October 26, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Conclusion)

"Now all we need," I said, "is to run into a woman who speaks Czech. You remember how Gary programmed my hearing aids to have a Czech woman talk to me? How I thought she was asking me to help her? As if she was in danger or had been kidnapped or something."

"I do remember that," John said, "But most important, don't forget Gary himself. None of this makes any sense if he's not here. He's at the center of this, whatever the this is. And thus far we haven't caught sight of him."

"I suspect since he's the mild-mannered type if he gambles at all we will find him at the quarter slots. He probably has a limit to how much he's willing to lose. I doubt he's into roulette or craps or blackjack. Unlike your Dunkin Donut guy who we spotted at a $25 blackjack table."

"So," John suggested, "why don't we inconspicuously slide over in that direction. To where the slot machines are. To see if maybe Gary's there."

This is the proletarian area of all gambling casinos. Where retired people, mainly women, are to be found perched with blank faces on high stools feeding quarter after quarter into the maw of the machines. 

Invariably, the players have jumbo soda cups in which they dispassionately scoop what cascades out when they on occasion hit three cherries. And then how they from these cups retrieve coins to use to satisfy the lure of the machine. Until they over time inevitably get cleaned out.

It is also the most depressing underbelly of casinos since one senses here that the money being slowly confiscated by the slots is money from Social Security checks that might otherwise be directed to paying rent or to buy healthy food.

"I doubt if we'll spot Gary here," John said, "He too would find this an unhappy place to chase Lady Luck. Much of his clientele, of course, is older--including the two of us!--but I am sure most of them would not want anything to do with this sorry scene."

"I agree. Why don't we take a break from this sleuthing and get a bite to eat. We've been at it since five this morning. I could use a cup of coffee and maybe a sandwich. In fact, I could use a nap."

"We're not here for that," John said, "We're on a mission. I'm OK with a bite to eat but don't need any rest. I'd like to press on."

"Me as well," I said, "I was just thinking out loud. Do you want something to go with your coffee?"

"Yes. I think maybe chicken salad on a roll."

We spotted a modest cafeteria and while I got on line to place our orders, John headed for the men's room. 

I picked up and paid for our food and drinks and took them to an table just off the casino floor where I waited for John. I began to feel concerned as ten minutes had passed and there was no sign of him. I was about to leave our food on the table and set out to find him. But before I could do that, John, almost running and out of breath, plopped down on one of the chairs. 

"What's happening? Are you OK?" I asked concerned about him.

Ignoring that, he said, "You're not going to believe this."

"This would not be the first time," I said. "I mean, not believing all the crazy things that have been happening. Tell me the latest."

"We were making a joke about the Czech woman whose voice your were hearing."

"Right. After Gary had reprogrammed my devices."

"I think I just met her."

"No way. Impossible."

"Apparently not," John raced on, "There's a lounge by the bathrooms with sofas and chairs where I guess gamblers can take a break. Only this one woman was sitting there since I assume when people come here to gamble they're not interested in taking breaks. She spotted me and waved me over to where she was sitting. A tiny blue-haired woman who was so small she was swallowed up by the armchair. She was smiling weakly at me. She felt lonely and sad. 

"I went right over to her. She had that effect on me. To draw me to her. She said something I couldn't make out. She was speaking that softly. The lounge is off the betting floor but still quite noisy. So I kneeled down to get closer to her to make it easier to hear and understand her. She had quite a think accent. European. She grabbed hold of my arm. And . . ."

My heart was pounding as I interrupted John, "I think I know where this is headed. She's . . ."

"I think so. Impossible as it may be, I think she's your Czech lady. Her accent was so pronounced I couldn't make out what she was saying. She was speaking in an Eastern European language. I of course couldn't understand a word of it. I asked her if she spoke English. She nodded and asked me to help her. Exactly what she was asking you through your reprogrammed hearing aids."

"That's it? Just her asking you to help her?"

"Isn't that enough? First, there's this Eastern European woman who speaks Russian or Czech. Then, and this is most important, she asks me to help her. Just what she asked of you. This can't be another coincidence. Including, why me? You're the one with the Czech person talking to you. I'm just your friend. I agreed to go along with you on this adventure and . . ."

"I feel badly that I somehow enticed you into it. I only thought that . . ."

"No need to apologize. I'm here because I want to be. But this was so upsetting. You should have seen her. She looked so lost and helpless. I guess that's why she keeps asking to be helped."

"From what I don't know. Did she say anything else? And, of course, what happened? Did you just leave her there? That's not you. You wouldn't do that. You're too . . ."

"I didn't just leave her. A huge man in his 40s, stuffed into a suit, came and took her away."

"Took her away?"

"Not literally. But when he came out of the men's room and saw her with me, he raced over and almost lifted her bodily out of the chair and whisked her off. I got up and tried to follow them but they disappeared into a crowd of conventioneers who were hooting and hollering. I thought it best to come find you. Did I do wrong?"

"About all of this I have no idea what's wrong or, for that matter, what's right. Let's try to calm down and have our lunch. After that, we can figure out what to do next."

*   *   *

After we finished--we gulped down our sandwiches--I said, "Maybe in the first place it was a crazy idea to come here. To drive all that distance. A wild goose chase. I am thinking we should back off. Just resume being normal audiological patients. Leave all this spy stuff alone. I am feeling we're getting drawn in too deep. I didn't mean to speak for you, about being drawn in, but that's how I feel."

John said, "I don't disagree. This is beginning to be very funky."

"Beginning! I'd say it's been funky for months. In the meantime, what should we do? Leave? Stay? Play the slots?"

"I hate gambling," John said, "So that's not an option for me. You're probably right. We should leave and try to forget about all this funny business. But, having said that, we came all this way, we're here, we have a long drive back, and so I'm thinking let's maybe take one more pass around the casino to see if Gary's here. I say that because, again, there's no story, this is all an incredible bunch of coincidences, unless Gary's here to tie all the pieces together. I suggest let's give it another half hour and if he doesn't turn up, get back in the car and head to Maine where things are not so crazy. What do you think?"

I agreed and so this is what we did. Even though we didn't think Gary was a slot machine player that's where we started. We worked our way from the nickel slots to the ones that ingested silver dollars. 

No sign of Gary.

"Let's try the roulette tables next," I suggested, "Though roulette is for suckers since the odds are so in favor of the house, it is a classic game. Europeans love it--think James Bond--and who knows, it might appeal to Gary's romantic inclinations."

There was no sign of him at the roulette tables.

"How about blackjack? Remember that's where we saw the Dunkin Donut guy." So we threaded our way from the five dollar to the hundred dollar tables.

Gary was nowhere to be seen. 

"We're running out of places to look," I had already taken off my cap and dark glasses as a sign of capitulation. And we were no longer talking in whispers.

"How about the craps tables? That could appeal to him. Like me, he was born and raised in New Jersey and could easily be a craps player. It's similar to the dice games we used to play in the streets."

