Category: Hearing Loss Journeys

Can I Help You Wash the Dishes?
A Hearing Loss Story

Posted on by JoAnne Dyer

By Abha Sharma

“Ma, why do you have to disappear into the kitchen?”

“Ma, after dinner, you are to sit down with us. Right here. No washing dishes. No disappearing in the kitchen.”

My two teenaged children did not appreciate their mother’s customary habit of disappearing, post-dinner, into the host kitchen.

It was Thanksgiving in 2000. Dinner at our Indian supervisor’s home in Galveston, Texas, was a huge potluck affair. The seven-foot-long dining table, loaded with food, revealed it all. At one end was the white porcelain platter with the traditionally cooked American Thanksgiving turkey, stuffed with chopped dry fruits and bread stuffing and whatnot. A small dish of bright, orange-red cranberry sauce glistened nearby, royal, and starkly separate.

The other end of the table was graced by an array of typical Indian dishes: the rasey valeh alloo-tamatar (gravied potato-tomato curry), mixed vegetables, chicken curry, pakodas (the deep-fried potato and onion fritters), masala chana (the spiced, gravied chickpeas) and even a humble dal (the lentil soup). Shut tightly, a stainless steel dabba (box) contained homemade, ghee-covered rotis (tortillas). Green peas gave some color to a rather sad-looking macaroni & cheese casserole baked in a blue-lid covered Pyrex-glass container. Not enough cheese, maybe? No Brussels sprouts. No corn. No almond-sprinkled green beans. Not even the traditional pecan and sweet potato pies either. Desert? White rasogullas, the traditional juicy, dipped-in-sweet-syrup, round white balls made from cottage cheese or paneer. Plenty for seconds and thirds. Thanksgiving was very much a desi (desi refers to South Asians, mostly Indian, Pakistanis, and Bangla Deshis) affair, thank you, with lots of desi food.

I smiled. I also remembered our first Thanksgiving and many other dinner parties during 1989 and 1990, when we were living in the States. We were celebrating the occasion at an Indian home in exactly the same manner. Piling food high onto two dinner plates from a similarly graced dining table, I gathered our two young children, then eight and three years old, and sat down to eat with the other ladies and their kids. The men usually ate separately.  

Singing as best as I could, then helping with the dishes

Post-dinner, the children played amongst themselves. Meanwhile, in the living room, the ladies and men teamed up in two groups. Seated on opposite sides, they began antakshari, the game of the ending letter where a member of one team sang the first verse of a song that began with the consonant of Hindi alphabet on which the other team member’s song had just ended. A friendly, fun competition of endless Hindi Bollywood melodies.

The singing was loud. The exhilaration pulsated. The songs, especially the cherished oldies, were fun to hear, even nostalgic. I participated actively. Even if I did not hear well, I caught onto the song by comprehending just a few words and joined in, albeit a little late.

The problem arose only when the newest, the latest songs in Bollywood were being sung. I was lost. Never heard them before. Could not comprehend a single word. Unable to participate, I would invariably get bored. A few minutes later, I would approach the hostess.

“Can I help you wash them?” I would ask then pick up dishes from the dining table.

In my memory, I started this trend. I helped wash dishes at these parties in the States.

Why did I always recede into the host’s kitchen?

Did I really like to wash dishes?

Did I have this big, kind heart who did not like to see elderly ladies wash dishes at the sink? Actually, that might partly be true.

Why was I not fazed by the possibility of spoiling my fancy silk saree?

Didn’t I do something similar at a cousin’s home, post-dinner, after an unexpected, huge gathering? Despite the suggestion that I should spend time with the other guests in the living room, I had retreated to the kitchen and gloved my hands, ready to wash dishes by her side at the sink. Why?

Discovering the answers with help from HLAA

The answer to my questions emanated not long after I joined the Hearing Loss Association of America (HLAA) in 2010.

In 2007, we moved to Fort Worth, Texas where my husband Raj and I were employed as research faculty at the University of North Texas Health Science Center. A few years later, driving through the town one day, I came across a board sign with information on HLAA and chapter meetings, in particular, about one scheduled to be held at the Fellowship Hall of the Central Christian Church nearby. Intrigued, I planned to attend. Clearly, my first chapter meeting was life changing: I felt completely at home amidst a group of members that were partly or wholly deaf, some of whom wore hearing aids, while others used the sign language. Still others (very few then) wore cochlear implants. A regular attendee thereafter, I served on the chapter board and even attended the annual HLAA convention in Portland in 2013. Life-changing once again.

