Waiting game

THEY MOVE you from one waiting area to another – and sometimes back again; each department you visit seems to have its own.

Anyhow, for an appointment which I thought might take fifteen to twenty minutes ends up being most of the morning.

First I’m seen by a rather pleasant chap, the specialist in the hearing department, and he gives me a preliminary examination.

I’m then sent to have my ears cleaned by a device that might have come out of a James Bond movie – a nozzle attached to machine that wheezes and groans and de-gunges my ears of their heavy wax build-up.

Next – after a suitable wait – I’m despatched to the other side of the clinic to have my hearing tested and measured, and once again I’m attached to a machine which sends faint tones into my ears and at each tone I’m to press a button on a handset I’m holding.

Trouble is, the tones are so faint, I’m not sure if I’m hearing them or if I’m just imaging doing so.

Eventually, the machine next to me cranks into life and prints out a long stream of results. Looking at this now, I get a sinking feeling that my fate is now sealed.

Back to the Ear, Nose and Throat Department and my specialist again: my tinnitus, it seems, is due to a loss of hearing in the higher frequencies and as a result I’m now listening to some of my own body’s functions – electrical currents passing to my brain, maybe the circulation of my blood, and so on.

A normal consequence of growing older, I’m told.

There’s mention of my needing a hearing aid, perhaps, in the not too distant future, and I’m suddenly feeling ten years older! Did I ever think, in my youth, that I would ever be likely to need such a thing? I didn’t even think so this morning!

They are holding off for the moment, in the hope that things might now settle on their own account; I’m to make another appointment in six months time to re-evaluate my circumstances.

More waiting! Meanwhile, I’m to continue putting in the drops.