"In Brooklyn too," I added. But though we checked out the half-dozen dice tables, again there was no sign of Gary.

"We're about out of luck," I said, which is never a good thing in a casino--to be out of luck.

"There's just one more area," John said, pointing to an elevated part of the casino, off in a dark corner, with a velvet rope and security guard to keep out casual players. "It's for high rollers."

"Gary a high roller? That would stretch credulity much too far. I'm OK with the donut guy and even the Czech woman--though both being here is totally inexplicable--but Gary playing baccarat or some other exotic high-stakes game for big bucks is more than I'm willing to entertain."

"Well, maybe you'll have to rethink that," John said, whispering again. With a shrug he directed my attention to someone standing just inside the rope. "It's the . . ."

"I can see who it is," I said with a hint of exasperation  How much more of this can I take. 

"Your donut guy. And if you really want to make yourself crazy, check our who's in the chair next to the baccarat table."

I looked first at the man and then at the person almost invisibly curled up in the chair.

"The little old . . . ?"

"None other," John said.

"And if you look at the one player at the table, the man facing the dealer, the one wearing what looks like a white dinner jacket with a black bowtie, I think it's . . ."

Not needing me to complete the sentence, John, sounding shaky, said, "Let's get out of here." 

I was feeling more than shaky. And so, trotting, I followed him to where our car was parked, making sure not to look back

October 25, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Part 3 of 4))

Very early Sunday morning, before dawn, John Allan and I were on route to Uncasville, Connecticut. To the Mohegan Sun hotel and casino where we suspected our audiologist, Gary Schwartzberg, was likely at a professional workshop. "Suspected" and "likely" because we weren't sure of anything. 

Friday afternoon, while driving home from his office, we heard from his assistant, Angie, who sent me a text message indicating his family said he was well and that there was nothing to worry about. But she didn't include any details about what he was up to or where he was.

But I'm a worrier; and though I was relieved to hear this from Angie, I was concerned about Gary and must confess was still curious why he had disappeared Friday afternoon after luring us (that, I feel, is the right word) up to Rockport to see him urgently and then, unceremoniously, without a word of explanation, vanished.

After hearing from Angie, while I drove, John did some searching on line to see what he might learn about a possible workshop for audiologists in Uncasville. It took little time to determine that there was in fact something of that sort scheduled for the weekend at the Mohegan Sun. It appeared that attending helped audiologists acquire some of the continuing professional education credits that are required for them to maintain their licenses. 

John said, "Why not go? He's apparently OK but we're eager to learn more about what he's up to in his professional life and, who knows, maybe we can even find out a little more about what he refers to as his previous life. My guess is that these kinds of meetings are where some of the covert stuff is arranged. If the CIA, for example, needs audiologist operatives--as with the Cuba sonic attack business--what better place to recruit some?"

"I'm not busy this weekend so I agree--why not have a little innocent fun? It seems the workshop runs through late afternoon Sunday. Sunday morning would be a good time for me to go there and do a little playful snooping around."

"Sounds like a plan," John said.

"One thought," I said, "maybe in the spirit of having some fun and trying to be covert, why don't we get into the spirit of things and go undercover? I mean, see if we can observe Gary and keep an eye on him and what he's up to but try not to have him recognize us. You know, we can wear dark glasses and caps and lurk around in the shadows. Not during the workshop sessions of course, but when they're taking a break and are free to wander around, get food or drinks, and of course do some gambling."

"I like it," John said, "But of course this all assumes he's really OK and there."

"If he's not attending, it still will be fun to take the drive with you."

So, we finalized Sunday plans. I was to pick John up at 5:00. The drive to Uncasville looked to be about four hours. We'd reconnoiter, have lunch, see what we could see, then return home. On Sunday, the traffic both ways should be manageable.

*   *   *

After a easy drive, arriving at the Mohegan Sun, we took to drifting around the casino and checking out what was going on at the many restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. Gary thus far was nowhere to be seen though we had already determined that the formal sessions of the workshop had ended. The meeting rooms where they had been held were empty and staff were busy cleaning them and removing the audio-visual equipment, chairs, and tables.

Inconspicuously as possible we approached the gaming tables where I suddenly pulled up short and poked John in the shoulder to get his attention and steer him in a different direction. 

Turned around, nodding toward the Blackjack tables, I whispered, "I've seen that guy before," though there was no need to talk softly because even if one shouted on the floor of the casino it would be difficult to be heard over the din of canned music and slot machines. Isn't it ironic, I thought, how this is the perfect place for an audiological worksop, where it's impossible to hear anything above the cascade of silver dollars being disgorged to slot machine winners accompanied by the clang of bells and flashing lights when on occasion someone wins a jackpot. 

"I don't remember from where, but I'm pretty sure I recognize him. The elderly man with dark glasses in the blue shirt. Let's loop around behind him so I can get a better look and not be observed, making sure to keep our eyes diverted in case he's who I am beginning to think he is. I know him from either the waiting room at Gary's office or somewhere else connected to Gary. I'm pretty sure he's a Gary person."

"If so," John said, "I think we may be on to something. To spot someone associated with Gary but who isn't an audiologist attending the workshop. If it were otherwise, that he's not linked to Gary, it would be too much of a coincidence to find him here four hours from Maine on the very same day as Gary. Assuming, of course, that Gary's actually here."

I was pleased to see John getting into the intrigue. For months I had been the only one of the two of us to be drawn directly into those strange events. It felt good to have a coconspirator to validate some of what I had been experiencing and feeling.

During the time we had been there, we had wandered around in the casino and checked out what was going on in the many bars and restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. There was still no sign of Gary though it appeared from their badges that many of the audiologists who had attended the workshop were still hanging out, mainly taking their chances at the craps and roulette tables.

"I've got it," I shouted, forgetting my own admonition to speak in whispers. John wheeled in my direction and glared at me for my carelessness. I shrugged an apology and said, softly this time, "He's the one who was spying on Gary and me when we met to talk in late August at the Dunkin Donut in Rockport. The day Gary filled me in about having been recruited to help with the sonic attacks in Cuba. It was the first time he confided in me about the other aspects of his life. His covert activities."

"I remember you're telling me about that," John said.

We ducked back into a dark alcove by a nearby cocktail lounge so as not to be observed or overheard. "He's the guy who pretended to doze off while we talked, and to make it seem more authentic, drooled on his newspaper. Quite a nice touch when pretending to be incognito. After Gary and I were finishing and he had to get back to the office, this guy, quote/unquote, woke up and while fumbling with his cell phone I felt sure took a few pictures of the two of us."

"You're certain that's him?" John asked.

"A hundred percent," I said, "I recognize the scar on his neck. He must have had his thyroid removed."

"What is he doing here? And if he's involved with Gary, where's Gary? This guy came all this way to play Blackjack? There are closer casinos in Maine where he could go if he just wanted to gamble."

