July 9, 2018--Audiological Tale: Fox News (Part One)

"You remember of course what happened in Cuba?"

I was at audiologist Gary Schwartzberg's office in Rockport to have earwax removed from my left ear where it was interfering with my hearing aid. I felt as if this side of my head was under water. And so I wasn't eager to get drawn into one of his looping discussions that typically wind up in a very different place from where they begin. Ordinarily I liked trailing along with him, he has a very interesting mind and great sense of humor, but not this time as I was uncomfortable and cranky.

"Now the same thing is happening in China."

"Can we talk about this after you see what needs to be done? I'm experiencing some pain. Not to say I can barely hear anything." I tapped my left ear to illustrate and yanked the aid out, thrusting it at him.

"Sure, sure. Sorry. It will only take a minute. I'll vacuum you out and you'll be as good as new. Then we can talk about . . ."

As a reminder as to why I was there I poked at my ear again, "That'll be the day. I know, I'll be as good as new."

Seeing I was in an agitated mood without further delay he took me down the hall to the treatment room where he had the earwax removal machine. As the process is a bit painful on other days when I've been less upset and not feeling sorry for myself, to lighten the mood I called it the Torture Chamber. More than a slight exaggeration.

Peering into my ear canal with his otoscope, I could barely hear him say, "Yes, yes. It looks quite occluded. Hold still. It will only take a minute." 

Some minute, I thought. He inserted the probe and turned on the vacuum pump. I gripped the arms of the chair and gritted my teeth so hard I was afford I might break them off at the gum line. I was again acting like a baby. Indulging myself by feeling sorry about my state of affairs and worrying that this might turn into a permanent condition. When my anxiety takes over this is where I go.

"Back to the other room," Gary said, upbeat again, "We're done with the torture part of the program. This should bring you some relief."

I mumbled something incoherent, not ready yet to engage his bubbly side. And, to tell the truth, with the hearing aid back in place, with my left ear, I wasn't hearing that well.

"Let me take it apart," he said, continuing to sound optimistic, "The problem might also be with the device itself." He swiveled to his work table and in less than a minute had the aid broken down into its component parts. They're tiny and so he peered at them with a magnifying device.

I was able to hear well enough to understand some of his mutterings. He was saying that one of the miniature microphones was corroding. "Don't see this often," he said, taking an even closer look in the tiny cavity where the microphones are located.

Then swinging back to me, in a loud voice so I could hear, he told me it was beyond repair and, the good news, since it was still covered by the three-year guarantee he could get me a new one.

"It will take up to a couple of weeks," he said, "But I think that's what makes most sense. In the meantime, I have a loaner that can get you from now until then. How does that sound?" he asked, grinning, feeling good about his ability to take care of the problem and knowing me well enough that this would help get me to stop obsessing that all was hopeless and that the next thing I would need was a cochlear implant.

"Can we now talk about China?" he said.

"What's with China?" I had calmed down enough to actually be interested in what was on his mind.

"You remember about a year ago there was the feeling that Russia was behind what they called a 'sonic attack' on workers in the American embassy in Havana?"

"I do," I said, "In fact I suspected you were somehow involved with this," he stopped smiling, "How, I thought as part of your audiological doctoral studies you did research about how high-frequency sound could be weaponized if bad people decided to exploit it. It could be used as a form of psychological warfare, including when torturing prisoners, and how . . ."

He cut me off. "We've been down this road before," he said, wearily, "You even wrote about it and posted stories about me on your blog. I told you at the time that you have an overactive imagination. Which was an understatement. That I never worked for the Pentagon or CIA of, for that matter, any governmental agency."

"Of course that's what they train you to say. You can deny and pretend all you want but at the time, last year, I gathered quite a bit of evidence that you were or might even still be involved. This area of Maine is home to dozens of intelligence types. Retired and otherwise. You would fit right in."

Dr. Schwartzberg stared blankly back at me.

But I was on a roll, "In fact, I suspected you were also using me as one of your subjects. While testing me and getting me the hearing aids I needed and adjusting them every month until they were just right for me, you played with my mind, making me crazy at times while at others I enjoyed what you were up to--it added spice to my otherwise routine life."

He showed me his poker face and then said, "And now we are learning that the Chinese are doing the same thing to our embassy in Beijing. A sonic attack. Maybe as part of the tariff war that Trump is launching."

"Why do you keep bringing this up if you're not somehow involved?" I pretended to be exasperated. The fluid in my ear had stopped gurgling and I was enjoying recalling last year's events and what he might be drawing me into this year.

"It's just because you seemed interested. Recall," he said, "last year you're the one who brought up the attacks in Cuba, asking if I had an opinion about it. I thought that was part of your research. That you were wanting to write about it. And so . . ."

"I just realized," I blurted out, "That last year I also had trouble with my left hearing aid. You had to send it to Starkey to have it serviced and while I waited for it to get back to you you gave me a loaner. Remember?" 

He resumed staring.

"It's all coming back to me," I said, feeling excited, "You told me, remember, that it came from one of your patients. A Czech woman who lived in Camden, I think, who had died and her family returned her hearing aids so you could use them as loaners. Sort of like how people leave their corneas and lungs and other organs to be transplanted to people who need them."

At this comparison, I thought I saw the flicker of a smile.

"And do you remember how, through that loaner hearing aid, "I was hearing from her. From the woman who had died. She was communicating with me, I thought, from 'the other side.'"

Recalling that, with my heart racing and out of breath, I felt gleeful.

I continued, "You told me I was either crazy or making up stories, as you claimed I am prone to do. Especially in my writing. But the loaner you're wanting me to use is the same one, right? I even remember the color. Bronze. How many bronze hearing aids are there? I'm right, aren't I?" 

His face was frozen, not giving anything away. We locked eyes on each other in a test to see who would blink first.

"What the heck," I finally said, as if to myself, but in fact to Gary, "What else do I have to do. I know I'm not going to go deaf from your machinations. I know you wouldn't play around with that even if you were full-time CIA It's still America, right?

End of Part One . . .