Hearing Life magazine holds another key

Hearing Life is the HLAA quarterly publication. As a member, I subscribed to it. Four times a year, the magazine arrived in my mailbox. Faithfully and lovingly stacked up one on top of each other, they lay there pretty much untouched for almost two years on my coffee table at home. One afternoon, home early from work, I glanced upon an interesting cover and lapped it all up. Not just that one issue — I skimmed quite a few. Right then.

From there on, I solved many mysteries of my life. I finally understood the whys and hows of my behavior, including why I was so generous with party throwers.

Stories shared in Hearing Life helped me realize what and how I could and needed to change, both about myself and my misconceptions. Things I had not heard from any audiologist. Things I had not bothered to understand even when I was advised by an audiologist.  

For years, I’d enjoyed and preferred conversations that were one-to-one or in small groups of friends or family, without understanding why. Now I caught on. Figuring out what was being said in a gathering of speakers for long periods of time drained me. Listening with sensorineural hearing loss was already hard. Pretending to comprehend several speakers at the same time or in succession, all the while trying to lip-read and guess the words being said exhausted me. So, then what did I do?

I disappeared. I disappeared from the gathering, and washed dishes in the quiet comfort of the kitchen. Be it mine or the host. Dishwashing was easy, effortless, undemanding. No listening involved. I was in control.

Also, while I was washing dishes, I processed conversations, a delayed comprehension of what some people had said. And, of course, during all this time, I hoped that no one would come by, at least not for some time. I so needed that break from listening to people.

Simply put, I would rather wash dishes than listen to people in a group setting even if the conversation was interesting. The knowledge of this overwhelmed me. It was my first a-ha! moment!

Hearing aids: Two are better than one

The second a-ha! moment was hard to swallow, but I did it. Finally.

Audiology tests had always revealed that I should wear two hearing aids. As early as 1990, the audiologist, especially in the States, would remind me of this and ask me to wear both hearing aids and wear them consistently. Did I listen? Not me.

“Why don’t you want to wear both, Abha? It would really be helpful to wear them all the time, not just when you have to speak with someone.” Gently, my audiologist questioned me.

Not convinced, I continued to wear only one, the right one. Also, not always, just when I chose to.

In retrospect, my subconscious mind might have been trying to go along with the words spoken by the doctor who had first diagnosed my bilateral sensorineural hearing loss in India in the 1970s.

“Despite the severe hearing loss, you have done well so far. I do recommend hearing aids. But, try not to wear all the time. You might get too used to them. You will be fine,” he had said.

At age thirteen, Dr. Emerick was my idol with his very positive and comforting words. I so wanted to believe that I could continue doing well without the hearing aids. I did not want to get used to them. I so wanted to be fine even when I was not, even when I really needed the hearing aids.

By wearing one hearing aid or none at all, not only was I hard-pressed to listen, I was forced to speak loudly. After all, I could not hear my own voice. Double whammy. Unwittingly, I tired myself. On the other hand, when I began to wear the hearing aids — both of them and consistently — I heard myself louder, whereupon I spoke softer. Without even trying.

Two hearing aids entered only late in my life. In my mid-fifties. Today, I am never without them, at least in my waking hours.

Telling others I have a hearing loss: please face me

A monthly feature of my life back then, chapter meetings in Fort Worth were held on a second Saturday with at least 25-30 attendees. The highlight? An invited talk by an authority on hearing loss issues, or the latest development in hearing technology followed by coffee or tea and light refreshments hosted by any one of the many members. Printed name tags for easy identification, brochures on deafness and hearing loss, an attendance sheet, catchy handouts, and occasionally pins inscribed with “Please Face Me” set up strategically on a table greeted the eyes as one entered the meeting hall. The last always captivated me.

A physical expression of my needs for good communication? Over the years, I collected a bunch of those pins for myself and was content to simply dump them in a straw basket in my dresser drawer. Occasionally, I even wiped them clean. Lying snugly, the badges beckoned to be pinned on, but to no avail.

Why would I not wear a “Face Me” button? How hard could it be to pin one on my dress every day when I went out to face the world?

I have no answer, but clearly, we — Deaf people and people with hearing loss — need to actively advocate for ourselves. We need to let people know what we want from them in order to have a good, meaningful, painless, easy conversation. We want them to face us. Period.

“Hi, I have hearing loss issues. You might have to speak clearly and slowly for me. A bit loud, please. Also, can you please face me? It would make listening easier for me. Thank you so much for your understanding.”

