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 . . .

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

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

August 1, 2017--Earful: An Audiological Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That sounds good," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She traded them in for a newer model?"

"Not exactly," he said.

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

"She . . . "

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

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

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

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

                                                         *   *   *

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

"A little feedback," I think.

"You never had that before."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So is life," Rona said.

                                                              *   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here there is peace and light . . ."

I cleared my throat and walked noisily to the bathroom.

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

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

"Follow your heart . . ."

"Come back to bed."

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

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

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

"There will be time . . ."

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

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

And then there was silence. Just occasional static.

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

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

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

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

October 7, 2016--Two Updates

Update Number 1--Hearing Aids:

Later today I am scheduled for my third "adjustment." The audiologist, Gary Schwartzberg, will ask about anything that might be bothering me. Not an existential question (for that I could report about a lot that is bothering me) but a diagnostic one--how is my hearing in crowded restaurants, while watching TV, how does music sound--too sharp, too flat--are there "hearing situations"where sounds are more unpleasant than I feel they should be? Things of this kind.

Less specifically, he will want to know how I am adjusting to having the hearing aids themselves. He will ask this with an awareness of my family experience--especially about my father who resisted them for years, feeling that if he agreed to wear them they would turn him into an instant old man. Little realizing that he already was, at about 80, an "old man."

I will remind the doctor of that and add that there were ironies with my father and hearing aids that I want to avoid, confessing that for me many inter-generational inheritances have not been benign.

My experience, including, like my father, avoiding the subject for at least three too-many years, though the need was manifest, is something I want to move on from and I am eager to remain alert to other genetic traps that may be lurking.

I also plan to report that having my aids now for three weeks has not turned me into an old man but the opposite--now that I can hear like a more normal person, I feel younger, more vibrant and engaged with life.

Checking that I am not on a grandiosity trip--the reverse of where I had inertly been--I asked Rona about my state of being and she reports that not unlike me who cried when I heard her real voice again she feels some renewed youthfulness (or at least the late-in-life semblance of it) and that this is also making her feel younger and more optimistic. Yes, we have that kind of braided relationship.

In the meantime, awaiting the next adjustment, I'm spending a lot of time listening to Bach's unaccompanied cello suites. Able again to experience the divine.

Update Number 2--Lawn Signs:

When last I reported I noted how few election signs were appearing on lawns throughout the Midcoast. I speculated that perhaps Mainers weren't that enthusiastic about the choices. On the other hand, local friends said it was too soon to draw any conclusions. About a month before Election Day, they claimed, there will be the usual profusion.

This has turned out to be true. Reading the signs (pun intended) there is a clear pattern--Hillary in a landslide.

But a complicated one.

There are about as many yard signs as four years ago but unlike then when Obama had a slight lead, Hillary signs dominate. By yesterday morning's count there were about 30 for Clinton and only 10 or so for Trump.

The complicated part--

There are at least another dozen places where there are arrays of signs for local Democrats for the state legislature or Congress but none for Hillary. One or two of these have Trump signs. This suggests some ticket splitting because of unhappiness with the choices.

But again--Hillary in a romp. Or . . .

September 23, 2016--Creaking (Concluded)

So yesterday I went to see Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, the audiologist, to pick up my hearing "devices" and to have my first "adjustment."

"Look, they're the same color as your hair," Rona continued to do her best to sound upbeat, "Silver gray. As I said the other day, they're cool."

"It is impossible for someone my age to be, much less look cool." I mumbled again but this time loud enough to be heard.

"Again, as I said," the Dr. S broke in, clearly not having set aside a whole day to deal with my ambivalences, "As I said, have high expectations. You're about to see how amazing these babies are."
Babies again, I thought.

"Let me help you." He slid his chair closer to me, "First let's hook this over your ear," he did so, "Then push this tube gently into your ear canal." Again he did so, "And then, last, place this wire thus in the curve of your outer ear. It's sort of like a spring that keeps the device from accidentally falling out."

"Probably, in my case, down the toilet."

"The insurance, included in the fee, would cover that." I wasn't sure if he was humoring me. Again, in 30 years he's seen it all.

Then he did the same thing with my left ear.

With them both in place what I felt was similar to using earbuds when listening to an iPod or movie on an airplane. In other words, I felt almost nothing. "But," I said, "I'm hearing even less right now than before you installed these babies," I reached toward them, "I'm afraid these aren't helping. I can, can't I, return them within 90 days and get all my money back?"

"Yes, there is that guarantee, but . . ."