"You got me," I said, "All of this is a big mystery."

Now John pulled on me to get my attention. "What? What's up?" I said.

"He's gone."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

September 21, 2017--Audiological Tale: Sound Czech (Concluded)

We were watching TV and I was using the bluetooth device my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, had given me that transmits sound from the TV directly to my hearing aids. To activate this feature, I needed to click on the remote control he had supplied and then when done watching turn it off. When I did so, I heard something in the Czech woman's prompt that I hadn't heard before, something incomprehensible to me. I assumed it was in Czech itself, not Czech-accented English.

Perplexed, I told Rona about it and her first reaction was to be dismissive. "Here we go again," she said, "More hearing aid craziness."

"But I thought you said you liked what was going on with the loaner hearing aid, when it was, how to put this, talking to me. Remember? You just now said it was exciting."

"Fair enough, "she said, "I tell you what, let me have your hearing aids, which I can put in my ears, and then hear for myself what you're talking about."

I removed them and passed them to her. She inserted them and asked what I had done to hear the Czech voice. I told her to click on the button on the remote that turns on the TV sound. She did and heard nothing. "Try again," I said, "Sometimes you have to do it two or three times to make it work."

She tried it a few more times but with the same result--it didn't turn on. "Let me have them back," I said, "Maybe you didn't click hard enough or who knows what."

I pushed the bluetooth button and immediately could hear the TV through my hearing aids. I also heard the same Czech words as before. "It's working," I said, "Including that Czech woman who Gary hooked me up to. Try again." Once more I passed the hearing aids to her.

Rona tried and again there was nothing. I was feeling agitated, she was feeling frustrated. They seemed to work for me but not for her. How could that be? 

"I'll tell you what--I'll keep the devices in my ears and you can get close to me and put your ear next to the hearing aid in my right ear to see if you can listen in to what I'm hearing. That should work because it's pretty loud."

She did and signaled she was hearing what I was hearing--the Czech voice. 

"What is she saying?" Rona asked. "I can't quite make it out. Maybe turn it off and on again. She seems to say the same thing every time you do that. It will help me figure it out."

I did, and again we both heard the voice. Doing this three or four more times, Rona said, "I'm beginning to understand her. Not that I understand what she's saying. It must be in the Czech language, but I think she's saying something like be-yekima."

Excited, I said, "Let's look it up on the Internet where you can type in a word or phrase in Czech and it gives you the English translation." 


We tried that a number of times but nothing even close appeared on the translation webpage. "This is making me crazy," I said, "I know you've found tapping into Gary's other life to be interesting, and I agree. But this is starting to feel more aggravating than interesting. I thought switching from an American-English prompting voice to a Czech one would not be about receiving actual Czech words but would be English words spoken by a computer-generated voice with a Czech accent. What's going on feels like a lot more than that."

"Why do you think Gary didn't make that distinction?" Rona asked. 

"That's a good question. Maybe he's enjoying sharing some of his past with us and each time we go for an appointment teases us by revealing other aspects of it. Maybe he's done some work with Czech operatives. Before the breakup of the Soviet Union they were occupied by the Russians. Maybe this whole Czech thing comes from his experiences with that. That is," I said, "assuming he had some sort of Czech connection. Minimally, I'm totally confused."

"We have to ask him," Rona said. But before she could complete her thought, I heard another, different word.

"Come back," I said, "There's a new word coming through. I can't quite make it out." Rona pulled up a chair right next to me so she too could hear what I was receiving. "Can you make that out?"

"It sounds like pumice me," Rona said. "Which obviously makes no sense whatsoever."

"Not if it's an attempt at English. But what if it's in Czech? Which I suspect from the experience we just had with be-yekima it likely does. That no matter what it might mean, bottom line is that it sounds like a Czech expression. Again, not a version of an English word. Let's see what we can figure out from the translation webpage.

I entered pumice me and clicked enter. Nothing came up, which, considering how this was going, was not a surprise.

Rona said, "Let me run a series of other possibilities, varying the spelling. Maybe if I get close enough we'll stumble on what it means."

She worked at this systematically for about half an hour, trying various spellings, but produced no positive results. But when she got to pomuz-me she got a response--pomus mi in Czech means help me.

We were stunned. Exhausted, and now exhilarated by what we were being drawn into. We speculated about what all this might mean. We thought it must be something from Gary's other life. Was the computer-generated voice trying to communicate with us? To get us to do something to free her? If so, where was she? Assuming the voice was human. Or was "she" like Apple's Siri? A digital "person"?

The more we thought about this, the more confused and the more intrigued we became. I knew there would be no sleep for me that night. There would be no way to shut this down or ignore what was happening. I suspected that the next time I turned on the TV we would hear more from her.

Equally agitated, Rona said, "We need to see Gary before your next appointment. As soon as possible. Tomorrow if he can work us into his schedule. This is not going to go away. It could be that someone, the Czech woman, again assuming this is coming from a real person, is in danger."

So the next day, as expected after not getting much sleep, we did arrange to see Gary. 

As if not surprised to hear from us, he said, "Why don't you come by this afternoon and we can talk. In the meantime, stay calm." I thought I heard him chuckling.

"Easy for you to say," I shot back. I was feeling that he was playing with me, concocting situations and scenarios to get inside my head, "You get me all riled up and then tell me to be calm. How helpful do you think that is?" I had never spoken to him that way.

"I hear you," he said, sounding professional, "Come by any time this afternoon. Angie will squeeze you in."

Later that day when we saw Gary, without any preamble, I said, "OK what's going on? I know, I've been having some fun with you, maybe at times I crossed the line, but this Czech business is making me crazy."

Gary listened, smiling, not saying anything. So, I continued, "I love your stories and enjoy when you string me along. I really do. I enjoy the play and would not be happy if you stopped. But this one . . ."

Interrupting, Gary said, "I wish about this one I could tell you more. But," he shrugged, "I can't. Sorry."

"What? Why then . . ."

Rona cut in and said to me, "Why don't you just enjoy this. Not everything has to be fully known or even make sense. Loosen up a bit and enjoy the ride."

I thought about that for a moment and said, "I noticed you also didn't do much sleeping last night. But loosening up and going with the flow is not natural for me. I'm more about finding solutions and solving problems."

"My recommendation," Gary said, "is that about this you listen to Rona."

We sat there for another ten minutes, none of us saying anything. Standing up, Rona finally said, "We need to shop for dinner." She came over to where I was slumped in the chair and put her arms around me.

"One more thing," Gary said, "Before you go, let me switch you back to the American-English prompt. I think you've had enough Czech for the moment. You've been Czech-mated!" 

He loves puns and we heard him laughing as we headed out.

Czech Republic

September 20, 2017--Audiological Tale: Sound Czech (Part 1 of 2)

Toward the end of my recent hearing aid adjustment, Dr. Gary Scheartzberg said, "There's one more thing. You know the vocal prompts you get when the batteries need replacement or when you shift to restaurant mode?"

