Blame It On Mom

It really is Mom's fault. She drummed it into my head. "Make sure you wear clean underwear when you leave the house -- just in case you're in an accident."

Depending upon how you look at it, she either ruined me or prepared me.

My fear of being in an accident and rendered unconscious and needing a paramedic and wearing torn or dirty undies is on my list of personal phobias. It warrants my need to warn potential caregivers of my medical needs should I be unable to tell them on my own. I wore a medic alert bracelet temporarily while taking blood thinners. Now I'll wear a forever bracelet telling of my cochlear implant and my desire not to have my brain fried by an MRI.

 A friend designed my very stylish and beautiful beaded bracelet. (No ugly ID bracelet for me!) I ordered a new medic alert charm online. The engraving on the back clearly states: Cochlear Implant. No MRI. 

Mom would be proud. It's a good thing.

Grief

Quiet

Muted noise

My ears just cannot hear

Unrelenting, never ending

Silence

My doctor explained that cochlear implant surgery would render my profoundly deaf ear completely and irreversibly deaf. I didn't expect it to be so extreme. The difference between profoundly deaf and totally deaf is overwhelming.

There is too much time for thinking during this recovery. Idle mind and idle hands... I find myself grieving once again.

Staples

Staples: a u-shaped piece of metal used to fasten layers of easily-penetrable material (usually paper) together.

Staples are so commonly useful in everyday applications, we don't even give them a second thought. "Hey, hand me the stapler, please. I need to staple these papers together."

However, staples take on new meaning in the surgical-recovery realm. Especially when a dozen or more of them are in the side of your head. I counted fourteen little u-shaped staples in the photograph my daughter took of my implant wound. Fourteen shiny miracles of medical technology closing the incision that holds my future inside my incredible skin-organ.

They hurt. And my glasses clank against them.

I wonder who first thought of using staples instead of stitching. I tend to think it may have been one whose sewing skill was lacking.

Significance: (I looked this up.) Surgical staples are quicker and more accurate than hand suturing and are less likely to leak blood than other suture lines. Staples carry a lower association of infection and tissue reaction than sutures. Staples are frequently used to close wounds on the scalp.  Well, now. That makes sense, doesn't it?

They may be good, but they just seem a little on the weird side to me. And in that odd, strange, Frankenstein-ian way, I feel a bit like I've woken from a drunken coma to find that someone went a bit overboard on the body piercing.

I hope it doesn't hurt when I get them out.

I Am Borg

Locutus

I know who I am. I belong to a collective of individuals who have been implanted with an advanced bionic ear. I have a miniaturized computer inside my head. It's a technological miracle.

We jokingly refer to ourselves as Borg or Cyborg, but an occasional Dr. Who fan will happen among us calling out to be recognized as Dalek. Unlike the Borg, it doesn't connect me to the Hive Mind, but it does connect me in a unique way to those who have experienced it or who will experience it for themselves as a solution to their hearing loss. I am connected to them -- I am and forever will be a member of the cochlear implant community -- a community that boasts about 200,000 members worldwide.

I came through surgery yesterday dazed and sick from the anesthesia. The surgery took longer than expected as the surgeon encountered bony structures that were in the way -- an individual anomaly he was forced to route around. He assured my husband that he has encountered anomalies before in his 200+ implant surgeries and was able to insert the implant with precision. The extra time increased the amount of drugs in my system, though, and upon waking, I found myself coughing, vomiting, and having trouble breathing. This increased my time in the outpatient recovery as well. But as the effects of the anesthesia dissipated, I found the pain from the surgery to be tolerable, sleeping in an upright position in the recliner uncomfortable, and walking to and from the bathroom labored. I ate some chicken broth and drank some tea. I only saw it once, thank goodness.

Mini-Locutus

I can take the bandages off in a few more hours, and I'll take a mirror to see how the surgery has disfigured me. It's a mix of anticipation and dread. I expect a train wreck. But like a train wreck, it is something I am drawn to look at as I try to accept what I have become. And I know from past surgeries that scars calm with time, so I will be strong and hold my tears for something more worthy of my angst.

I am not Locutus of Borg. But in a weird, strange way -- in my bandages -- I might pass as his doppleganger.

Who Am I?

This morning, I am nursing sore muscles from an injury to my chest and ribs. I've no idea what I did to hurt myself. My doctor said it's not an infection or illness, thank goodness. It won't affect my surgery on Wednesday. If I'd had to reschedule the surgery, I'm not entirely sure I would've followed through and done it.  Because of their contraindication to surgery, I am unable to take medication that would ease the inflammation that is causing the pain -- pain that is gripping much of my physical and mental strength. I have pain pills, but they make me sleepy. I can't be bothered with it right now, and I've way too much to do to sleep away my Saturday.