"What's the fastest time in the Guinness Book of Records for someone to turn in their devices? I think I might set it if I give them back to you right now."

"I'm not surprised but . . ."

Looking toward Rona, I said back over my shoulder to him, "Forgive me for having told you so. I knew they wouldn't work for me."

I wondered what happened to my begrudged optimism.

"If you'd only give me a moment to turn these on," he said, smiling, "They won't begin to work until I've done that. I'm about to do it wirelessly through the computer. It's . . ."

Embarrassed that I had been so impetuous, so out of control, now that I had calmed down a bit, I confessed, "I feel like such a baby. I really do want to give them a chance. You've been encouraging me to have high expectations. To tell you the truth, I thought you were overselling these." I tapped the device in my right ear. "But more than that I didn't want to raise my hopes and then have it turn out to be disappointing like my father when . . ."

"Can we please leave your father out of this," finally exasperated, Rona said, "That's ancient history and . . ."

"My father," I said gasping, "You . . . I mean you . . . You . . . Your . . . I don't . . ."

"What's going on, honey?" Rona leaned toward me, concerned about my incoherent stammering, likely thinking I was having an ischemic stroke.

With that I burst into tears, but despite my sobbing, I could hear Dr. S say to Rona that he had just activated the devices.

Amazingly, so instantly I could hear more audibly than I could remember. I said, "Your voice . . . it's as it was when we met more that 35 years ago. When we were so much younger and all of life stretched before us. Listen to me--I'm talking in clichés." I took a deep breath, "How I loved your voice then but I haven't heard it that way for what feels like many years. Many. Too many."

I sat with my thoughts while staring at the computer screen and the vivid graph of my hearing deficits. "Can I get up?" I asked the doctor, "I want to hold onto Rona," who by then, softly, quietly, also was sobbing.

Somehow a box of tissues materialized. I took a few, even hearing the sound of them being pulled from the box. "So this has happened before?" I asked, now smiling through tears.

"As you said, I've seen it all. Often, people do have the same reaction. It's almost as if they're hearing for the first time. In your case . . . . Well, that's what the tissues are for."

*   *   *

Later, back home, I went from room to room as if visiting for the first time. I wanted to listen to the house.

The floor crackled like exploding popcorn. Lying down to test the sound of the bed, I heard more creaking but this time with no popping. It was softer, rounder. Through the bedroom window I could hear the songs of the first birds that appear at dusk. And the water in the bay, gently lapping the shoreline were sounds I was hearing for the first time. Using the toilet, which I had to do, was like producing a splattering cascade over river rocks.

I couldn't believe I was getting sophomorically poetic about peeing in the toilet!

Crying again, Rona reached out to me.

We stood there by the window, clinging to each other as across the water the sun completed its work for the day.

Still in contemplative mode, I asked, "Do you think the sun makes a sound as it sets?"

"Maybe you'll know in a week after the next adjustment."

See Kanye West's Right Ear

September 22, 2016--Creaking (The First of Two Parts)

I sent Dr. Schwartzberg the following note--

We live in a creaky house and thanks to you I can now hear the creaks.

His response was a emoticon smile.

This comes at the end of a long story which I will tell in abbreviated form.

For seemingly half my life hearing or lack thereof has been a sore and contested issue in my family. The Zwerlings. I have not escaped from this side of family heritage.

My father could barely hear from the time he turned 70 but stubbornly, in denial, refused to do anything about it for at least a decade. It wasn't until Rona took him aside and in an affectionate and loving way, with just enough tears, shared with him that because of his poor hearing he was, in effect, in his growing isolation, prematurely leaving us.

That was some while ago and when he finally relented, in part putting aside vanity, he agreed to acquire the then smallest size available which, before miniaturization took full form, were not that cosmetically invisible and since they had insufficient power he always had his fingers in his ears twisting the volume dial to ramp up the output; but to such a level that even to me--by then I too was losing my hearing--rather then helping him hear, emanating from what seemed to be his head was an audio cloud of buzzing and whistling, both the result of over-amplified feedback.

This produced the very thing he wanted to disguise--the fact that he required hearing aids. In public places such as restaurants everyone in the room, also enveloped in his cloud of electronic sound, knew he was hard of hearing and was, the real issue, an "old man,"

Even additional private talks with Rona failed to get him to agree to the behind-the-ear type recommended by his audiologist as the only ones that would address his hearing lose.

It is now my turn.