We might express our needs well at the initial introductions. But people forget. And we hesitate to repeat our request to “Please Face Me.” Instead, we get into the pretending game. Agreed, it is hard to do, but we need to remind them. Not once, but several times. Again, who likes to do that? Not me. Wearing the aptly inscribed pin would have been a great reminder for me to ask and for others to see and hopefully carry out the instructions. Easier conversations for everyone involved. Not 100% foolproof, agreed again. And of course, I would need to put up with all those intent stares from people curious about the inscription.  

I also never want to hear, “Never mind. It was not important.” That hurts. Like nothing else.

For now, I am a very proud and appreciative badge-wearer who might still forget to wear it sometimes.

Another gift to me from HLAA: putting some things first

Finally, stories shared in Hearing Life taught me to take care of my needs. First.

For years, I had never cared to clean the hearing aids. Where was the time? Of course, I had the entire cleaning kit. But there was always something to rush to. The kit was nice and compact, the tiny black brush and the cleaning wipes each in their own container. I even cut the sheets into small pieces to save on their use. But did I wipe-clean my aids every morning? Did I clear my ears with an ear bud after a shower? Did I air-dry my ears with the hairdryer? Not me. Not until I found myself hurting and taking a course of antibiotics. An itchy ear and pain were becoming all too frequent, especially in Seattle winters. And I was getting older by the year.

Today, my dresser drawer is stocked with good quality earbuds and a hairdryer. I also follow a strict hearing aid cleaning protocol before I wear them after a shower.

Indeed, there was and is much to thank HLAA for. Not least is the fact that attending parties is different now. I wear two hearing aids. ALWAYS. And while I would be happy to, I do not always offer to help wash the dishes.

Instead, I get away with my little granddaughter, Sakina, and together, we disappear to play “hide and seek” in the crowded party.

About the Author

Born and brought up in India, Abha is an Asian American emerging artist, writer and research scientist at the University of Washington, Seattle. She struggled to hear since childhood but was diagnosed with sensorineural hearing loss only in her early teens. Strongly supported and encouraged by her parents, Abha persevered to educate herself while actively pursuing the arts as well. A doctorate in Biophysics from a premier medical research institute in New Delhi, she is a scientist by profession and an artist by heart.

Abha married Rajendra and, later along with their two young children, the couple traversed a tough immigration process as bio-researchers in Texas to pursue the American dream.

A recipient of the 2021 Grants for Artists’ Progress (GAP) Award from the Artist Trust, and the Artists Up Mentorly Scholarship from the state of Washington, Abha was a semi-finalist in the She Writes Press and SparkPress Towards Diversity in Publishing (STEP) contest. She has been awarded several scholarships including the Altman Writers of Color from the Hudson Valley Writers Center New York (2021-2022) and is published in several literary magazines. One of her essays- “Kitaab” was nominated by the editors of The Touchstone Literary Magazine for inclusion in Sundress Publication’s Best of the Net Anthology.

Abha keeps herself joyous, sane, and alive through writing, crafting, painting, walking the woods with music in her ears (preferably near water bodies, even small ones will do), rediscovering alternative nutritional and water therapies, reviving stories about strong women in her life and spending quality time with her three grandchildren. Also, she is always ready to dance to music if you have the inclination for it.

Facebook profile link:  https://www.facebook.com/abha.sharma.961556

Instagram profile link:  https://www.instagram.com/Abha.sharma.author

The Things We Do When We Have a Hearing Loss:
The Final Chapter (I Hope), or How I Got My BAHA

Posted on by JoAnne Dyer

By Rick Faunt

You might have read part one and part two of my story, where I chronicled my attempts to improve the hearing on my right side. The short version of why I have that hearing loss: I have a non-functioning Eustachian tube, and the bones in the middle ear have rotted away from too many infections. I had seven surgeries to clean the area, insert tubes, and place (and replace and replace, etc.) the prosthesis.

Finally, the doctors and I gave up on that approach and decided on a new type of hearing aid. The goal here this time was to remove the hearing aid from the ear canal and allow the ear to drain and dry itself.

An example of a BAHA.
Photo credit:
Oticon Medical.

What’s a BAHA?

The Bone Anchored Hearing Aid, or BAHA, had been used in Europe for a while and had made its debut in good old U.S. of A. Back then, I was the third patient at the VA to receive a BAHA, but in the 20 years or so since, the BAHA has become more prevalent. Basically, it uses bone conduction to transfer the sound to the inner ear. A titanium post is inserted into the mastoid bone above the outer ear and the processor snaps onto the post. The processor vibrates, these vibrations are carried through the bone to the inner ear, and the sound is processed normally.