"Yes," I said, "There's a man, or a voice that says 'battery.' If you don't change them in half an hour you hear from him again. The second time he sounds more urgent."

"Do you like that voice?" Barry asked.

"It's fine. Why do you ask?"

"Because there are many other choices. Here, take a look." He directed my attention to the computer monitor.

In the meantime, Rona said, "I assume this is like our GPS where we have a women's voice prompting us--we call her 'Lola,' like from 'Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.'"

Gary showed me a long list of possible voices that would remind me to change my batteries or would indicate I had turned on the restaurant setting.

"Where's your mother from?" I had told him earlier that she was born in Eastern Europe.

"From Poland," I said, curious to know why he was asking.

"Let's see," he was scrolling down the list. There were at least 50 male and female voices from England to Germany to Russia to Israel to Poland.

"Amazing," I said. I am so technically illiterate that even simple things like these overwhelm me.

He clicked on "Polish-Female" and I heard a voice that sounded like my mother's oldest sister, Bertha, who came to America when she was 15 and retained a distinctive Polish accent.

"It's a little too close to home," I said, speaking metaphorically, "I already have enough of my mother's voice in my head."

"OK," he said, "How about one from South Africa? You've been there a number of times, you told me, and liked the people you met and worked with." I nodded. He clicked on "South Africa--Male." A voice that sounded familiar to me said "battery" with an Africana accent.

"I'm not sure about that one," I said, "Africanas are not among my favorites. Maybe if you have someone who sounds like Nelson Mandela I might be interested. But again," I asked, "why are we doing this?"

"For a little variety," he said, "I thought maybe you're getting a little bored with the hearing aid adjustment process. I'm simply trying to keep you engaged and interested. To show you there are more bells and whistles associated with this technology."

"OK," I said, "I'm game. Try a few more. Something British might work."

So he clicked on "British-male" and I heard "battery" in an Oxbridge accent. "Not bad," I said, "But maybe it's a little pretentious for Maine."

Next, knowing my background, he suggested "Israeli-female."

"In some ways this makes me comfortable," I said, "but I'm so ambivalent about things Israeli that maybe I'll take a pass on this one."

"Then, what do you think about 'German-male'? It might interest for you."

But when I heard "battery" with a full-throated German accent, not my favorite language to begin with, especially when barked like a command--I could almost hear heals clicking--I indicated that it would set off too many upsetting reverberations from my past. 

"Can't we go back to the original one?" I asked, sounding a little whiney, "You have patients waiting and I don't want to take up too much more of your time."

"That's OK," he said and suggested one more. "How about Czech?"

"What?"

"The Czech language from the former Czechoslovakia."

"Whatever you say," I said, frankly feeling this was dragging on beyond my interest. We had an hour's drive to get home and the weather forecast had indicated afternoon rain.

"I think you'll like it." He scrolled down the list of verbal prompts and selected "Czech-female. "See how this sounds to you."

I heard "battaria," and liked it enough to say, "Fine," in part to move on.

"That's it, then," Gary said, "Your new default. Ask Angie to give you another adjustment appointment in about a month."

A few days later, my virtual Czech hearing aid prompter whispered, "battaria," reminding me it was time to change my batteries. As I was working on this, Rona asked, "How did that go? I mean the new voice? I know you hate change of all kinds."

"I was skeptical when Gary wanted to switch to her, but I sort of like it. She's less strident that the one in American English. When she alerts me about changing the batteries, her softer tone is less jarring. So, I think I'm OK with this. I have to hand it to Gary--every time we see him he comes up with something good that either makes the devices function better or makes me more comfortable with the whole situation. I can't believe how reluctant I was to get hearing aids. But now, for the most part, I love having them. Especially after all that funky business with the loaner. You remember that? The one that was somehow all mixed up with Gary's other life. How he somehow got himself pulled into all sorts of sleuthy business.  

"It was sort of crazy," Rona said, "But also interesting and exciting. Who would have thought . . ."

But then, a day or two later, weird things again began to happen. 

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

September 8, 2017--Audiologist In Search of An Author (Part 2 of 2)

The evening, after talking with Dr. Schwartzberg earlier in the day, even without a glass of wine with dinner and a sliver of Klonopin at bedtime, I was soundly asleep by 9:30. I had as usual with ear buds plugged myself into my radio but was so deep in sleep that I didn't even hear how the Yankees fared against the Orioles.

But things soon resumed their puzzling course. 

Alone after breakfast, with Rona in the garden weeding and repairing damage to her perennial garden from the heavy rain of the day before, I again thought back over my experiences with hearing aids and how good they have been for me--how I feel more connected to the world--and also how they, with Dr. Schwartzberg leading the way, have led me into an unexpected and ongoing adventure.

As I sometimes do, late in the morning, I retrieved my hand-sized portable radio to check the local news and gather the late-night sports results. The signal was strong from New York City so I was able to pull in WFAN and learned that the Yankees had been rained out and would play a double header with the Orioles and that it was looking as if at the U.S. Open tennis tournament there was a strong likelihood that the final four women would all be Americans. I made a note to find out when the semifinals were scheduled to be sure not to miss them.

There is also a local Maine all-news radio station, WGAN, 560 on the dial, that I routinely check in with for the latest weather news. I turned to it since I was feeling hurricane anxiety as I aways do this time of year. My nervousness, though, was not unfounded as Texas had already been battered by Hurricane Harvey and Irma was bearing down on South Florida. 

Unable to control my fears I began to obsess about where Irma might turn after making landfall in the southeast and what would become of Jose, roaring across the Caribbean right behind Irma. Was the Gulf of Maine in any way a possible place where either would make initial or secondary landfall? Our rickety, 90-year-old cottage is not more than twenty yards from the Gulf. Thankfully, Rona recently renewed our flood insurance. But insurance doesn't assure peace of mind. I was anything but feeling peaceful.

I caught myself at this--getting all riled up well in advance of when it might be appropriate to think about boarding up the windows and retreating inland to avoid the worst of one storm or another. Or, worse, both.

I thought I need to stop all this worrying. I need to overcome my addiction--because that's what it is--to news and talk radio. Sports I can handle, but not all the other breaking and dire news. I found myself again fretting about my dependence on news radio, and the print and TV variety as well, as if they offer the kind of distraction for me that I am seeking. In fact, they offer the opposite. Their relentless and repetitive reporting for me make things worse.

Agitated as I was, listening to news about North Korea on WCBS--880, also out of New York City, that broadcasts news, sports, and weather 24 hours a day, the signal, which had been strong suddenly went dead. Not unusual considering the distance and the rapidly rising sun affecting the atmosphere, I switched quickly to 1010AM where WINS Radio, which also covers the news 24/7, was also in the middle of a report about China and North Korea. After not more than a minute or two, the station too went silent.