More-than-I-would-like-to-admit, I am very much my father's son. Not only do I look enough like him to confuse relatives we haven't seen for decades, I also inherited his hearing issues. And, though I am loath to admit it, have more of his vanity than I see to be healthy.

It is as if vanity thy name is Zwerling. At least this Zwerling

During my own decade of denial and avoidance, even Rona's urging, treats (fewer than I deserved), and tears failed to get me to an audiologist.

Until two weeks ago, aware that another birthday was approaching and my numbers are adding up to more than a goodly lot, I made an appointment and off we went for me to be tested. Rona came along to provide moral support but, even more important, to hear what the hearing doctor would report and recommend after an hour and a half of testing.

"These babies are made to order for you," we both heard him say.

Seeing the contraption he was holding up as a visual aid, as if my father was inhabiting me, I popped up as if to bolt but in truth so I could retreat to the bathroom for a moment of private fretting and, hopefully, relenting.

"If that's what I need," I said resolutely when I returned, "so be it. I'm not that vain," I lied, clapping my hands to encourage myself (the sound of which I hardly heard). "I'm not my father," I said to Dr. Schwartzberg, who, in spite of having heard everything after 30 years of practice, had no idea what I was saying, but smiled empathetically, sensing that something intra-psychically significant was going on, effervescently, also clapping his hands for his own version of emphasis and encouragement, said, "After running all the tests and clearing a few years of wax from your ear canal, these," he held up a sample behind-the-ear device, "are perfect for you."

He smiled for the first time in an hour-and-a-half, "I want you to have high expectations. Over the course of a month and a half--after seeing you every week for adjustments--your hearing will progress from here"--knowing I could barely hear a thing, he slid down in his chair and held his hand halfway to the floor--"to here," he sat up straight and raised it to the middle of his chest.

Dr. S sat back with arms folded across his chest to let the good news sink in.

To ease the transition from my continuing half-resistance to half-hearted surrender Rona, referring to the behind-the-ear devices, said, "These look cool. With everyone walking around the streets with all sorts of things hanging from their ears, you . . ."

"I know," I interrupted, "I'll look like Jay Z or Kanye West. Though I don't even have an iPod. Forget anything wireless."

"Well, welcome to the 21st century," Rona said. "Maybe you'll like these so much you'll finally give in and get an iPhone."

"Don't hold your breath," I mumbled too softly for either of us to hear.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

August 6, 2013--New Glasses (Concluded)

I blew Rona a kiss.

We were doing better about me and eyeglasses and aging and could discuss amicably my vision issues and even my overall decline.

That is until a few weeks ago.

I began to notice that even with the 100-watt bulb there wasn't enough light for me when reading in bed. At first I thought this was because there was less light mornings now that the height of summer had passed, and as fall approached the sun was rising later each day.

I knew in my heart, though, that this wasn't in fact true. It is still very much summer and the sun in this northern location continues to be well up above the horizon by 6:00 a.m., and thus there should be enough light for me to make it through James MacGregor Burns' Roosevelt biography, The Lion and the Fox.

I was once more needing to deal with the subject of time and my aging eyes.

So unusually for me, without much prodding from Rona, I made an appointment for an eye exam, really to secure a new prescription for my reading glasses. I wasn't much in the mood to hear about possible cataracts and incipient macular degeneration, and therefore asked just to be fitted for new reading glasses.

No surprise, the ophthalmologist found my old ones were not nearly strong enough for my current condition.

"How long have you had these?" Dr. B asked, I sensed bemused by how inadequate they were.

I mumbled, "About . . . years . . . but . . . you know."

"I couldn't follow you," she persisted.

"Well, you know, a long time."

"How old are you again?"

"Next birthday, which is in October, I'll be a year older," I winked, thinking perhaps a little humor would help move things along.

"I have other patients waiting," she clearly was beginning to have enough of me, shuffling the papers in my file. "Oh I see. It's a big birthday coming up in October. You are, alas, old enough for us to have to worry about more than getting you proper reading glasses. In fact . . ."

I cut her off, "I know how busy you must be so maybe I'll make an appointment with my eye doctor in New York when we're there in October. As a big-birthday sort of thing. I mean, you're obviously a fine doctor, but he has all my records. So you understand."

"Whatever you say," she said with a shrug. "But if I were you, I wouldn't wait another 15 years for your next exam because, considering your age and the rate at which eyes tend to deteriorate, you should do this at least annually."

I tried to ignore this sensible way to think about my eyes and the rest of me. I simply wanted new glasses for reading.