I have substitute plans to make for my class while I am away. And I need to clean my house and shop for groceries. Thanksgiving is coming, and though my family will be helping, I can't shake the ingrained notion that our Thanksgiving meal is primarily my responsibility -- surgery or not. I'm tired. The pain in my chest is physical, but it is affecting me emotionally, as well.  I would like to rest. But with rest comes too much time to think and dwell on what is to come. That is not always a good thing.

I am a fervid ball of stress and anxiety.

I have to admit that I am dreading this cochlear implant that my doctor says will improve my quality of hearing life. I really am. My intellect tells me it is a good thing. But my heart betrays me with a disparate sentiment.

I've been praying for something else. Not that I believe I have been forsaken by God. The cochlear implant is a technological miracle for those like me. It's just not the miracle I wanted. It's not what I desire deep within myself. I was raised to believe that God would give us the desires of our hearts. And this isn't it. It's a compromise -- a contradiction of faith. And somehow it feels like a contradiction of who I thought I was.

I know what I want. I want to hear. But who I am seems to be lost in the flurry of emotions I bear.

Wednesday can't come soon enough.

Order for Monty

"What is your first name?" the young man behind the counter asked after I ordered my lunch today.

"Bonnie, " I said.

"M-O-N-T-Y?" he asked as he typed the letters into his register.

"No, Bonnie. As in 'my bonnie lies over the ocean," I said.

"Oh. Sorry. It's already in as 'Monty' so that's the name they'll call," he said.

...I'm not the only one who can't hear.

You Should Be Worried

One of the things people tell me is that my hearing loss has made them acutely aware of their own hearing. This is a very good thing, I think.

Hearing is a precious thing-- taken for granted until it isn't there.

And even though I am a mere novice in the hard-of-hearing world, friends and family and even acquaintances ask my opinion and advice for their own hearing travails.

"I never worried about my ears popping until I heard you say that's what happened with your hearing loss," they say.

"My ears have been stopped up for a few days. I never thought much of it before because it's usually sinus, but now I'm a little paranoid, so I made an appointment with the ENT," they say.

"I've noticed that I don't hear conversation as well in restaurants, either. Maybe I should get my hearing checked, ya' think?" they ask.

"I have this whooshing sound in my ears. Do you think I should be worried?" they ask.

Yes. Yes, you should be worried.

It may be nothing, I tell them. But then again...look at me. I'm not an expert. But why risk it? It's as simple as an appointment with those who are.

Hearing is a precious thing. Cherish it. Protect it. Don't take it for granted.

I Have Tinnitus

I just found out that the whooshing-like-a-fan sound inside my ear is actually a form of tinnitus. Interesting, as I thought I had none. I have no bells or ringing inside my head, which is what I thought tinnitus was, just occasional clicking. And lots of rushing wind.

It's exacerbated by loud noise. It can become deafening (excuse the pun) in my classroom, the school cafeteria, and even in my family room if the TV is up too loud and my family is talking. It's relieved by silence --- now that's something I have plenty of.

Don't judge me. I copied this from Wikipedia: "Tinnitus can be perceived in one or both ears or in the head. It is usually described as a ringing noise, but in some patients, it takes the form of a high-pitched whining, electric buzzing, hissing, humming, tinging or whistling sound, or as ticking, clicking, roaring, or "crickets," tunes, songs, beeping, sizzling, sounds that slightly resemble human voices or even a pure steady tone like that heard during a hearing test." It is multi-faceted.

Tinnitus is an interesting, if tenacious beast.

And apparently, it's all too common for those of us with hearing loss. In the absence of sound, the brain tricks us into thinking we are hearing -- a compensation for the loss of hearing -- even if it is inside our head. It's not "real" sound. It's a phantom. [The brain is an amazing organ.]

I'm fortunate my tinnitus isn't so bad. Sometimes annoying, but mostly a non-issue. Others are not so lucky. 

What's that you say?

If you'll excuse me now, I need to kill some crickets.

A Paradox

"We have determined that the treatment is medically necessary and is eligible for coverage."

Wow.

Another insurance company wielding its power over a voiceless and faceless patient. I am held captive by a for-profit insurance company who I voluntarily submit myself to -- a board of unknown and anonymous authority that I allow to make decisions about my health care and well-being. A supremacy who I actually PAY to exert their will on me -- and the medical experts who know and care for me -- a human soul. A real person.

It's a racket, I tell you. A racket.

But if I am so paralyzingly dismayed at the gall of my insurance company, why did their determination of acceptance make my heart leap for joy?

That, my friends, is a paradox. Both absolutely absurd and absolutely true.,