Again, this was not entirely a surprise--the very same thing over the years had happened--so I ventured again to WGAM, Portland Maine's all-news station. They focus on local news, mainly drownings, boat accidents, fires, and occasional fatal accidents and murders. The usual mix of bad news. So it is not my go-to source for news unless I want the latest local weather forecast.

But, for the first time in my experience, though the signal emanates from less than 100 miles away, I lost that signal as well.

Maybe I need new batteries, I thought, and so I popped two double-As into the battery compartment. But still there was nothing from WGAN, 1010, or WCBS.

I couldn't find any news at all. Could it be that the North Koreans had hacked into our broadcast system? In my agitated state even that seemed possible.

Alone, shaken, and shaking I let the radio slip from my hands and collapsed back into my pillow.

I really need to do something about my dependence on the news media, I thought. As I age, my inability to handle what is now routinely reported is not being offset by being so wired up. It is not working to shield me from my anxieties. Again, I was coming to conclude that this dependence was only making matters worse. I needed other forms of escape. I needed . . .

As these thoughts were crystalizing, from my radio, dialed to what I was sure was still one of my news stations, I faintly heard music. Classical music. Chamber music. Bach I was certain. From his Unaccompanied Cello Suites. Among my favorites.

From WINS? From WGAM? Impossible! But when I checked the dial I saw that I was in fact tuned to WCBS, my first choice of all-news stations.

Quaking, I in turn checked the other two news stations and, incredible as it may seem, both also were broadcasting Bach! All three the same Suite!

Frantic, I thought of John Allan. He's about the most knowledgeable person I know. About virtually everything. He is also understanding and empathetic. If I called him to ask what he thought was happening and what he would recommend I do, I felt certain he would take me seriously, not judge or make fun of me, and would undoubtedly have any number of sound insights about what might be going on as well how I might think about what was happening and what to do.

So, I called, told him what I had been experiencing, and asked if he would try his radio to see what he might discover and since he, I was certain, would have similar experiences to mine, it would help calm and assure me that stranger things have happened. That nothing untoward was going on. North Korea was not engaged in cyberwarfare with us and that the loss of normal radio signals was simply a temporary technological aberration.

But all three news stations on John's radio were broadcasting normally. My radio alone was affected.

I was shattered. Sensing that, John said, "Look, you've been under a lot of stress lately. Family issues. Some heath scares. Exhaustion. You told me you haven't been sleeping. That you've been up all night listening to the radio. Maybe . . ."

"Yeah, maybe I'm going crazy. That's one kind of maybe."

"First," John unflappable said, "take a deep breath and perhaps take one of those pills of yours. Klono something  And then why not call Dr. Schwartzberg, your audiologist? He knows a lot about broadcast signals. After all, hearing aids are kind of like radio stations. They take in and then in a sense broadcast sounds to listeners. In this case to you. I of course don't literally mean they are radio stations, but they do have things in common with them. Hearing aids of course don't broadcast radio shows, but rather they transmit sounds from around where you are at any given time. In the house, or a car, and even the sounds in the diner. But, I think . . ."

"As usual, brilliant!" I said, feeling hopeful, "I'm hanging up and will call Schwartzberg right now. It's about the time he takes a brief break for lunch. I'm sure he'll answer the phone."

And he did on the second ring.

"Am I bothering you?" I asked, "I know at most you have only a minute so if OK, can I run something by you?" I didn't give him a chance to say no, I needed help, and thus raced ahead.

Breathlessly, I told him what had been going on and what John said about hearing aids being like radio stations--at that he chuckled--and therefore there's nothing for me to be concerned about. It's just that I haven't been sleeping and as a result I'm exhausted and susceptible to . . .

"You need to slow down," Gary said, in his calmest doctor voice, "You're overwrought. Even in danger of going over the edge. I mean, I don't want to unduly frighten you or make you feel even more anxious than you are, but as your doctor and friend I urge you to back off. Stop reading about politics, stop watching the Weather Channel, stop staying up all night for the latest news from Pyongyang or Kim Yong-un. There's nothing you can do about any of this. If I were you, rather than tuning in to talk radio in the middle of the night I would look for stations that broadcast music. Not rock and roll but something classical. Or, get yourself an iPod and load it up with Bach or . . ."

"Sorry to cut you off," I said, "But did you just say something about Bach? Johann Sebastian Bach?"

"I did," Gary said.

"I hadn't mentioned him, right? About that I'm not crazy, right?" I was screaming.

"That's right. You didn't . . ."

"And so, it's just a coincidence that you referred to Bach? Any particular work of his you think I should be listening to?" He didn't respond. "Like maybe some of his pieces for solo instruments? For violin? Especially for cello?" I was taunting him.

Not dealing with that directly, he said, "That's my best advice. You need to have different sounds in your head. I'm an audiologist. What do you expect me to say? Go to the gym? Walk along the water? Read a trashy novel? I'm not principally about that. I'm about sound. About hearing sound as naturally as possible. And about how certain kinds of sounds can cause alarm, or anxiety, or contribute to serenity and peace of mind. And so . . ."

*   *   *

I took his advice and spent the rest of the day listening to Bach on any one of my three all-news radio stations. And then, later that night, where on the dial the old WINS would have been, the sounds I heard through the night were of the woodlands coming alive as dawn approached.

I slept like a baby.

Pablo Casals

September 1, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Final Part)

"'Mr. Anderson' made a special appointment to see me. He pretended he needed an urgent hearing aid adjustment. But in fact he wanted to talk about Cuba."

"About the sonic attack in Cuba?" Again Gary nodded. "I'm lost," I confessed, "And to think this also involves me is almost too much for me to assimilate. I mean, I . . ."

"Be patient and you'll see the connection. But first I need to tell you more about me and why my patient, 'Mr. Anderson' sought me out."

I resisted saying I'm all ears.

"When I was in my PhD program in audiology one of my interests was the interrogation of captives. Particularly suspected terrorists. Not that I thought I would ever be involved with that, but it was something that fascinated me. How to use sound as part of the interrogation process. Not as torture, of course. But to break down their resistance. Overwhelming them with sound which is the opposite of helping people hear better."

Warming to the subject, he continued, "All the doctoral students were encouraged to develop interests that were not strictly speaking about the techniques we would need in our practices. They felt this would expand us intellectually and, who knows, down the line maybe these interests might lead to new possibilities for us--like, for example, how the psychological dimension of hearing loss affects working with patients or, another example, from a cultural anthropological perspective how people from diverse backgrounds respond differently to hearing loss and its treatment. Including some deaf people who resist digital hearing devices altogether because they see spoken speech as inferior to the richness and, some would say, the linguistic superiority of sign language."

"Very interesting," I said, "I can see how these kinds of studies would appeal to you. You have such wide-ranging interests. But, again, Cuba? Sonic attacks? The CIA?"