All the while Dr. B fiddled with my old readers. "I would guess these old glasses of yours are at least 15-years old. I don't mean the frames, but the prescribed strength of the lenses. And they're so scratched. It's no wonder you can't see."

I shrugged, pretending they weren't as old or scratched as all that. "I can see," I reassured her.

"Now, rest your chin on this bar," she instructed me. "That's good. Close your right eye and tell me if you can see this clearly."

"C . . . R . . . M . . . I think that's a D or an O."

After a few minutes of switching test lenses she was done with me and gave me a card on which was written my new prescription. "While I was at it," she said, as I moved as quickly as possible to get away, "I also did a long-distance test. If I were you, I'd consider bifocals because your distance vision isn't much better than your short-range vision."

"Thank you, but I'm still OK with my 1.0 magnifiers. They're perfect for watching TV and driving."

"I hope you don't do both at the same time." I was happy to see her smiling. "Of course, whatever you want; but when you go next door where you select frames, if you want to, they can . . ."

"Again, thanks," I said, not letting her finish.

I quickly selected a sleek Italian pair--thinking why not try to look as sophisticated as possible--and was told by the cheery technician that my new glasses would be ready in less than a week.

Sure enough, three days later, they called to have me come in for a fitting.

"Here, try these," the same optometrist's assistant said, helping to put the glasses on as they are intended to be worn. About this also, I am not that adept. I have a tendency to let them slide down the slope my nose or tip them at various angles in attempts to make them more effective. I realized, of course, that in recent years I had been doing more and more of that as my glasses were not longer strong enough.

"If you use them this way, the right way," she urged, "you'll get the maximum benefit. I can see from the indentations in the sides of your nose that you are wearing these improperly," she waved dismissively at my former trusted pair and then tapped both sides of my nose, "But I understand. We have many other patients who like to pretend, sorry, I mean believe that their old prescriptions last forever. But as we know, as you know, as time goes by, this isn't true. Nothing lasts forever." She sighed with resignation.

Again they're talking about time, I said to myself, thinking, let me just get these glasses properly adjusted so I can get out of here and back to my pretending.

"Remember," she said, as I begin to squirm out of the chair, "it will take a few days to get used to these. And also, since these have the proper lenses for you," she looked again disdainfully at my cast-aside readers, "these more powerful lenses work best for viewing at distances from 17 to 22 inches. That's why they're called reading glasses."

At this she smiled broadly. She must be used to working with older patients, I thought, who, she feels have to be spoken to as if they are children.

So now I have this problem--

The new glasses are fine for reading. In truth, only for reading. That 17-to-22-inch range turns out to be quiet accurate. Unlike my old ones, which I kept in the spirit of just-in-case, the new ones make everything appear quite blurred beyond 22-and-a-half inches. (I actually measured.) This means that I now need three pairs of glasses: the new ones for reading (I have been able to switch back to a 75-watt bulb, which is environmental good news); the old reading glasses for intermediate vision (from 22 inches to six or seven feet); and the magnifiers for everything further away than that.

This is a lot to get used to and manage.

Just yesterday I ran an inventory of all my glasses and their locations--

The new readers I keep on top of whatever book I am reading. But since I usually read two or three at a time and they are often in different locations, I am having trouble remembering where I left the new glasses--on which book. So I need one of my old pair--my "new" intermediate ones--to find the new readers.

And then I have at least three pairs of the 1.0's--one near the TV and two in the car: a tinted pair of Ray Bans for daytime driving and a clear pair for after-dark driving. Twilight presents a problem, but I am not inclined to try to find a pair of semi-tinted ones for that.

I am now needing to juggle glasses of three strengths in tinted and clear variations. And, I should have a back-up pair of the new reading glasses and, why not, a pair of tinted ones for reading outdoors.

How many does that make?

If I get the backup readers and another tinted pair so I can read in direct sunlight, that's about ten.

Rona has been monitoring all my thinking, frustration, and eyeglass management; and in the spirit of attempting to be helpful, has a suggestion--"Trifocals."

My response--"That's for really old people who are blind as bats."

If I am wearing the right glasses, I will notice she is smirking.

"And," she adds, "don't forget the hearing aids."

"What? What did you say?"

August 5, 2013--New Glasses

Just as I am now resisting getting fitted for hearing aids, some years ago I struggled with the idea that I was old enough to need reading glasses.

"Old enough," that was the problem. In truth just "old"was the issue. I didn't want to have any part of that. Oldness.

