Before you cringe and say, "Oh gross," let me remind you - we all have it. I mean, when you think about it, ear wax could hold the key to world peace on account of it's probably one of the only things all humans have in common. (Oh great. Please don't send me e-mails about a rare disorder that stunts the production of ear wax.)
However, I have no illusions that I am going to solve the world's problems today. I am simply going to tell you about my ear wax.
In March, I started to notice my ears were plugged up to the point that it was affecting my hearing. I couldn't sleep on my right side because my ear would pop all night. I had days at work that it seemed as though I was listening to my students through a tunnel. I had trouble hearing my alarm in the morning because my ears were so filled up after eight hours of sleep. My husband often had to yell at me so that I could hear him (although he would say that this is an ongoing issue - ear wax or sans ear wax).
I went to my doctor who took one look in my ears and referred me to an ENT. I waited until June to make the appointment because I didn't want to go into my King and I performances with a perforated ear drum. And as my doctor said when I inquired about this risk, "Any time you go digging around in your ear, there is always a chance . . ."
The last time I had my ears cleaned out was about ten years ago, so at least I'm not a frequent ear wax flier. That ENT actually showed me the wax he pulled out of my ears - kind of a dark yellowish-brown. Most of it was pretty hardened and crusty, it had been building up for so long. He has since retired.
This time, my new ENT was a little more discreet - no ear wax to preserve in a jar as a memento. He did take me step-by-step through the process, but he would position my head and tell me what he was going to do while he was doing it, before I had any time to protest or prepare myself.
After a few minutes of digging and scraping, the ear doctor said, "This last chunk of wax is too deep. I don't want to dig it out," he dripped a cold solution into my ear. "I'm going to suction this last bit out with some peroxide and vacuum. It will feel cold and might make you dizzy."
I felt an over-sized whooshing, suction cup attach itself to my ear. It was over in a few seconds.
"Whoa," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden increase in decibels surrounding me.
"I'll talk really softly so I don't scare you," the ENT said. "It's like walking into bright sunlight after being in a dark movie theater. It was almost as if you had been wearing ear plugs for the last few months."
I made some comment like, "Hopefully, I'll be good for another nine years."
"We'll reflect in a decade," he said with a chuckle.
Then, I was let loose in the world with my superpower hearing. I felt like Superman or something. In public places, I tried to reassure people that I wasn't tripping out every time I would cock my head to determine what was making that strange rustling sound on the carpet - "Oh, it's my feet!" - or that rubbing sound between my legs (that was a tricky one to explain away) - "Oh, it's my pants!"
The mouse on the computer sounded like a woodpecker when I clicked it. The blender sounded like a jack hammer when I made a smoothie. The shower sounded like I was standing under Niagara Falls. I kept turning the television down. I fell to the ground, clutching my ears screaming, "Noooooo! It's too much sound!" It was my pivotal moment, like in the movies when the heroine realizes her superhuman strength is also her curse.
"This means you have to start listening to Dan too," my brother said when I told him about my superhero powers.
I quickly found out that Dan was thinking the same thing.
"Oh good," he said. "You won't have to keep asking me, 'What?' every time I say something."
But I already figured I probably still would, partly to annoy him and partly because he mumbles anyway.
When Dan came home from work that night, he said something to me, and my response was, "What?"
"Can't you hear me? I thought you got your ears cleaned out?"
"I feel like I'm talking so loud!" I exclaimed, ignoring his question. "Do I always talk this loud?"
Dan resigned himself to the fact that getting my ears cleaned out had not, in fact, made me a better listener.
"Yeah, usually," he said with a sigh.
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