"So, my 'Mr. Anderson' came to see me earlier this week. Monday afternoon. I knew something unusual was afoot since before sitting down he closed the door to the treatment room. Something he had not done previously. Before I could ask what was happening with his hearing aids he told me that nothing was wrong with them. As you can imagine I was puzzled, not to mention a little annoyed with him since I needed to juggle my appointment schedule to see him on an urgent basis. I don't need to tell you how complicated that was. It's the busiest time of the year."

Gary continued, "Anyway, he got right to the real purpose of his visit. He mentioned the sonic attack on our embassy, asking if I had been following it. I told him I had been, but not that closely. I was aware of the situation, though I had no idea why the Cubans would be involved in such a thing. My sense is that the leaders there are happy with the restored relationship. That it's in Cuba's interest. I mean in the Cuban leaders' interest. So why, I wondered, would they want to do something so aggressive, so seemingly crazy to jeopardize it? Especially with a new president--Trump--who has hinted he might withdraw from the agreement that Obama struck since Trump appears to be trying to undo all of Obama's initiatives.

"By then, Gary told me, he was becoming annoyed that 'Anderson,' or whoever he was, was taking up his time with this when he had a waiting room full of patients. Was it so urgent to be talking about Cuba?"

I didn't know what to say.

"When I mentioned Obama he said that he'd prefer not to talk about  him as he and I might have different opinions; and, for that matter, he didn't want to talk about Trump either. He said, 'He's not my favorite president.' So at least we avoided all political talk."

"Why then," I asked, "was he interested in talking about the Cuban's attack on our diplomats?"

Very little of this was making sense to me. And any involvement on my part was seeming even more improbable.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Schwartzberg, in an even lower voice, after a quick glance at the sleeping customer who was by then snoring audibly, Gary said, "I can't tell you everything he said since I suspect much of it is classified, but he did say that I, and one of my patients," he peered at me,"were potentially implicated."

"Implicated? This is getting crazier by the minute."

"Be patient," he said. I signaled that I would be. "He knew about my interest in prisoner interrogation, including the fact that after earning my PhD, while getting my practice started, I had done some contract work with one or two American national security operatives."

"You did? That's incredible, "You seem so . . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Boring? Conventional? A bleeding heart?"

"I wouldn't put it quite this way. But I . . ."

"It's OK. I'm happy to be thought of that way. It has at times, including this one, come in handy. But there's this other side of me. I'm not just an audiologist living in a small coastal town in Maine outside the Washington-New York axis. Remember what we said earlier about who's retired in this part of the world? It's not only a nice life style but has other advantages. If you know what I mean."

I shrugged, overwhelmed and exhausted by what he was sharing, not really knowing what he meant.

"Back in the 1990s there was a general increase in terrorist activity, which included the first time the World Trade Center was attacked by al Qaeda operatives. Terrorists who were funded by and led by Kahled Sheikh Mohammad. 

"I remember that. I was by chance downtown that day close to the towers and saw the smoke pouring out of the underground parking garage. It was sickening. Those bastards."

"Well, on a contract with one of our security agencies, I participated in the interrogation of a couple of the perpetrators."

"Really? This feels like an hallucination."

He ignored this and said, "Enough about that. There's no connection between that and Cuba. But it helps you see why 'Anderson' came to see me. I had been a player. Though not since 1995 or so. I guess you could say I'm a smalltime part of that retired community of agents of various kinds."

For the first time that day he smiled. It clearly felt good to him to be able to unburden himself.

"Then, if I may, what about Cuba? And, closer to home for me, my somehow being a part of this? I don't know how to put it, but this sounds ridiculous. I mean, minimally, my alleged involvement."

"I assume you still have that loaner hearing aid I gave you? From my patient, Mrs. Caldwell, who died?"

"Yes, you said I could use it until mine is repaired. Remember, I told you that it's the one that seems to have a mind of it own?" He nodded, "I was hearing what seemed like conversations through it. I thought I was losing my mind."

"You weren't. It's my fault that I gave you that one. The reason I'm so upset is that I feel terrible that I inadvertently dragged you into this mess. I was careless. Being so busy with patients is no excuse. I screwed up and hope you'll forgive me. The device wasn't meant to be used by a civilian."

"A civilian?"

"You know, someone not working for the Company. I was so busy I mixed up which ones were for clients and which for people who required extra-special devices."

"By special devices you mean like the stuff they prepare for James Bond in the movies?"

Smiling again, he said, "One could think of it that way."

"So how does this connect to what went on in Cuba?"

"We may have restored diplomatic relations but as with all countries a lot of surveillance goes on, in all directions, even with allies. Including, I suspect, to test surveillance devices and techniques for cyber- and sonic-warfare. That's probably what the Cuban secret service was up to with the attack. They had a new toy that the Russians probably gave them and were trying it out."

"How does my loaner hearing aid fit into that picture?"

"It was probably tricked out to transmit electronic signals over a considerable distance to interfere with potential sonic attacks on U.S. facilities. So someone wearing one like your loaner could hang out on the street by the embassy in Havana and zap people who might be trying to mount such an assault. Knowing my youthful history of black bag operations, they probably targeted me as someone they could use to provide cover for this cat and mouse business. They could use me as a conduit to those people on the ground who were in the thick of things."

"This is mind boggling," I said in a cold sweat, "I have questions about a couple of more things--about your 'Mr. Anderson' and of course how I fit in."

"I am supposing that even though he's officially retired 'Anderson' is still active and when his handlers figured out what was going on at the embassy in Cuba they took stock of devices like your loaner and discovered that one was with me. That it was turned in to me after Mrs. Caldwell died--it was probably her husband's who I suspect--well, you know--and that I then innocently passed it along to you. 

"They needed to know if somehow I was compromised, had gone rogue, and of course, since through electronic tracking they probably discovered that because of my error one of these special devices was with you, they needed to check you out. To see if I recruited you . . ."

"So therefore you . . . ?"

"Yes, since I'm feeling so guilty about dragging you into this, I took the chance to tell you most of the story since I suspect they'll be calling on you soon to check you out."

"That will be much more than a robocall," I said, trying to make a small joke to calm myself.

We both took deep breaths and for the first time that day, though when together we did it often, we laughed. 

This seemed to rouse the old man at the other table who had been in a deep sleep. He yawned and stretched and then reached down, groping for the tattered shopping bag that was resting on the floor next to his chair. He folded the newspaper and with difficulty managed to stuff it in the bag. From it, he extracted a phone and swiped the screen, which instantly became illuminated. He lifted it and held it a few inches from his face as if, without his eyeglasses, he couldn't see the time or if he had missed any calls. Satisfied, he returned it to the bag, struggled to get up, and shuffled toward the door.

When he was gone I asked Dr. Schwartzberg if he had taken a couple of pictures of us. 

Laughing loudly, he said, "I wouldn't be surprised."

US Embassy In Havana

August 31, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

"Can you talk?"