And so, in the spirit of denial and rationalization, it wasn't until I had to squint and hold newspapers and menus at full arm's length to be able to distinguish Iran from Iraq and appetizers from entrées that I began to give honest consideration to getting my eyes tested.

I had joked, "It's a good thing [nervous laugh] that I have such long arms."

Rona would say, "You're making a spectacle of yourself--pun intended. Everyone in the restaurant is staring at you bent over like a pretzel trying to get a little candle light on the menu so you can read it."

"I'm just having a little trouble seeing if they have spaghetti carbonara."

"You're having more than a little trouble knowing the difference between the men's and women's rooms. Remember what happened when  . . ."

"No need to finish the sentence," I interrupted, "On Monday I'll make an appointment to get reading glasses."

And so I did. And discovered, if that word applies, that I indeed needed reading glasses, and as soon as possible if I wanted to be able to read anything smaller than a typical road sign. In anything other than daylight. Summer daylight. Between noon and 3:00 PM.

The ophthalmologist wasn't worried. He said, my condition was the result of the simple fact of aging, that, "Everyone your age  . . ."

"My age?" I moaned, "I'm only . . . whatever. Does this mean that I have other aging eye things to be concerned about?" I was careful to make the distinction between my eyes aging and the rest of me.

"Well, I'm not seeing any evidence of glaucoma and you're too young still for us to have to worry about cataracts. Though . . ."

"Though's I can do without," I continued to moan. "But the too-young's I am pleased to hear. Anything that pertains to me that I'm too young for is very reassuring and  . . ."

He interrupted me, "If you press me, which I don't suggest or think necessary, there is always macular degeneration and . . ."

Before he could complete his list I was out the door, my dilated-eyes blinded by the sunlight coursing down Fifth Avenue.

I duly got my reading glasses and for years was happily able to read in bed ealry mornings in half-light and had no trouble getting my carbonara.

Then about five years ago, when driving, Rona noticed me leaving extra distance between the cars in front of us and slowing excessively when making left turns.

"I'm just trying to be extra careful," I lied. "What's our hurry now that we don't have jobs to rush to?"

"You're driving like an old man," she wouldn't let me off the hook, seeing through my dissembling, "And I think it's because you can't see."

"I can see," I insisted with some heat.

"I know you can see, but you can no longer see well. I think you need distance glasses for driving. It's not that I'm in a hurry, it's that I don't feel safe with the way you drive."

My non-response was to snatch my then new reading glasses out of my breast pocket, put them on, and pretend I could see perfectly; whereas in truth they made everything even blurrier.

So at my next eye exam I muttered to Dr. Cohen that, "Rona thinks I'm going blind."

"I assume you're exaggerating." He is so understanding.

"Maybe a little. When we're down in Florida and up in Maine where we have to drive even to get the newspaper, it's true that I don't see as well as I used to."

"Just as I said some years ago when you first got reading glasses--that as one gets older, one . . ."

"Again with the older business," I snapped, feeling guilty since he is such a gentle soul, "But whatever," I said, again resigned.

"All you need is 1.0 magnifiers," he chirped in an effort to make this new inevitability sound matter-of-fact. "You can get them from an optometrist for a hundred dollars or more, or buy a pair at any large drug store for maybe twenty dollars."

Which I duly did at the local Rite Aid.

This worked well for a number of years. My reading glass prescriptions continued to be adequate, though, after time, I needed to change the bedside lamp lightbulb from 70 to 100 watts; and the 18-dollar 1.0's were just what I needed for driving. I closed the gap between cars and zipped right through left turns. I was pleased with myself and, what's more, Rona was no longer pointing out the affects of my aging. At least in regard to seeing and driving.

Though she did suggest bifocals, as she observed me struggling to manage my two pairs of glasses. The reading pair usually in my breast pocket or on top of the book I was reading, and the magnifiers in the glove compartment. "They would make it . . ." she stopped herself from pressing too hard, ". . . and the kind of bifocals they have now have so-called 'graduated' lenses, which means they don't look like bifocals. There's no visible seam between the two prescriptions so they don't make you look like you're . . ."

". . . an old man," I completed her thought. "I'm OK with things the way they are. You know I hate change. And besides, aren't those kind of lenses hard to get used to? Then, I assume they're very expensive."

"Whatever you say works for you. I was just trying to be helpful."

I blew her a kiss.

We were doing better about me and eyeglasses and aging and could discuss amicably my vision issues and overall decline.

Until a few weeks ago.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .