About two months ago I found myself in a sound-proof chamber, the size of which would’ve given Houdini a challenge to escape; though I suppose it was an improvement to the one I was in previously with prison cell dimensions. In this newer chamber I could rub my cheeks against the bumpy egg carton-like padding in between the often shrieking – but most often muted – beeps of the hearing test. Riley sat just outside, waving to me through the perspex door, amused to see his mother in such an amusing contraption.
I voluntarily made the appointment to have this hearing test. My hearing lately hasn’t been flash. I’ve been elbowed in the middle of the night: “Can’t you hear Keira calling out?” No, I hadn’t, and as I daresay any mother will tell you, that was frightening. My senses have been attuned to their sleep patterns for so many years now, I often wake just as they do, if one wants a drink, or the other needs help going to the toilet. Even the possibility that their wakefulness, or even distress, might go unanswered (by me, at least) was horrifying.
After the test, the doctor sat me down and said my hearing was fine.
“Apart from the loss in the left ear you already explained.” (A previous Meniere’s attack took it, the greedy thing)
“Then why is this happening? Why is the pressure getting worse?”
“People with Meniere’s get distracted easier because sometimes they’re working so hard – without realising – on keeping their internal equilibrium steady that remarks or events can go under the radar.” Then he looked at me. “And you might have to start taking your medication more regularly. It can get progressively worse as you get older.”
As I said, this was about two months ago. I didn’t take my medication, but after this morning’s bi-monthly ear canal syringing (sexy!) when I nearly dropped to the linoleum in the surgery, and the walls spun and melded, I think I will have to again.
Bugger.