It was my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, barely audible on the phone. He had never called and in my usual anxious state I was surprised and worried.

"Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure." It sounded as if he was calling from a telephone booth.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing like this has ever happened before." I waited for him to say more. I could hear the sound of the wind ripping. "Have you gotten any strange telephone calls?"

"Just occasional robos."

"This would be anything but a robocall. It has nothing whatsoever to do with that." It felt as if he was lecturing me, which was not at all his style.

I said, "I'm concerned about what's going on with you. You always seem so secure and unflappable. But now . . ." 

He snorted. "If only that were true. But, look, I have to call you back. I'm out on the street and can barely hear you. There's another phone booth not far from here. I'll call again in a few minutes."

He did after five minutes which felt like an eternity. He really had me perturbed. I said, "I have an appointment to see you later this afternoon for an adjustment. But I can drive over right now if . . ."

"If it isn't too much of an inconvenience that would be great. I need to talk. Really."

"Not a problem. I'll be there in less than half an hour."

When I arrived he was waiting in the parking lot behind his office, pacing back and forth, gesturing and seemingly talking to himself.

He rushed up to me as I was parking. "I really appreciate this. I mean, you're going to think this is all so foolish. That I'm overreacting. I cancelled my next two appointments so we have time to talk. Let's get some coffee. There's a Dunkin Donut just up the road. Walking distance. It'll be quiet there now so we'll be able to talk privately with no one eavesdropping. You've got to promise you won't talk to anyone about this." He waited for me to nod, indicating I would keep this between us.

When we were seated in a corner booth he looked around to see who else was there--just a very old man squinting at the local newspaper. Elbows on the table, Dr. Schwartzberg leaned closer to me. 

"We know each other for less than a year," he said, "But I feel close to you and . . ."

"I feel the same way," I said, interrupting him.

"And to tell you the truth almost everyone I know would think I'm crazy."

I said, "You can be a little eccentric, that's for sure, but that's part of your charm. You're not even close to being crazy." I smiled, trying to calm him.

"Let me begin at the beginning," I noticed he was trembling, "You know I have a very diverse clientele. Mostly older people, of course, that's in the nature of the audiology business. Almost all of them totally compos mentis. Wonderful people. I'm so blessed to be working with them. And of course you." 

I sensed he might be tearing up, so I lowered my eyes.

"I'm telling you this so you'll understand why this is so strange."

"What's the 'this'?"

"I'm getting to that. Are you sure you have the time for this? It's OK to say no but . . ."

"I'm here for you," I said, "I won't interrupt you again. So, please, tell me the whole story any way you want to." I leaned back in the chair to signal I was not I any hurry and sipped my decaf.

He took a deep breath. "There is this Mr. Anderson. James Anderson.  A client. He's about your age. In his seventies. Early retired for more than a decade. Used to work for the government. High level. Very senior." He paused and looked directly at me.

"And . . . ?"

"You've spent enough time in the area to have heard that there are a lot of retired federal employees living in the Midcoast."

"I heard something about that," I said, "We've even run into a few of them in Pemaquid. Retired . . . ," I paused, trying to figure out where he was leading me.

"Finish your thought," he said.

"Mainly military folks and federal government types. I have in fact gotten to be acquainted with a few. One was a military attache to the White House during the Eisenhower administration. He was an expert on nuclear weapons. A really interesting person. Right out of the history books.

"Anyone else?"

"Well, there's someone who was chief of station in various countries in Eastern Europe. You know what that means? Chief of station?"

"A spy. Intelligence. Espionage. Anything else? I mean about some of your neighbors?"

"Well, among other things, people say there are actually quiet a few ex-CIA types nearby. That they feel comfortable being close to each other. As former colleagues I assume that means they can talk openly with each other."

"Bingo!" Gary said, loud enough for the girls at the counter to look over toward us. The other customer didn't lift his head from the paper. I thought he might be napping or hard of hearing.

"This is about the CIA?" I couldn't believe that it might be but . . .

Gary leaned even closer and I moved toward him so I could hear his whispering, "It looks that way." 

He continued to stare at me as if checking me out. Not saying anything. I managed not to respond, wanting him to share only what he was comfortable with. I took another slow sip of coffee.

"Did you hear about what's going on in Cuba?"

"Cuba? This has something to do with Cuba?" I tried to hide my astonishment but considering what he was saying, this was impossible.

The so-called 'sonic attack'?"

"The what?"

"Sonic attack. It's been in the news and a few days ago there was a piece about it in the Times."

"This somehow involves your patient, James . . .?"

"Anderson, James Anderson. I should confess that's not his real name. It's unethical to talk about patients by name. Are you OK with my need to protect his identity?"

"Sure. Whatever you need to do or say. I'm here for you."

"It does involve him."

"And somehow you?"

"Before I get to that, since it doesn't seem as if you know the specifics of what's been happening in Cuba, let me fill you in."

"I'm all ears."

"I love all your audiological idioms and puns."

"I'm just trying to deintensify this."

As he proceeded to fill in the details I realized I did remember something about this. It had all seemed very weird.

"You know of course that we have an embassy in Cuba, in Havana. Toward the end of his term Obama reestablished diplomatic relations with them. And it seems that despite what Trump said during the campaign he is not breaking off relations with them or going back to the past." I nodded. "But it seems that for at least six months the Cubans for some unknown reason have been using a sonic wave device to disturb, and it seems, physically harm American diplomats. At least 16 of them.

"Our diplomats began to complain about symptoms, including nausea, headaches, balance disorders, and even hearing loss. They were brought back to America and checked out. It was discovered that most had experienced mild traumatic brain injuries and damage to their central nervous systems."


He paused and again twisted in his chair to make sure we were still not being overheard. I thought I heard soft snoring from the man with the newspaper. He was tipped back in his chair and with his mouth open was drooling on the sports section.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's just the background. The context for what happened next. The part that involves me."

"Involves you?"

"Let me bring this even closer to home. So close that you'll see it even concerns you." He shrugged, "That's why it was urgent for us to talk as soon as possible. I didn't want to leave you in the dark." He pointed at me to underscore that I was somehow implicated and then again lowered his eyes.

I couldn't believe this. "Me? With this crazy Cuba business?" He nodded and I detected the hint of an embarrassed smile.

End of Part 1 To be concluded tomorrow--

August 15, 2017--Inner Ear: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

Dr. Gary Schwartzberg had my hearing aids hooked up to his computer. By doing so he could see if the adjustments he made during my last visit were still functioning properly.

"Looking good," I think he said. Without them in place I resumed lip reading.

"I'm happy to hear that," I said.

"And I can see that since you were here you used them on average 13 hours and six minutes a day." He said that loud enough so that I could hear the details.

"Really?" I said, "That's calculated by and stored in my devices?" I used "devices" since I know that's his preferred way to refer to my hearing aids.

"That's just the beginning of what I can see."

