The sounds coming out of exam room 4 at the ear, nose & throat Doctor’s office were enough to send chills down the spine of the most battle hardened nurse. The inner office data-tech was seen cowering under her workstation, rocking back and forth in a fetal position chanting: “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!” The outer office receptionist, in an attempt to deaden the noise, had to close her sliding window in between co-pay extortion transactions. One man was seen leaving the waiting area with tears in his eyes, and a look of utter terror etched on his face. He told the receptionist that a couple of aspirin at home should help his ruptured eardrum. Was the horrible din coming from exam room 4 Nukeboy1 or Nukeboy2? You might think that, but you would be wrong. The childlike screams were coming from me.
To put this in perspective, let’s go back in time. At the age of eight my eustachian tubes stopped growing. What is a eustachian tube? It is the narrow (In my case, VERY narrow) tube that runs from your ear to the back of your throat, right about where your nasal passages enter the throat. Think of it as the ultimate freeway cloverleaf for a germ or virus, they can take any exit they wish! “How about the middle ear honey, we had so much fun last year.” “I told you Gladys, we’re going to sinus-land and that’s final! I should have left you back at the Uvula with your mother.” It might have had something to do with the 758 inner ear infections I had endured up till then, but my tubes decided they would take their ball and go home.
Why all the screaming in exam room 4? Because I was getting “tubes” put in my ears. Yes, those tubes. The ones they give infants and toddlers who have chronic ear infections. I may not be a toddler, but my wife will argue that at times, I can behave like an infant. This was one of those times. Too bad she wasn’t there to witness it. It had taken me 3 years of badgering, whining and bribery to get my Doctor to agree to this. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I got it, alright.
My problem is that my “cloverleaf” is kind of like Boston’s freeway system before the Big Dig. Lots of traffic, and none of it was moving. It didn’t matter where the problem started (ear, nose or throat), within a couple of days my entire skull would be packed tighter than Don Pablo’s on Mariachi night. Antibiotics would take care of most everything, but, invariably, my ears would stay clogged. You know what it sounds like when you are under water at the pool, and you hear people talking above the surface? That toneless garble that sounds like an arguing couple through the paper thin walls of a Motel 6? (Not that I’ve ever stayed at one, I’m just sayin’….) That’s what I heard all day. Every day. For 6 months now. I think the Doctor knew that if he didn’t give me the tubes today, that it might get ugly. “Let’s do it” he said. Yee-ha.
The first tube went in with no problems. It was over in 5 minutes. Now, don’t get me wrong, there was nothing remotely pleasing about this. In those 5 minutes he had lacerated my eardrum with a scalpel, and then inserted a vacuum to remove the “liquid” behind my eardrum. Only, after 6 months, liquid wasn’t properly descriptive. Try “muddy”, or “thickened”. The word my Doctor used was “molasses”. Wonderful. Things weren’t any better in my other ear. Same procedure, but thicker “molasses”. That’s when the trouble started.
“Let’s take it up to 7″ he told the nurse. Now, rather than it sounding like a really bad windstorm in my head, it sounded more like what Dorothy heard before the window shutter rendered her unconscious. Still nothing. “Better move it up 4 more” Doc said. 11! His brain-extracting sucker-thingy went to 11? I could have miscounted, who knows, all I know is that the next thing I experienced must be what a migratory bird hears before it gets sucked into the business end of a Pratt and Whitney engine on a 747. Time stood still. My left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. My life was flashing through my mind, only in reverse. He was rewinding my brain! What else could it be? And then, it was over. “Whew!” Doc said, “That was rough!” Yea, hope it didn’t hurt you too much, Doc.
Now, I had endured the pain and aggravation of plugged up ears for so long, that I was prepared to stick it out, no matter what. At least, that’s what I told myself as I lay on the chair, gingerly extracting my fingernails from the once plush padded arm rails. I think I bent them a little too, I was leaning to the left. “Now comes the easy part” said Doc. Little did we know. After the 10 minutes it took him for “liquid extraction” of my second ear, double the time it took for cleaning and placing the tube in my first ear, the rest should have been easy. But alas, it wasn’t to be.
The incision he made in my eardrum for the second tube was a tad low. Now, to his credit, he never once said “Oh, oh” or “oops”, but I could tell there was a problem. The amount of noise for the tube insertion was nothing compared to the TWA flight that took off inside my head minutes before, but it was still loud. Think of the noise your children make when they commandeer a karaoke machine, turn it up to “11″, stick the microphone all the way in their mouths and make burping noises. That’s what this was like. After the third attempt I could hear the frustration in his voice. “It’s not supposed to be this hard” he said. I enquired as to what the problem was, and that was when he fessed up to the cut that was a little too far south. “So it’s just going take a little longer, is all”. Fair enough, he was a great Doctor, and I had come this far, might as well gut it out. After the fourth attempt I suggested that perhaps leverage was the issue, and would he like to put his foot on my head to expedite the process? I got a courtesy laugh from the Doc and a “Don’t say another word” look from the nurse. I think she was in more pain than I was. The fifth attempt was the charm. The kid burping noises stopped, and the Doc was obviously relieved. “I’m sorry about that” he said, “I’ve never run into that situation before.” We chatted for a few more minutes, and he actually walked me all the way out. I think maybe he had a medical malpractice lawyer as his next appointment, and didn’t want us to see each other. “Take care of yourself!” he said as I walked out the front door. “I hear Ya!” I said. And for the first time in 6 months, I actually DID hear.
The finished product is pictured above. Although this isn’t MY ear, I’m sure mine looks very similar. Who knew such a small thing could be such a big pain?
This IS NOT the Doctor portrayed in the story.
Photo courtesy of: http://www.entusa.com/ear_tubes.htm
Copyright 1999, 2000, 2001 Kevin T Kavanagh, All Rights Reserved
This is definitely a Peeve’s topic. I know I’m not alone in my disdain and general loathing of those drivers who seem to think that the left lane is their own personal HOV lane. I know the title suggests this is just about the ladies, but there are some men out there who need some re-edjukatin’ too. Say it with me now: The Left Lane Is The Fast Lane! I didn’t capitalize all of the letters, so technically I’m not yelling, I’m just raising my voice a little. I mean, come on people! If your goal is to go 67 miles per hour and stay front-bumper-matched with the car next to you, do it when there are 3 or more lanes! And make sure you’re in the middle one! If you’re trying to make a moral statement about speeding, and feel that by holding people up you’re “saving lives”, just remember that the guy behind you may be trying to get to the hospital to see a sick relative. Or, he could be trying to get to the ballgame, either way, Who Are You To Decide How Fast He Should Be Going?! 
