Injections and a bit of love

The next morning, after seeing another specialist, I had a visit from the doctor who I had initially seen when I was first admitted to hospital, 4 days ago. She told me that there was another treatment called Intratympanic Steroid Treatment which would involve injecting steroids into my ear, once a week for four weeks. I told her that I was willing to try anything, and very soon I was lying on my bed as she tipped drops of anesthetic into my ear. She went away, after telling me to lie still and let the anesthetic numb my ear drum. After about half an hour the doctor came back and took me to a room just down the corridor. I was asked to lie down on a cushioned bench and to stay very still. I couldn’t see what was happening, but the doctor talked me through her actions. First she used a little vacuum-like tube to suck the anesthetic drops out of my ear. Then I felt a needle pierce my ear drum and travel through my ear, to what felt like deep inside my head. I could feel the needle somewhere between the bone of my jaw and side of my throat and was experiencing a scratchy pain in this place. I was desperately trying to stay still. My eyes were watering with nervousness and discomfort. After the steroids had been injected, I then continued to lie in the same position for about another half an hour to allow the steroids to infuse into my inner ear. I was so tired and lying there on the doctor’s bench in my hospital gown, I felt extremely vulnerable. I closed my eyes.

When I got back to my room, I was given a handful of cotton wool to soak up the mixture of liquid and blood that had started to drip out of my ear. Whilst feeling sorry for myself, and gently dabbing my ear, my boyfriend entered the room.

When I was in hospital my boyfriend was always by my side. Every day he would appear in the hospital room doorway with a smile. He’d bring pastries for breakfast, which we’d enjoy together in the mornings. When I was fed up of the cold milky hospital coffee, he brought me peppermint tea in a takeaway cup from a café outside the hospital. Every day he asked me for a list of things he could bring me from home that would make me feel more comfortable. He’d sit by my bedside doing work on his laptop while I slept. He would hug me tightly when I was upset or scared, and would always manage to calm me with positive words. One day, when the intravenous was uncomfortable, he washed my hair for me – I joked with him, that it was the most intimate I’d ever been with anyone! .

One day I was desperate for some fresh air, and my boyfriend and I decided to escape for a bit. I put my denim jacket over my shoulders and put my plimsolls on. Dragging my IV stand with two swinging glass bottles, we scurried to the lift. Once on the ground floor, my boyfriend carried my IV stand down the ramp to some exit doors, with me following behind. When we got outside we sat on the wall where the hospital staff usually gathered on their smoking breaks. There was a slight chill in the air as summer was moving into autumn; though the sky was a lively blue. I was longing to go home.

Before my sudden hearing loss happened, I would often rush through my days and routines, and everyday life would pass by, without time to pause or appreciate it. It was when I was in hospital I had time to reflect. I had moments of intense emotion, where I felt so thankful and fortunate for the love and care my boyfriend was showing me. I could see he was scared, and that he needed someone to talk to as well. I know it was hard for him, especially going back to an empty apartment with a mind full of worries and questions.

