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 . . .