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 . . .

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 . . .

October 24, 2017--Audiological Take: Previous Life (Part 2 of 4)

When in a rush John Allan and I arrived at Gary Schwartzberg's office, his assistant, Angie, said he was finishing with a patient and would be with us shortly. Even she, who is always calm and centered, seemed upset. I was tempted to ask her what was going on but didn't want to pass along any of my own anxiety or breach any confidences.

We settled in the waiting room and without the ability to concentrate on them thumbed through some Starkey hearing aids pamphlets. In a few minutes we heard Gary in the hallway, escorting one of his clients to Angie's desk. "Please make an appointment for Mrs. Lindley in about four weeks. For her next adjustment."

I was relieved to see that Gary seemed like his familiar self. No signs of distress. "I'll be right back," he said to John and me, "I want to walk Mrs. Lindley to her car." Gently, he took her and together slowly they approached the door to the parking area.

I whispered to John, "Maybe he's more OK than we are imagining. I mean, he seemed perfectly normal. I know him pretty well by now and he didn't seem any different to me. This may be wishful thinking, but let's see what he has to say."

John said, "I agree. Let's hold back and let him do the talking. We shouldn't express any unusual concern, other than through the fact that we're here! And that he said he'd appreciate it if we could come right away to see him. That in itself is evidence that something out of the ordinary is on his mind or happening. So let's try to act casual and as if we were nearby and just popped in."

"I'm trying not to sound worried but don't forget he asked us to come to see him on short notice, knowing we don't live around the corner."

"All true. But let's try to play it cool."

I sank back in my chair and listened to the Bach cello suites barely audible on his office sound system. "This is the same music he programmed my hearing aids to pick up during nights when I couldn't fall asleep. Not that he admitted that he did that, but how else might that have happened?"

"Chalk it up to more strangeness," John said. We both strained to listen to the music.

After another five minutes, I said, "Doesn't it seem that he's been out there with Mrs. Lindley for a long time?"

"I agree," John said, "I'll ask Angie." Which he did. 

"She said she'd check on him. It's not unusual, she said, for him to linger with patients. He's very devoted to them as we well know. But she also said that she'd see what's happening."

Angie by then was at the door and looking intently out to the parking area. "I don't see him," she said, turning to us, "What's strange, very strange, is that Gary's car is not there." 

"He's gone?" John said, all our anxieties reignited.

"His car's not there," Angie said, no longer calm. "He's never done this before. I mean, leave without letting me know what's going on. I don't know what to think." She now, understandably, was more upset than either John or I.

"Did he get a call from his wife or mother? That there was some sort of trouble?"

"If he did, he would have told me. Everything seemed normal. Of course, with the exception of the two of you being here and his asking me to reschedule his afternoon appointments."

"It's not our business," I said, "And I don't want to get involved in anything private. We've become close but we know each other for only a year. But, having said that, he wanted to see us about something that's apparently on his mind." 

John and I smiled, trying to look and sound matter of fact.

"Now that I think about this," Angie said, "For the past few days he hasn't been quite himself. There appeared to be something coming up this weekend, tomorrow, that was weighing on his mind. Some sort of workshop about audiology. Not that that's unusual. They happen all the time and he hardly ever goes. But, as I said, this one seemed to be concerning him. I can't imagine why. He almost never goes, thinking they're a waste of time. So I didn't give it that much attention. We've been very busy."

"But for him just to leave?"

"To tell you the truth, that's what has me worried. It's totally uncharacteristic of him. I don't . . ."

"Do you remember anything about the workshop?" John asked.

I could see Angie struggling to remember. "Nothing that comes to mind. Except maybe one thing."

"What's that?"

"I think it's someplace in Connecticut."

"Maybe Hartford?"

"Not Hartford. They tend to schedule them in resort kinds of places so spouses can come and there's something more to do than just sit in a hotel conference room for two days hearing about the latest advances in audiology."

"I don't know Connecticut that well," I said. "Are there resorts there?"

"Uncasville," John said. They have gambling there. My mother loved it. Mohegan Sun is what it's called. The hotel and casino."

Angie brightened, "That's it! That's where it's being held. But Gary hates gambling. It's not his thing. nor is it his wife's, if she's going with him."