Feeling a little like my devices were a form of Big Brother, concerned about my privacy, I asked, "OK, I can handle it. What other kinds of surveillance is going on?"

"I can see from this that 76 percent of the time you were in quiet environments. Probably reading, writing, hanging out with Rona." Rona smiled at him. "And it looks as if you averaged less than an hour a day watching TV."

"The Trump news all day is driving me crazy."

"I understand that," he said, "I can tell how little you're watching by how often you activated the gizmo I gave you that blue-tooths the TV sound right to your devices. It doesn't look as if you listened to much music either by the looks of this," he was squinting at the screen, "I can also see you were out walking every day. Which I know is a good thing for you." He smiled at me.

"How does the machine know that?"

"You told me you live by the water and I programmed these to reduce the over-amplified sound of the wind and surf. Pretty impressive, right?"  He tipped back in his chair, rocking back and forth, quite proud of himself.

"One more thing," he was grinning, "It looks as if your breakfasts on average lasted almost 90 minutes a day. Probably because you were spending so much time arguing with Jack." He winked.

"You can see that?" I was incredulous, "You know what this sounds like?"

"1984?"

"Since you mentioned it, yes, 1984. To tell you the truth, this is not my favorite thing. I'm not a privacy junkie--in fact, since computing and big-data, I've basically given up on privacy. What we used to think of it no longer exists. I'm living with that. Not that I have an alternative unless I decide to live off the grid."

"Too late for that," Rona said, "Might as well try to make the best of it."

"So, are you telling me," I swiveled my chair so I could look directly at Gary," that these aids or devices, whatever, are like smart phones and computers--everything is stored forever in versions of hard drives?"

"They're not all the same. I think, yes, computers keep your emails forever even if you delete them. Ask Hillary Clinton about that. But for these," he tapped my hearing aids which he was about to reinsert in my ears, "the kind of information they capture and I told you about, is by comparison quite benign. I don't know what to tell you. If you're so uncomfortable about this diagnostic use of the chip capacity in your very high-tech hearing aids, we can move back to something simpler and . . ."

"I can complete the thought for you--'simpler but much less effective.'"

He was happy to hear that I wanted to keep the ones I've grown accustomed to and which have literally changed my life.

"One thing I can assure you is that the specifics of what you're hearing are not captured and retained. I mean . . ." He began to mumble. I could hear that quite well with the devices back in my ears. "I mean, maybe. If only . . . I don't know."

"Don't know what?" I was concerned about him sounding so confused.

He looked away and then uncharacteristically got up from his chair. "I'll be right back," he said, vanishing.

"I wonder what's going on," Rona said, looking concerned. "I mean, he never . . . I mean, he seemed confused. That's not like him."

"I agree," I said. "I wonder if anything I said upset him." We looked at each other and shrugged.

With that he was back.

He sat down, wheeled closer to us, and, lowering his voice, said, "There was this incident."

"Incident?" Rona and I said simultaneously as if in chorus.

"A couple of years ago. With this woman. A client of mine. A wonderful, much older lady. And she was a lady. Very elegant. Very self-confident. I really enjoyed working with her." He paused and again broke off eye contact.

"And?" I said.

"She had the same kind of devices you have. An earlier iteration of them. This was about three, four years ago. So much with technology changes over that amount of time. But they were pretty much like yours--Starkey Muses."

"That's it? That's what has you behaving so weird?" I was confused.

"There's more. Much more. Though she's no longer around." Gary sounded ominous.

"She's no longer around?"

"Like I told you she's quite old. I mean, she was . . ."

"She's dead?"

"Passed."

"And? That's it? I suspect that with your clientele being on the older side--like me," I tired to lighten things up--"this is not an infrequent occurrence. It's happening to me all the time. It feels like half the people I know are . . .  You know. One of these days Rona's going to need to call you to cancel my adjustment appointment. I mean, all my appointments, if you get my drift."

"I get it," he said, "But you'll be around for a long time. How old was you mother when she . . . ?" He trailed off.

"107."

"A good number," he said, sounding distracted, "As I was saying, my client . . . " Again he looked away. At the ceiling this time.

"She passed? She died? However you prefer to put it."

"I know I'm stammering," Gary said, "But what happened was so strange. Even weird."

"Just tell us what happened," Rona said empathetically.

He took a deep breath. "OK. You asked for it. Here goes."

"It's about time," I said, "If you don't get to it soon my hearing aid batteries will die. Sorry. I didn't mean to put it that way.

He smiled. I was glad to see some of the tension had abated.

Gary's story--

Let's call her Mrs. Caldwell. When she first came to see me, and subsequently, she was alone. Almost the first words out of her mouth were to tell me that though she was 87 she didn't think she needed hearing aids. As you know, this is not unusual. She told me she was here because her niece, who was her closest surviving family member, wanted her to be tested.

From the way she carried herself, walked, spoke, and dressed she felt much younger than 87. She was full of energy, as vital a person as I've ever encountered. I knew from just a brief time with her, when she came in for her diagnostic hearing test, that if she chose to become a client, I would enjoy working with her.

The test showed her hearing loses to be modest but were likely, over the next year or so, to worsen; and so my recommendation was for her to get ahead of the curve and not wait until they were absolutely necessary. I was happy that she, without hesitation, said she wanted to proceed and quickly decided on the Starkey Muse type. Like yours.

As you know it takes a few weeks for the devices to arrive and then over two to three months there are the required monthly adjustments. As I had anticipated, she was not only a pleasure to work with but also, getting to know about her life, among the most interesting people I have been fortunate to encounter.

I learned that she was born in England and her father, who was a surgeon and served in the First World War, was also a member of Parliament. Her parents sent her abroad, to America, where there were more educational opportunities for women. After secondary school, which she attended in Boston, she was admitted to and attended Mount Holyoke College, where she was a premed.

She next went to medical school, back in Boston, and though she aspired to be a surgeon in the family tradition--her brother was a neurosurgeon who was killed in the Korean War--it was difficult for woman at that time to be accepted for a surgical residency. So she became a psychiatrist instead and built a successful practice in Cambridge where her husband-to-be at Harvard was a professor of romance languages. By then Mrs. Caldwell considered herself to be an American and in the 1950s became a citizen.

They opted not to have children and, she felt, were a loving and successful couple. They had numerous friends and a rich social life. They were fortunate never to have economic worries and traveled to all seven continents, all the while managed to avoid most of the stress that is normal in major careers and in most relationships. She described them as having a life, as she put it,"Almost too good to be true."

Her husband died suddenly two years before I began working with her. She said he lived to his mid-80s and never spent a day in a hospital. That was true for her as well, she revealed, almost feeling guilty about her good fortune.

I interrupted--"So far nothing sounds weird. She is clearly amazing and blessed, but when does the weirdness begin?"

Gary continued--

Be patient. It is about to be revealed.

Final part tomorrow . . .

Harvard 1950