Of Curve Balls and Such

Curve ball: (n) slang. Something that is unexpected or designed to trick or deceive, usually unpleasant.

I have long thought that my history of deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolism were to blame for my hearing loss. Even though my otologist deemed my case idiopathic, I've never been fully satisfied with that explanation.

I lost my hearing suddenly one week, and the following week, I was diagnosed with a fully obstructive pelvic blood clot. I don't consider it to be random or circumstantial, in spite of what my doctors have told me. Hearing loss has been attributed to a loss of blood flow to the inner ear. And the loss of blood flow created by the obstructive thrombus was silently working in my body well before I knew of its presence in my leg the following week. It's too coincidental for me to think they are not related.

What I didn't expect was that the chronic deep vein thrombosis I have dealt with for many years was exacting an irreversible toll on other parts of my body, as well.

Summers are for resting. Swimming, vacations, sports, and play. Sitting in the office of a cardiologist wasn't exactly on my list of things to do this summer, but I found myself there several times as he searched for answers to a heart issue that arose almost as suddenly as my hearing loss. The sudden symptoms mimicked a pulmonary embolism -- the racing palpitations and breathlessness and tightness across my sternum -- and in spite of the filter deep inside my inferior vena cava, I am acutely aware that blood clots can still slip past this protective barrier and enter my heart and lungs.

But the CT scan of my lungs revealed no clots. It's another curve ball.

The cardiologist immediately focused on my heart problem as a symptom rather than a condition. Atrial flutter, enlarged atria, and premature ventricular contraction (PVC) are symptomatic of a greater health issue, he told me. Blood studies, ultrasounds, echograms, a Holter monitor, and a DNA test were ordered and medications prescribed to relieve the symptoms. He firmly believed my heart had been damaged by my DVTs -- those silent, invisible killers that form in the deep veins of both of my legs.

My diagnosis of chronic deep vein insufficiency was no surprise. When my doctor explained that the condition is linked to a recessive, genetic factor that causes DVT, it wasn't an earth-shattering revelation. I'd long suspected it. The surprise was how dramatic its effect on my body has been. I wasn't prepared for the words, "It's a progressive disorder." It can be managed and slowed, but ultimately, it will progress and worsen, he told me.

I'd heard those words before. "It's a progressive disorder." They'd been used to describe my Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss almost three years ago. It was a curve ball that altered my life considerably.

And now I'm thrown another. We caught this one fairly early -- before significant damage to my heart had occurred. But it's left me questioning and contemplating those awful "what-ifs" again. And it's left me a little sad. My new medications line my counter top and my online searches now include fashionable compression stocking wear. This is not the future I had predicted for myself. Not at all.

Life throws us curve balls. I seem to have my share of them. It's not, so much, the curve ball itself that surprises us, but the disappointment that our expectations have not been fulfilled. Curve balls force us to duck or dodge, and alter our game plan yet again. Maybe there's a greater plan in play. I don't know. 

But I'm still in the batters' box. And I'm swinging away. Who knows where the ball will land.

And then there are glaciers...

There aren't many things that move me emotionally. Emotional tears just aren't my thing. I seldom cry at movies, over books, or stories meant to tug the heart strings.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not unemotional or cold-hearted. I just don't let my emotions fly from either end of the spectrum. When they do fly, it's usually on the side of anger. Honestly, I find the touchy-feely side of human emotion to be discordant with my pragmatist ways.

But then, there are glaciers. And glaciers can change everything.

During a recent trip to Alaska (my dream vacation), I visited the Hubbard Glacier, North America's largest tidewater glacier. As our cruise ship approached the gigantic glacier, naturalists on board shared facts and encouraged passengers to get outside to experience the full sights and sounds of the glacier.

The Hubbard Glacier

They speak, you know. Glaciers speak. Termed "white thunder", the movement of the ice rivers and the colliding ice crevasses creates loud and sudden booms that sound much like thunder, even though the sky is clear. On the crowded deck -- hundreds of people stood hauntingly still and quiet -- awestruck at this amazing ice river. Watching and waiting to hear. And then it happens. The thunder. White thunder. And the breathy gasps of onlookers.


But it wasn't the thunder that moved me to tears. It was something much, much smaller.

As our ship drifted in the milky, silt-laden water beside the glacier, the naturalist pointed out the small trails of ice floating from the glacier. "Listen closely," he said, "as the ice speaks to you -- weaving it's tales of life."

These aren't just rivers of ice. They are rivers of life -- flowing from the four hundred year old ice fields where they were born -- making its way from soaring mountains to water's edge. It's here to tell you its story. The story of how it has traveled far from its icy home to bring sediment and soil and nutrients to the fjord that sustains an amazing variety of life.

"Listen as the ice speaks to you."

And it did. Crinkling, crackling, crunching, snapping, and popping, like Rice Krispies in a bowl of milk. Softly, but just loud enough to perceive it -- if you listened intently.


As I so often do, I slipped the coil magnet of my CI from my head to compare my CI hearing against my hearing-aided ear.. The sound was lost. But with the CI, the ice streams spoke to me. It was a moment I found because of this marvelous piece of technology I love to hate. I can hear.

And then I cried.