"In the meantime, he's gone," I said, bringing us back to that reality. "On the other hand, I can't connect any of the dots." I looked at John, not wanting to say or reveal  anything inappropriate--his strange and upsetting email to John, his wanting to see us urgently, all the things he hinted to me about his so-called previous life. And now his disappearance.

"I don't know what to say," I confessed to Angie, "Are you OK to be here on your own? I mean, we could stay if . . ."

"I'm all right," Angie said, I'm a Mainer and that means I can handle anything. I have your phone numbers and will call if I hear from him. I guess I should also let his wife know what's happening, though maybe she knows all about it. She also can handle anything. But I don't want to inadvertently create a problem."

We encouraged her to call and, with some reluctance, John and I left, promising to stay in touch to see what she might hear and also, in case he communicated with either of us, to let her know what we might learn.

To be continued . . .

October 23, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Part 1 of 4)

An agitated-sounding John Allan was on the phone, "We need to talk."

"Sure. What's up?"

"I got this strange email from Gary."

"Gary?"

"Gary Schwartzberg. My, our audiologist."

"Of course. There's only one Gary. You caught me by surprise."

Now whispering, John said, "He never sends me notes so when I saw his name pop up on my email page, I knew something was wrong. Did he get to you too? You've been working with him longer than I and I know he has on occasion confided in you about, how shall I put this, other aspects of his life."

"True. But this time I've heard nothing from him. He doesn't need to use me to say whatever he wants to say to you. We should have separate relationships with him. Both audiologically and with regard to anything else. But, yes, it appears he hasn't always been the straight-laced professional we know. You remember the Cuba business?"

"Do I ever," John said. "That was pretty wild."

"Yeah. That somehow he was mixed up in figuring out the nature of the sonic attacks Cuba launched against our embassy workers in Havana. How about two dozen have severe disabilities from what the Cubans did to deafen or otherwise injure them."

"I do recall that," John said, "Gary implied he was acting covertly. He hinted that he had some expertise with this sort of thing. That he had been a consultant to one of our security agencies regarding our own capacity to wage sonic warfare. Therefore, we speculated from what he said, including how some of his patients--retired CIA types who live in the area--knowing this about his past life thought he might be helpful with the Cuban situation."

"You're remembering correctly," I said. "He claimed he was trying to lead a normal life and they began hassling him. I told you, I think, how about a month ago he called me and sounding frantic asked if I could come by to talk and how we met at a Dunkin Donuts where he felt we were under surveillance by an undercover operative. I thought he was making this stuff up to add a little drama to his life."

"And then there was the incident of the loaner hearing aids he gave you while yours were being repaired and how through them you heard the voice of the dead woman whose they were. And how it seemed she and her husband too were implicated in some of these spying operations."

"Don't forget how Gary convinced me to allow him to reprogram my hearing aids' prompts so they would sound as if hey were coming from someone who was speaking Czech. And in addition to the prompts, after I attempted to translate what she was saying I thought she was desperately asking me to help her."

"All totally strange," John said.

"So, now what? You mentioned you have an email from him. More weirdness?"

"Decide for yourself. Let me read it to you."

"I can't wait to hear this one."

"He wrote--'I have to tell you my imaginary other life is way more exciting than my present one. I confessed to you and Barbara when you were here for an adjustment that there was a brief moment in which I wondered if there was a possibility that I had been brain-washed by the government to forget my previous life for security reasons; thinking this may be possible as my entire life between 40 and 50 years of age seemed to be like one day.'

"Then he added, which has me worried--'Uh oh, I just might be losing it.'" 

"Incredible," I said, "Do you think there's something to worry about?"

"You would know better than I," John said.

"Is there anything we should do?" I asked.

"I thought you would have ideas," he said, "You're really the one who he has confided in."

"Not confided, more hinted," I corrected John, "But then again why would he send the note just to you? Why not to the two of us?"

John said, "I don't think that's too big of an issue. It's more important I, feel, to see if we can figure out how to respond, maybe help him--I'm pretty sure he'd be OK knowing I shared this with you."

"Why don't you call him to see if he wants to talk. Maybe we'd drive up there and meet him for a drink or something. I'm free later today or any time tomorrow."

