Can You Hear Me Now?

Friday, October 22, 2004

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Can You Hear Me Now?

By J’AMY PACHECO

It’s so easy to take ordinary things for granted.

Grass, for example. When things go – or, in this case, grow—the way they should, there is a lovely expanse of green in front of my house. It’s easy to forget that a lawn is a complex living organism that depends on many elements for its success: water, food, sunlight and even bugs.

Fax machines are another example. I have a fax machine that is also a printer, and for years, it’s been sitting beside my computer, humming away and spewing out faxed documents and reports like that’s all it had to do. I hardly notice it.

And then there are ears. How many of us think of ears as anything beyond a place to hang jewelry? If there is any body part that can easily be taken for granted, it’s got to be the ears.

Not anymore. Around here, anyway.

As I write this, I’m in my third day of not being able to hear out of my right ear. At night, I go to sleep listening to my heartbeat in my ear. It’s a sound that is hard to describe—kind of like someone tapping on the side of your head. All night long.

It started last week when my ear started feeling itchy down deep inside. Mindful of the advertisements warning that one should never stick anything smaller than an elbow into the ear, I did the next best thing. I pushed my hand really hard against my head and rubbed my ear until it was raw.

By Saturday, I had to take a pain reliever. Fortunately, it did the trick, because I was at an amusement park when it became especially sore.

Sunday morning, I woke up to unbearable pain in my ear. It was so bad that I could hardly open my mouth – a tragic discovery to make before breakfast. I knew it was time to seek professional help. For my ear, I mean.

My husband drove me to see a guy called “Doctor Mike” who runs a walk-in clinic. I’d heard he was fast, and I didn’t want to waste an entire Sunday sitting in some “urgent” care facility.

And fast they were. The most time-consuming part of the experience was filling out the paperwork detailing my medical history. But five minutes after I handed over the clipboard, some guy in blue scrubs was sticking a thermometer-thingy in my ear.

Unfortunately, it was in the sore ear, and I yelped.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” he asked. Sheesh, it was in the paperwork.

A nice lady looked in my ear and advised I had an infection. She gave me prescriptions for antibiotic pills and ear drops, and sent me on my way. Getting the prescriptions filled took a lot longer than seeing the doctor—and cost four times as much.

Sunday night, I put the drops in my ears for the first time and thought the bottle had been mistakenly filled with acid. It hurt enough that I cried, freaking out my little girl who, I might point out, has never had an ear infection.

I hardly slept as my ear swelled up and my heart raced, all the time pounding in my ear.

The next day, my regular doctor advised me to discontinue using the drops. Figures—that was the expensive medicine. He also advised that it might take as long as 72 hours for my hearing to return to normal.

Losing half of your hearing can drive you nuts. I know, because I’m almost there. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked, “Huh?” over the last few days, and how many times my daughter has had to advise that someone is talking to me.

But at least it doesn’t hurt any longer. Now it just itches.

I know a lot of children who have suffered recurring ear infections, and I have to say I have developed a tremendous amount of respect for them. This stinks.

Speaking of which, my front yard has a big brown spot in it that I’ve been unable to eliminate with lawn food, weed killer or re-seeding. Green spray paint is next on my list. Or maybe the unused portion of my ear medicine.

And you know that old, dependable fax machine I mentioned? Just this morning, its window displayed an error message that won’t go away. The error has absolutely nothing to do with sending faxes, but the machine won’t let me send faxes anyway.

Frankly, I’m frustrated. If you have some words of encouragement, I’d love to hear them. Unfortunately, I can’t. You can’t fax them, because I can’t receive faxes.

So jot down those thoughts, and leave a note on my front door. Better yet, leave it on the lawn—right over that big brown ugly spot. I’m sure it will still be there.

In fact, I’m taking that for granted.