see if my loaner hearing aid had adjusted itself. I still believed it needed to.

For the first half hour, all went well. No whistling, no feedback, and I could hear the radio at its lowest setting. Again, I thought how about how impressive Dr. S is. Everything he ever says about high expectations was again reinforced. But as I was thinking fondly about him and his devices, in my left ear I heard what I thought was a distant radio station.

Must be my imagination, I thought. I'm quite suggestible. But a moment later, I heard that phantom station again. This time with the score of last night's Yankee game. They won in the bottom of the 9th inning with a walk-off single.

I hadn't heard that news before--at least not to my recollection--so that made this doubly strange. You know, I thought, sometimes with my regular hearing aids I think in certain settings I hear random voices or sounds from a nearby wi-fi signal. Maybe this time I'm picking up a Chicago station.

As I was having these thoughts, I heard the Mets' score. How they lost in Seattle, 3-2. Must be a sports talk radio station, I said to myself. I was listening to the news. This was clearly something of a different order than I had ever before experienced. It gave me a shiver.

And then faintly I heard a disembodied voice--"There is no end."

This is not wi-fi, I was certain, or a radio station in the Midwest. And I thought, should I wake Rona? Or am I just being silly, as she had said yesterday afternoon? I can't wake her. She'll think I'm crazy and be furious with me. She likes to sleep until at least 7:30 and it's only 4:45. It can wait. I tried to calm myself. Nothing out of the ordinary is happening. And yet . . .

"The only choice is persistence." I was sure it was a woman's voice. Though it was faint and there was an hollow echo.

I must be losing my mind, I feared, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Nothing is certain . . ." The echo had subsided and I was hearing "her" clearly. I wanted to rouse Rona and so I began to pretend I needed to cough.

"Here there is peace and light . . ."

I cleared my throat and walked noisily to the bathroom.

"Are you all right? You sound like you're choking," Rona said, half out of a deep sleep.

"Everything's fine," I lied, trying to sound casual. "Just . . ."

"Follow your heart . . ."

"Come back to bed."

"I need to do a few things. Then I'll come back. You need your sleep."

"I will be waiting . . ." This voice was not from Rona.

I have to stop listening to those crazy flying-saucer people on late-night radio.

"There will be time . . ."

Maybe I should have a drink. Something with alcohol. Or a klonopin.

"But do not squander . . ." She was fading.

And then there was silence. Just occasional static.

By then it was first light and I could could hear the birds beginning their day.

These hearing aids are amazing, I thought. I'm even able to hear birds stirring.

But, I thought, we had better see Dr. Schwartzberg as soon as possible. There is so much to talk about. I'm sure he's heard it all. I need to know what to make of this. He'll know.

The klonopin at last was taking affect. I began to drowse and . . .