"I'll do it," John said, "I'll call his assistant, Angie ,to see if he'd like to get together. I'll call back to let you know what he says."

Before I could get a glass of water John rang back.

"Angie asked Gary and he said he was eager to meet at 2:00 today for a cup of coffee. He told her to reschedule his afternoon appointments. Though two o'clock is just an hour and a half from now I said we'll be there. It's clear he is eager to talk. He doesn't casually reschedule appointments on such short notice."

On the ride up we didn't talk much. It was as if we each in our own way needed silence to prepare ourselves for what would likely turn out to be a very complicated conversation.

To be continued . . . 

Dr. Gary Schwartzburg

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 7, 2017--Audiologist In Search of an Author (Part 1 of 2)

Dr. Schwartzberg sent me an email after meeting with my friends John and Allan for John's monthly hearing aid adjustment. 

Joe told me they spoke mainly about his devices but also about the audiological stories I've been writing. So I wasn't surprised when Gary wrote to me, saying--

"I confessed to John and Barbara that there are times you are making me question reality. Thinking to myself--'Wait, did that happen?'"

"Well," I wrote back, "you may not believe this, but there are times that I've been wondering the same thing about you. 

"Let me give you an example: In the most recent story about the so-called sonic attacks in Havana, to protect his privacy, I made up the name of your patient, a CIA agent or something, who in various ways was involved with countering the Cubans and, to help him, because of your counterintelligence background, how he drew you into the stealthy process and how in turn, though I was unaware that any of this was happening, how this also came to involve me.

"I called him 'Andrews,'" I continued, "and when you read the first part of the story told me, to quote you--'Believe it or not, I have two patients with that name!'"

Distraught that I had misstepped, I responded to you immediately--

"I'm changing the 'Andrews' name to 'Anderson.' I don't want your two Andrews clients to think you're talking inappropriately about them. You're already in enough trouble with your former clandestine colleagues. Now you're seeing how it feels to live in a world of alternative facts."

Still upset with myself, I wrote to Gary--"I was mortified that I had inadvertently violated doctor-patient confidentiality and that I was a party to getting you into further complications and so I rushed to change the CIA guy's fictional name."

I also said, "When you saw my emails you wrote back that you have six patients with the name Anderson.

"I can be a little slow but it finally dawned on me that as I was playing with you you were playing with me.

"So I wrote--

"And here I trusted you. In case you actually have any Andrews as clients, I changed his name to Anderson, and in an attempt to lighten things up, added, "I'm sure you have at least two Andersons as clients. On the other hand," I passed along, "Rona suggested I call Andrews-Anderson 'Ginsberg' since it's unlikely you have any of those."

"I'm getting a headache from this," Dr. Schwartzberg wrote back, "Andrews, Anderson, and now Ginsberg. To tell you the truth you're the only person in the world who cares about any of this. I'm just a simple audiologist trying to serve my patients and send my daughter to college."

"That's what I used to think about you," I wrote in a return email, "Hiding out here in Maine after making your escape from super-heated New Jersey. You know," I said, "I have wondered why you found your way to a small town in Maine. You're super smart, terrific at what you do, have the capacity to build a large and thriving practice, but here you are. All hunkered down. I would have thought . . ."

"This is the perfect place for me," he wrote, this conversation was all via email, "To tell you the truth, I've had plenty of pressure and excitement. Enough for a lifetime. You don't know the half of it. And, as they say, 'If I tell you, I'd have to kill you.'" I could imagine him chuckling at that.

"Thanks for that," I wrote, "I mean, not having to kill me. But I have another story for you. Maybe not unrelated."

"Shoot," he fired back, adding, "Sorry for the violent reference." 

"You know I'm a fitful sleeper. Actually, more an insomniac. I listen to late-night radio to distract myself from anxiosizing. And to bore me which helps put me to sleep. I listen to some sports talk and a mix of talk shows. Mostly rightwing stuff because that seems to be what's on the air in the middle of the night. The Mark Levin Show, Red-Eye Radio, what I call the flying saucer show, Coast-to-Coast AM where most of the callers talk about their contact with extraterrestrials. I also tune in to an assortment of local talkshow hosts from around the country since late at night AM radio signals bounce off the ionosphere. So, one of my favorites is out of Detroit. I don't even know what it's called or the name of the host.

