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The Specialist

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Oct-19-2009

I had to go to the Doctor today. Didn’t want to go, but The Girl made me. I had figured out this way to play the scene that, oops ! I forgot !

It is about my hearing. Months and months ago, I was told that I had ruptured an eardrum, come back in two months. I did that twice with GP and today makes the third time that I have seen the Specialist.

Who usually looks at my eardrum and says, come back in two months. He also told me, today, that, wow, I had also ruptured the other eardrum, news to me.

But it has closed up. The bright side, I am sure that I shall some day be very happy about this

So, I know the layman’s info about eardrums. I know that if they are covered with scar tissue they shall never, ever march again to the sound of a distant drummer. The eardrum is a thin and sensitive membrane, scar tissue is not good news.

But I had The Girl with me ( remember Bikini Island ?).

I very politely asked The Specialist if there was anything to do about this ear business, for I am getting so very tired of saying excuse me ? Pardon me ?

And I received a very nonsense answer. I now have to have a hearing test. Ok. All the time the devil on my shoulder is saying, I’m deaf as a doornail, a pet rock even, why can’t someone, why, a specialist perhaps perhaps, tell me that perhaps there is now another way to hoe this row besides hearing aides.

But He didn’t.

The Girl came in. Watch out Bikini Island. Very politely I must say. Later on, I learned that she felt that The Specialist was totally ignoring my concerns.

She asked the same questions that I posed and received the very same non- answers.

However, The Specialist did indeed pay far more heed to her concerns than to mine ( someone tell me the proper way to use then and than ).

And The Girl is very, very upset about the whole thing. Ok, agitated. Honked off. Pissed as all shit.

As we went to the receptionist’s counter after this appointment, the tears started welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. We did that whole business that shall assure The Specialist of rec ( i before e except after c) eiving his payment for my consultation , filled with much consoling and empathy.

Before The Girl and The Boyfriend dragged me to The Specialist, I was joking with her about those little pull carts, that Omas use, for bringing the groceries home. Why, I said, using one of those might be very handy dandy indeed, but isn’t it really a sign of giving up the good fight, of accepting that one is an old cooter ?

She had to agree.

Hearing aides seem to be the only road left to me. Aides, not aide.

I wept, very quietly, in The Boyfriend’s car as they brought me back to my kitchen. They wanted to go to Mickey D’s and I said fine, but knowing that I look like something out of an Ed Wood film ( Creature Double Feature) when I cry, I said that I would stay in the car and maybe a small cup of coffee, black. I haven’t had any coffee in weeks.

The Girl knows me well enough to know that I don’t use guilt and that I was of course very grateful for them bringing me to The Specialist. Go inside, I would, but I look the fool right now.

They ate in the car, right in front of that BMW dealer’s place. We chatted about how ugly people can’t help being born ugly and how personality could compensate for everything. What about Charles Bronson ?

And then I told them that I was sorry, I simply over react to everything and after a few hours, while, I’ll just be fine.

Come hell or high water ( I did not say that) I shall find a bright side to all of this.

Back at Tara, dontch’a know ?

But first I need to have my poor, wee pity party.

  1. Mary Said,

    Oh, Sue! Sorry you’re going through this and who am I to say since I’m not in your shoes (cliche???) but at least, with the aides, you won’t miss out on so much that you probably are now. It took grandchildren to get my dad to finally give in and get aides as my mother would constantly point out to him how much he was missing out on (and I can also assure you that those around you will be most grateful that you are actually hearing what they’re saying instead of always saying “uh huh” in agreement cause you really had no idea what they just said! LOL!)

  2. Mummy Dearest Said,

    Mary, still trying to put this in it’s place. I have this though, it is very very easy to simply tune out all of that squabbling. And I do think that being blind would be much worse.

    Yup, I’m working on this one.

  3. jo Said,

    I have often pondered whether deaf or blind would traumatize me more. I still don’t know the answer as no reading/films or no music is a difficult choice. Having said this, only hearing issues allow a solution. Blind does not. So I guess in a worse case scenario I would choose deaf. Of course none of my logic makes his any easier for the person actively having to worry about it. I am sorry to hear that you ahve to make the choice AND deal with a completely different medical system.
    Wallow all you like. You deserve to.

  4. Mummy Dearest Said,

    Jo, for me it is a no hands down situation : I would rather be deaf. When I told The Father about the consultation ( The Girl sitting right there at the dinner table, very huffy indeed), I commented that it is far better than being blind. Then I scrunched up my shoulders, looked to the ceiling, pretending that Charlton Hestin was about to smite me with a thunderbolt of blindness.

    Think, for a minute , Jo. Yesterday we had some zucchini pasta thing. I was sautéing the garlic and The Baby asked if she could help. I have a full blown fear about the children being burned in the kitchen, perhaps because that during one of The Girl’s visits to a special hospital for little kids,about her eczema, we saw a small boy being treated for a very nasty burn. How that child screamed in pain.

    Back to sautéing the garlic . And so I said, sure. The Baby loves to cook. Just stir it around and look at the color. Is it still white, does it look a little yellow, or are some bits turning brown around the edges ?

    The garlic ended up being perfect. Well, what do I know ? Anything that isn’t burned is perfect.

    The point of the story is that so much of cooking is visual. Think about that, or else I could really go on and on about how it is…

  5. Karan Said,

    I’m sorry I’m so very far behind in reading your blog…bloglines just decided to update me with at least 12 entries from you. I hear you about this aging thing…I have a bum knee…hurt it much when young, ignored it for many many years, wrecked it in Italy. Ignored it more and then last April destroyed it again. Now must go to my own specialist where I expect to hear those words I have dreaded so long…time under the knife.

    Observation in Italy…only the young sexy things wear fine Italian designer shoes. Women my age wear sensible nun shoes. I resolved then to never wear sensible nun shoes…again. Of course, I can’t walk in the fancy footwear so now I hope for a cold winter so I can justify wearing snow boots and not admit that my feet like them best.

    Regarding hearing aides…the good news is that they are wee things now and the biggest challenge is keeping batteries charged and loaded. I too love the quiet of my own thoughts in a silent house but hearing isn’t an overrated sense, you will need it, especially as Mary pointed out when the grandkids start to arrive. As I recall, you are a lover of music and when this grieving for your youth passes (or whatever it is that brings those sad tears to your eyes), I’m betting that you’ll not prefer quiet solitude over Dylan.

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