The BAHA comes in several styles and colors. The style will depend upon your hearing loss. Generally, the BAHA is indicated for mild to moderate conductive hearing loss; however, it is also effective for single-sided deafness. BAHA accessories are available: directional microphones, audio adapters, and others. Cochlear decided that t-coils are not needed in BAHAS now and replaced them with Bluetooth. I have mixed emotions about that.

Ah-Ha! Hearing Better with a BAHA

But I am very pleased and excited with my BAHA. I am hearing better than I have in years. The first night I had the processor, I was in a meeting in a hotel room with five other veterans, and I was able to hear and follow several conversations well enough to make appropriate responses and not just make up answers. Veterans, at least the ones I hang out with, are a loud and boisterous group, so being able to do this was fantastic. I got several comments that night about how responsive I was and how people hadn’t seen me smile so much in years. That is the good side! The aid works very well for me.

The downside is that with the t-coil now being an accessory, I have to remember where the adapter is and take time to let everything connect via Bluetooth. That means another device hanging from my neck, and if the phone rings, I have to reconnect the Bluetooth with the phone, so I miss some calls.

The BAHA Surgery

Now I’ll describe the fun part: the procedure. Getting a BAHA involves some relatively simple surgery. The level of anesthesia depends upon the doctor and patient tolerance. I was originally told I would have a general anesthetic, but the anesthesiologist decided I was young and robust enough to tolerate a local. I was given what she called the “happy drug.”

First, around the area where the implant is going to be, they fold back a flap of skin and scrape off the hair follicles to prevent hair from growing back around the abutment (the titanium stud). I am guessing, but I think the size of the area was about a half dollar size; it ends up with a quarter-sized area that is bald. Then a hole is drilled, tapped, and the stud is screwed in. Since I was mostly awake and drifting in and out of “never-never land,” it was somewhat disconcerting to hear the doctor ask for a high-speed drill, then a torque wrench, and then finally — the fun part — I heard, “Not deep enough, back the stud out.”

More drilling was heard and felt through the mastoid, and then the doctor again asked for the torque wrench. This time he seemed to be satisfied, and he continued his joking with the resident doctors.

An Easy BAHA Recovery

I found out later that I was the third person to receive a BAHA at the VA Hospital, so I was, once again, that guinea pig that I complained about in earlier articles. This time, though, I didn’t mind; everyone had a goal and knew what the result should be.

The whole procedure took about an hour and a half. The only complication, which resulted in nausea, was a reaction to being given too much codeine on an empty stomach. Unlike previous surgeries on my ear, I was able to take normal showers and had no lifestyle restrictions.

In the days following the implant, I can’t tell you if I had pain or not because I used the “happy pills” they gave me. But I don’t recall having any of the problems that I thought I might have. Although, if the wind is cold and the stud uncovered, it creates one heck of a chill!

After the abutment is implanted, it takes about three months before the processor is attached. The delay is to give the bone a chance to grow around the implant and make a solid contact for conducting the vibrations.

BAHA for the Win: Near-Normal Hearing

At this point, other than the relatively minor factors I’ve discussed, I am finding the BAHA to be an exceptional hearing device, and I am very pleased with the results. In fact, the day I got my processor, the audiologist gave me a quick hearing exam and stated that, on that side, I had near-normal hearing. Also, since one goal of getting the BAHA was to clear the ear canal, I have not noticed a recurrence of the chronic ear infections, and I have discontinued use of the antibiotic.

It is certainly worth discussing with your hearing care specialist to determine if a BAHA would meet your needs.

About the author

Rick Faunt has been a member of HLAA, in its several names, since 1996. He has held nearly every office at the Chapter and State level and continues to this day. He is a retired Boeing worker and was a consultant/installer of various Assistive Listening Systems for the hard of hearing.

The Things We Do When We Have a Hearing Loss
Part Two

Posted on by JoAnne Dyer

By Rick Faunt, HLAA-WA Treasurer

photo of headphones, ear probe, and an audiology exam report

I left off in Part 1 of my story with the hope that a half-dozen surgical attempts to correct a hearing loss would result in stabilized hearing. You may remember that my hearing loss was caused by a nonfunctioning Eustachian tube that allowed a bumper crop of germs, bugs, and other slimy things to grow and feed upon the middle ear bones. Unfortunately, my usual luck continued to hold true after these surgeries.

