I lift my finger for a couple of seconds, listening intently to try and hear the very subtle sounds coming through the headphones. That's another one, so I raise my finger again. Hearing tests are weird; this is only the second test I remember taking in my adult life.
Just a few years ago, it felt like I had a sudden and dramatic loss of hearing in my left ear. Like most guys, I had babied it along for about as long as I could stand it before finally making an appointment. I was sure the hearing in my right ear was fine; however, I pegged the loss in my left ear at around 50 percent. More sounds came through the headphones, deeper this time, and I had no problem hearing the notes and raising my finger in cadence with the sounds.
Two things have bugged me about my hearing loss. First, a mild to medium case of tinnitus (ringing in the ears), and thankfully it isn't any worse. Ten years ago, I noticed the ringing while lying in bed one night. I remember thinking, "wow, the crickets are loud tonight." Then I realized it was winter, and there were no crickets outside my window in the cold, singing me a lullaby.
Second, most people don't compensate their speech to accommodate the hearing impaired. For example, my lovely wife will stand across the kitchen with her back to me and say something. When I respond with "what?" She will repeat the phrasing in the same volume and tone, with her back still turned toward me. If I didn't hear it the first time, I would certainly not hear it the second. She doesn't do this out of spite or malice; it is simply a matter of human nature.
I finish the test, and the doctor sits at the table with me, pulling up my charts on the big screen TV in front of us. "Pretty bad hearing loss in both ears," he says. The chart shows an ugly picture, and I'm surprised that the right ear is as bad as the left. "I thought my right ear was okay," I mention, and he explains the chart in a little more detail. My right ear is slightly worse than my left. There is one tone utterly gone in my left ear that I can hear in my right, but other than that, my hearing is shot. "I recommend hearing aids," he says.
I'm not opposed to hearing aids; however, I'm still shocked that I'll need two of them. The doctor and I discuss types, features, brands, and prices. Finally, I settled on a set of aids that doesn't require changing batteries and comes with a portable recharging station to store and recharge the hearing aids overnight. I leave a deposit so the doctor can get them ordered, and we schedule a follow-up meeting to calibrate them.
The doctor is patient and kind, stepping through how to put them in the ear and take them out, he makes some adjustments, and I'm good to go. It's been 2-5 years since I probably needed some hearing aid, and the noise is the first thing I notice. Wow, things are loud. I comment about this, and the doctor indicates it will take a couple of weeks for my mind to begin to filter out noises again.
Keys rattle, doors click, and everything in our house beeps. The following day the waffle maker beeps, and I ask Linda if it had always made the beeping sound; of course, it has, I just hadn't heard it; the microwave has always had a loud beep; however, the Keurig machine beep I don't remember hearing. So, before leaving for the office, I identified a dozen new sounds in our house I didn't know existed.
A few weeks later, the doctor and I had a follow-up appointment. "How are the hearing aid's treating you?" he asks. "Our world is a noisy place," I comment. He smiles, and of course, it's beautiful to hear (most) of what is being said around me, even with backs still turned, and soft voices abound; however, every beeping thing (and the shrill screams of three-year-olds) come through loud and clear.
Written October 26, 2022