"The other night, I think it was Tuesday, I was listening to him and his callers. I can't remember what they were talking about but as it was approaching 5:00 am, a new show started and on it you'll never believe what happened. Actually, as I suspect you'll see, you probably do know exactly what I'm talking about.

"The guest was an audiologist. Nothing too strange about that because many of these after-midnight programs are devoted to medical talk, like about cyberknife surgery for prostate cancer. I'm sure most of the listeners are at least my age since older folks are notoriously poor sleepers. We lie awake all night thinking about illness and, of course, death.

"But when I heard the show was about audiology, my ears perked up. Pun intended. Here's what to me was strange. The audiologist was saying the exact same things you've been saying to me as you tested me and then fit me for hearing aids. And what you say each week about what's going on when I come in for an adjustment."

I cut off there and sent this email off to Gary. I was curious to see how he would respond with incomplete information. I suspected I was hitting close to home with him or stumbled on to something unusual since two days later he called. Talking on the phone is something we rarely do. Our relationship is more about my coming to his office or us communicating via emails.

He said, "This does sound strange to me. Not that I listen to any of these shows. Thankfully I sleep pretty well. If I need a little help sleeping a beer or two is all I need to put me out."

"You know," I said, not able to contain myself, "Since I wrote to you about this I've been trying without success to tune in again to that Detroit station. I wasn't able to connect. Likely, I thought, because of problems with the atmosphere. I wanted to be able to figure out how to find out who his audiologist guest was. Also, the more I replayed the tape of the interview in my head, not only did he say the same kinds of things you said, though I assume some of it is standard-issue audiological talk, he used some of the exact same words you used when I first became your client and, this is the strangest part, he sounded just like you. I don't mean he sounded a little like you but he sounded just like you, including some of your quirky expressions like 'I want you to have very high expectations and to expect excellent results.' On the show, if you can believe it, just like you, the guest audiologist tore up some paper to show the listeners how it sounded to them. Sort of for diagnostic purposes. And so," I said, "I began to think the guest on the show in Detroit was really you." 

After that burst I finally stopped rattling on.

Dr. Schwartzberg then said, "I don't know how to put this, but I'm a little concerned about you."

"Concerned?"

"You seem to have become obsessed about all things audiological. Don't get me wrong, I'm obsessed too and I like having a patient, a client who's as interested in the subject as I. But in my 25 years of practice I've never had anyone as into it as you. That's my first point." He paused to gather himself, "But then there's this Detroit business. Most concerning is your feeling that the person being interviewed was me because . . ."

"I'm sorry about that," I interrupted, "I know that was ridiculous. It's just that . . ." I began to stammer.

"I need to tell you that I did some research and could not find a late-night, early-morning local talk show in Detroit of the kind you described. All their AM stations broadcast your Red-Eye or Coast-to-Coast shows." 

He waited for me to say something and when I didn't, said, "And I even called an audiologist I know in a Detroit suburb and he knew nothing about any of this. And so . . ." He let his thought trail off.

"So are you saying--I don't know how to put this--that because of my obsession I'm making this up? Or suffering from hallucinations? I mean, we're talking about the middle of the night with me hooked up to a radio and listening to all this craziness." I was feeling quite agitated, worried that over time, if this persisted, I'd have even more difficulty sleeping.

"We've come a long distance from my 'Mr. Andrews,'" Gary said with a hint of irony.

I tried to joke, "Or your Mr. 'Anderson.'" 

I was feeling more and more rattled. What was happening to me? Was I losing my mind? Was I being taken over by malevolent forces? I'm not at all inclined to think that way. I think of myself as totally rational. I pride myself on not being in any way superstitious or subject to believing in the occult, spirits, or anything remotely like that. No matter what I hear from all the deluded people on Coast-to-Coast AM who call in from flying saucers.

"Well," Gary said, "I have patients waiting. You'll be OK. Oh, I forgot to mention, since you still have that loaner hearing aid, until you return it to me, I'd stop using it. In case . . . Just the one for the right ear should get the job done."

"What you're now saying makes me anxious," I said, "Why are you telling me to do this? Is there something you're not telling me about it because . . ." 

The line was dead. He had hung up.

To be concluded tomorrow--