Success…Kind of

Yes, the surgeries did work. I got a 20 dB improvement in the hearing on my right side that lasted almost a year. But — and there’s always a “but,” isn’t there? — the “permanent” ventilation tube that was supposed to allow the ear to drain and keep the pressure equal got plugged, and it needed some TLC from the doctor.

I didn’t really notice the decrease in hearing until I had my annual follow-up hearing test and exam by the staff at the Veterans Affairs Regional Medical Center. The audiologist noticed that my hearing level had dropped since the post-surgery test, and I had effectively lost about half of the gain we had made. He also noted that the eardrum had a poor response to the pressure test.

After giving me that batch of good news, he sent me out to the waiting room to think about things until the ENT doctor could see me. The luck of the draw gave me the resident doctor this time instead of the head doctor. Oh goody, more practice for a resident! I am convinced that my chart is stamped with big letters saying, “This guy is a great guinea pig.”

Sharp, Pointed Objects….Ooops

The resident doctor looked in my ear and determined that the tube was plugged up. He tried to unstop it using a variety of sharp, pointed objects. When these didn’t work, he tried the suction hose. That worked, I guess. It sucked out the tube along with whatever was clogging it.

Upon hearing him say “Oops!” I became decidedly unfriendly. After exchanging thoughts and plans of action, we decided to let the ear heal, and I’d come back in a few months to see if any fluid had built up. He decided this after I explained in my calm, quiet, reasonable manner that the reason the tube was in my ear in the first place is because I have a long history of fluid building up and causing problems.

I waited the three months it takes for things to heal, or maybe they felt it takes that long for me to calm down. When I returned, this time I got the man, the head honcho himself, the guy that did the surgery. He looked in my ear and concluded that I needed a tube inserted to drain the fluid that had built up. Maybe the look of absolute disgust on my face had something to do with it, or maybe he suddenly recalled some of my discussions with his staff. Either way, he then apologized and said that getting a new tube inserted would probably become a routine part of my hearing care plan.

So, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Stay tuned for part three.

About the author

Rick Faunt has been a member of HLAA, in its several names, since 1996. He has held nearly every office at the Chapter and State level and continues to this day. He is a retired Boeing worker and was a consultant/installer of various Assistive Listening Systems for the hard of hearing.

The Things We Do When We Have a Hearing Loss

Posted on by JoAnne Dyer

By Rick Faunt, HLAA-WA Treasurer

I have different hearing losses and causes on both sides. On the left is Meniere’s Syndrome, and on the right, a combination of problems culminating in the loss of the bones in the middle ear. It is my right side that this blog post will cover.

I have never had an earache without a sore throat or vice versa, and it took me until I was 37 years old to figure this out. Some people are slow learners. When I developed a sore throat that turned my right ear into a throbbing drum of pain, I figured it was time to let a professional look at it instead of relying upon the old home remedy of wrapping my ear in Saran wrap and gutting it out.

Since I was retired from the U.S. Navy and am being “followed” by the Veterans Administration for hearing loss and related complications, I called the VA to make an appointment. After being on hold for what seemed to be a week but was only about 20 minutes, the other shoe dropped.

“Yes sir, we would love to see you, but our next opening is not for 3 months. Can you wait?”

Since I am a calm, collected, patient, and understanding individual, of course I said… If you have ever heard the phrase “he cusses like a sailor,” then you have some idea how that part of the conversation went. The gist was something like, “Lady, in three months it will have killed me or cured itself, so I won’t need your services,” accompanied by my placing the phone handset back into the cradle at about Mach 30.

So off to a civilian clinic I went instead, only to find out that I needed to see a “specialist.” I hate it when I hear this, as it always seems to mean more pain and more money.

Finally: A Specialist and a Diagnosis

After waiting only two days, I got to see the specialist. This was more like it. The doctor came in, investigated my ear, and said, “Did you know you have a nasty infection?” For this I needed a specialist? Anyhow, he got his doctor tools, put on a full-face shield, and said he’d drain the middle ear and insert a tube. Just as he finished saying this, the face shield was covered with gross yellow and green and red stuff. But I felt 1000% better already.

Now it was his turn to drop the other shoe. All those ear infections, earaches, and whatnot had been caused by a non-functioning Eustachian tube, resulting in a retraction pocket, which in turn resulted in cholesteatoma. If the Eustachian tube doesn’t work properly, the middle ear cannot equalize air pressure or drain, and nasty things start growing. When the tube is working right, you can tell by the “popping” that occurs when you drive over a mountain pass. In my case, that didn’t happen often, and some of my problems when I was SCUBA diving were now also explained.

