The Ear

One thing you should know about this blog before we go much further: I’m not going to be writing that much about my private, personal, family or occupational life. I already did it back when the internet was still a pre-teenager, it’s been done, got it all off my chest, everything’s fine, and there’s nothing much interesting going on at the Jack Link’s Beef Jerky Fulfillment Center anyway.

Except for this, because it has some bearing on this blog’s whole reason for existence: I’m currently operating with one ear.

This whole thing started on Friday, January 24. I had been dealing with a bad cold for about ten days. First I got it, then the rest of my family got it, and then… I still had it. Rivers of Theraflu and sheets of Sudafed had done nothing to get rid of the incredible congestion in my nasal passages. And I was pissed off. I’ve never been terribly comfortable with my body, and at this point I was getting the sense it wasn’t exactly fond of me either. However, I had control of the lever. My nose was just sitting there all stupid, reminiscing sadly about new cars.

So at some point that Friday afternoon, in my bedroom trench littered with cough lozenge wrappers and scorn, I decided I was going to get alpha male with my infuriating nostrils. I was going to blow them and blow them out. I decided to blow each passage a minimum number of times in regular intervals to dislodge whatever heretic mass was rooted in there refusing to eject. I decided on seven blows each, I suppose as a vestige of my youthful tendencies towards Christian numerology.

I went to war, blowing the living fuck out of my nose, seven full-throttled, gladiatorial, vicious bellows of each nasal cavity.

At some point I suppose there was a “pop” in my right ear. I don't recall paying it much attention, but if I did give it passing acknowledgement, I’m sure I thought something like “The pop must mean it’s working!”

Later that night I was up watching a double feature on Amazon Prime: Werner Herzog’s Aguirre, The Wrath of God and Brian DePalma’s Blow Out. (That latter film starred a still-functioning John Travolta as an audio engineer, if you’re keeping a poetic justice scorecard for later in this story.) During the Herzog movie my right ear started aching a little bit. At first it felt like swimmer’s ear, something I got occasionally as a kid and once again in my mid-30s. I figured a quick trip to the drugstore to get some OTC ear medicine would take care of it.

I then tried to go to bed. My right ear discomfort amplified. Then it became a raging asshole. I ingested copious amounts of melatonin to try and force sleep, which finally descended around 7am Saturday morning.

But then I had to get up to watch my daughter Lucie play in her percussion ensemble at a regional high school jazz competition around noontime. When I got in the car with the rest of my family and turned on the stereo, the music came out in a detuned mess. 

My right ear was hearing the music a full half-step flat, while my left ear heard everything fine. The song that was playing at this point was “Growin’ Up” from Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band’s Live 1975-85 box set. Before that moment the song was hopeful and energetic. It was now utterly terrifying and deranged. I could definitely see how Bruce got into the first Suicide album after that experience.

Lucie’s orchestra sounded the exact same way. And remember, it’s a band full of nothing but percussion instruments. Xylophones, snare drums, and gongs. I’m sure it was wonderful (well, it was, they took first place), but I was hearing a clang of exhaust pipes and impertinent mallets.

Saturday was the meltdown. I spent the afternoon in bed, the closest I have been to tears since I last saw the first ten minutes of Up. I kept screaming, “FUCK!! FUCK!!!” I could not walk without tipping over.

I still think my wife believed I was over-dramatizing the pain I was suffering. I was not. I was absolutely fucking not. I am glad she didn’t verbalize that belief, because if she had I would have jumped off the balcony merely to prove a point, like everyone who voted for Jill Stein did.

The next day was Sunday. My ear was still killing me. The Grammys were on. About halfway through I decided I’d had enough (of the ear problem) (well, the Grammys weren't exactly hot shit either), and decided to check into the urgent care facility conveniently located about a five-minute walk (or a seven-minute stumble) from our new place.

The attending physician was great. I told her my problem, she said, “Ruptured ear drum. I knew it from the moment you started describing it. Let’s take a look.” She took that pen-light funnel device doctors have handy, probed in a little bit, and said, “Ahhhh, yeah… you’ve got a big ole mess in there.”

Instead of asking her directly, like those who aren’t terrified of physicians do, I tried to parse what she meant by “big ole mess.” A mass of pus and blood? A frayed membrane and a broken artery? A huge canker or abrasive-looking scab? A family of prairie dogs? Cthulhu? His secretary?

But before I asked for a full carnage report, the physician told me, “Leave it alone. It’ll most likely repair itself in six to eight weeks.” She gave me a prescription for antibiotics—four of them—and sent me home.

The next few days were filled with amusing interludes in which I tried to walk down the stairs without manhandling the walls. The acute headaches remained for another week. My right ear continued to discharge a viscous fluid for about three weeks, during which I was happy we didn’t have one of those dogs who licked absolutely anything that looked halfway consumable.

Today marks six weeks since the rupture. There are no more headaches or discharge. I look fine except for my hair growing out.

But the upshot is that I still can’t hear in my right ear. And smack dab in the middle of this whole experience, what did I do but launch a new music blog I’ve been planning for a year and a half. No lie.

It’s full-on tinnitus. Throughout most of the day I hear a very faint hissing sound in my right ear. Occasionally this sensation gets louder, accompanied by a couple of sustained, high tones that last anywhere from 15 to 45 seconds, then gradually fade out. It sounds like the master tapes of a Brian Eno ambient album after somebody’s spilled paint thinner all over them, or whatever came in second when they were choosing Windows 95’s log-on music.

I’m also still physically disoriented. I feel high all the time. Rather, I think it’s high; I haven’t been high often enough to know what it actually entails as a recurrent mental state. I can walk, but still have to steady myself at points. There was one hilarious moment when I nearly backflipped into bed. I don’t know how I managed that. Please don’t ask me to do it at parties.

But most awfully—and I’m sure this is about 50% paranoid hypochondria, 50% informed by box-top science—I’m scared my hearing loss is permanent.

This is problematic for someone whose creative life still revolves around music. I’ve been programming my radio show through one headphone. I’m supposed to be reviewing some albums for the music site I’ve been writing for over the last seven years. And then I’ve launched a new music blog for which I’ve been developing material for nearly 18 months. That's why this blog went live last week with three whip-smart gems of music analysis, and has since gone radio-silent. The initial zeal has been difficult to sustain.

It’s hard to get worked up when you can only review music that’s coming out of the left channel. (“BACK TO MONO!” my friend Mike enthused.)

Anyway. That’s what’s happening with my ear. There are two weeks left in the originally stated recovery period. Maybe the rupture will repair as first forecast. Maybe I’ll be able to walk down a hallway without groping the sides. Maybe I’ll get my hearing back. And maybe all music and flight activity will get back to normal. But I admit I’m at that point in life when one starts to wonder what annoying maladies are no longer bugs, but features. I’m worried. I won’t lie.

And now, on top of it all, I’m worried that I didn’t use the right personal pronoun for “Cthulhu.”