But about that other shoe. It seems that modern medical miracles include the ability to surgically repair the middle ear, and the doctor felt that I was a good candidate for the procedure–or did he say guinea pig? After thinking about it for a couple of days, I said, “What the heck, doc. Give it a shot.”

The Ear Surgery, Part One

After the surgery, I remember being in more pain than I had ever suffered in my total life. When Michael Ann, my girlfriend, came to pick me up, I lifted one of the patches they had placed over my eyes, looked her in the eye and said, “Go home, get the gun, shoot me.”

I couldn’t figure out why my entire body hurt when all they worked on was one ear! I mean I HURT everywhere, from the hair on my head to the hairs on my toes. After I recovered somewhat and went to the follow-up visit, the doctor explained that after about six months, I had to come back and let him finish the job. This was only part one of a two-part experience. Lucky me. The first trip was primarily to clean up the cholesteatoma and determine the extent of the damage. The bad news: The middle ear bones were all so rotted that they couldn’t be saved. The good news: Modern medical science saves the day by providing a plastic or exotic metal substitute for the middle ear bones.

The Ear Surgery, Part Two

Six months go by, and again I make all the usual arrangements. This time when the anesthesiologist comes in and asks, “Are you allergic to any medications?” I have an informed response: “Most definitely I am, and I hope my chart shows the drugs that were used the last time. I promise you that if I wake up in as much pain this time and I recover I will bring my cement filled rubber hose back here, find you and beat you with it.”

It took him several seconds to respond to that while he was flipping through the chart so fast the pages felt like a fan. The look of combined relief and disbelief on his face made me wonder what was next. It seems that last time, they used curare, the same stuff South American Indians used on their poison arrows, as a paralyzing agent. Normally when used in small amounts, this stuff works just fine; however, lucky me is that “one in a million” who has a bad reaction. When the curare took hold, my entire body underwent a muscle spasm, and every muscle tied itself into a knot and stayed tied for the entire time I was under anesthesia. After telling me all this, he said we had a deal: We wouldn’t inflict pain on each other.

He was true to his word; I didn’t hurt as bad this time. Only my head hurt especially where they stapled my ear back on. Yes, I said stapled. I looked like one of Doctor Frankenstein’s lab rejects. I smelled like one too, since you can’t take a decent shower for a few days. After the staples–or if you are lucky, sutures–come out, you can get your head wet, but not your ear, so you take a shower holding a plastic cup over one ear. This isn’t so bad after all, as it lowers the volume of the singing.

But There’s a Problem

This procedure was supposed to restore my hearing to a good portion of “normal,” and my luck held true to form. The darn thing would not stay in place. My hearing would improve drastically for a short while, then would go away, much like a stereo with a bad solder joint in the volume circuit. Loud, soft, loud, soft. . . and then it stayed soft. Nothing was gained except an infection was cleaned up.

Being a glutton for punishment (I told you I am a slow learner), I let the doctors try to “correct” the positioning of the prosthesis a few more times. Each time it was the same thing – the bad solder joint. I finally gave up hope of fixing my hearing in that ear. I find having hearing aids a blessing in that I can always shut off my hearing when I don’t want to put up with my surroundings.

My resistance lasted about three years before the doctors talked me into trying again. During my annual checkup and evaluation, the doctors noticed that the retraction pocket was forming again, and since they couldn’t see it all, there was a probability that another cholesteatoma was growing.

Another Ear Surgery and a Harvest

The doctor told me it would be different this time. My main goal in this attempt was a permanent ventilation tube placed and a new ear drum built and installed, as per his recommendations. I told him he could take the prosthesis out and throw it into the trash. He wasn’t willing to give up on it yet and wanted to try his idea. Since he had to open the area again anyway, I agreed to let him try. I thought that if the hearing was fixed, so much the better, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up again.

The doctor went in behind my ear and harvested (I love that term; it makes me feel like I’m a crop of some kind) some cartilage. Then he molded it into a replacement eardrum and inserted the tube. Then he took some more cartilage, built a “ramp,” and rested the prosthesis on it. This was supposed to hold things in place while they heal.

After this surgery, the “bad solder joint” didn’t go through the usual swings of loud and clear to soft and muffled. A good sign at last?

Stay tuned for part two.

About the author

Rick Faunt has been a member of HLAA, in its several names, since 1996. He has held nearly every office at the Chapter and State level and continues to this day. He is a retired Boeing worker and was a consultant/installer of various Assistive Listening Systems for the hard of hearing.