New medication

My first night in the room was an upsetting one and I felt like I was also imposing my distress on my roommate. In the early evening a nurse entered our room with a small, cubic-shaped machine and an intravenous stand; which looked like a cheap metal, unembellished hat stand. What I understood from what she told me in Spanish, and what her actions were telling me, was that she would be giving me some medication which involved the machine. The medication I’d previously been given had not required a machine, so I was puzzled at its presence. She proceeded to attach the machine to the stand, tightening a clamp at the back, and then clumsily secured an IV line to my arm; passing this thin plastic tube through a gap in the machine. She attached a small brown glass bottle of corticosteroid liquid to the top of the stand, and told me to press the emergency call button to alert her if the machine made a beeping sound. Within a few minutes the beeping started. As instructed, I pressed the red button that was attached to a cord next to my bed. ‘Beep Beep Beep…’ With each Beep I felt more and more awkward as I was certain I was disturbing my roommate. The nurse came back to the room to see what the problem was. She had short brown wavy hair and wore red glasses. Her glasses were on a string around her neck that she kept taking on and off in order to look at the machine, scrunching her face into an unnerving expression. She straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and again told me to call her if the machine beeped. A few minutes later, ‘Beep Beep Beep’. Again I pressed the little red button, and again I felt concerned about disturbing the calmness in the room. This time the nurse took longer to return, and my roommate asked me if I had pressed the call button. I reassured her that I had. Back came the nurse, looking even more frustrated. Fumbling with her glasses again, she straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. The third time it beeped, the nurse entered the room looking puzzled and exasperated, and this time she decided that it was a problem with the intravenous line in my arm. She then proceeded to check my arm for more suitable veins; taking her glasses off and putting them back on, to be certain of her choice. She decided on a rather uncomfortable location where my wrist meets my hand, just down from my left thumb. I turned my head so as not to watch her make the initial puncture in my skin, and tensed my face as I felt her awkwardly insert the IV line. She taped the tube to my arm, and again straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. Once she had left the room, and the machine had been quiet for a few minutes, I lay back on my bed and tried to relax. Since the medication bottle was small, I naively expected its contents to have been transferred into my body quite quickly, and then I assumed it would be unattached from my arm and I would be able to sleep comfortably. However, I soon realized that every few minutes when the machine made a mechanical clicking sound, only the tiniest of drops was released into the tube, and into my arm. I fell asleep, thinking that I would call a nurse when the bottle had finished, so they could disconnect me. An hour or so later, I awoke with an acidic stinging sensation in my arm. My arm had started to become swollen just above the line entrance, where the unpleasant liquid was entering my body. With every tiny drop, came more pain. I lay there, drifting in and out of uncomfortable sleep, until around 4am, when the machine finally beeped to signal the bottles emptiness. After only a couple of beeps, in came another nurse. This time it was a short, middle aged man, with a calm and friendly nature, and who entered the room with a torch in his mouth, so as not to disturb us with the room lights. I told him I was in pain, and his demeanor seemed to suggest that this was normal, although I was very tired by this point, and could not focus on what he was telling me in Spanish. As he removed the tube from the bottle, I heaved a sigh of relief. But a second later, to my dismay, he attached another identical bottle to the line, straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine and pressed the button to turn it back on.

By the second night, my arm was so swollen from the excruciating buildup of medication that the nurses had to try two more IV locations in my other arm, and I also finally ended up getting a different machine.

A new room

It was Monday, three weeks after I’d experienced the sudden hearing loss in my left ear, and there was still no change in my condition. That morning I was taken out of the ward. I was wheeled out in a wheel chair through the hospital to the Ears Nose and Throat area. I remember feeling so happy to be away from the ward, where I had spent every moment during the last 2 days, and I smiled at my boyfriend who was accompanying me.

First I went into a room with a small booth where I had another hearing test. It is difficult to do a hearing test when you have pressure and roaring tinnitus in one ear, and I found it challenging to distinguish between the beeping sounds that were being transmitted through the headphones, and the tinnitus. I also had the problem that when the technician played a loud sound into my deaf ear, I wasn’t able to hear it in that ear, but instead could hear it in my right ear. My head was conducting the sound that my left ear couldn’t hear. To solve this problem, a loud wind-type sound was played into my working ear to mask the conducted sound, to help me concentrate my left ear on the beeps; in actuality, this meant that it was even more difficult to concentrate. Next I was wheeled down the corridor and around the corner, to another room where a man put small plugs into my ears to check the pressure. Then I had a consultation with a specialist. She was a different specialist to who I had seen on the Friday when I was admitted to hospital, but was friendly and also spoke good English. She explained to me that there was no improvement in my hearing test, and that I’d have to stay in the hospital at least until Wednesday, as they wanted to see if I would have any response to further treatment.

Later that day, I was finally taken off the A&E ward and into a room that I would be sharing with one other patient. My new roommate was an older woman of whom I found it very difficult to guess her age, as she seemed to look younger with every day as she recovered from the complications she’d been having after surgery. Our room was simple, but comfortable. There was a window which allowed natural light to illuminate our days. We had a shared bathroom with a shower and sink, and two large plastic orange tubs of some mysterious liquid of which I never discovered its purpose.  My new roommate was a perfect hospital companion. She occupied the bed near the window and she valued her privacy. We often we passed our days with the curtain drawn between our beds, engaged in our own worlds either side of the curtain. She would spend her days reading, and I would spend time anxiously trying to relax, alternating between activities; reading, writing phone messages to friends and family, and sleeping. Every now and then, my roommate would peek around the curtain and check I was OK. She would always insist that if I needed anything then to let her know and she would get it for me. She told me that she had been in the room for three weeks, and hence she knew how things worked in the hospital. My roommate also kept me amused. I had heard her having discussions with the doctors who told her that she was to continue to just drink water and liquids, and not to try eating solids yet. However, every day her sister would come to visit her, and I would hear rustling sounds from behind the curtain. A little peak around this curtain revealed them eating rice cakes!

Early that Monday evening a nurse came into our room to give me my new medication, something which I wasn’t prepared for.

Hospital Food

In hospital, I was fed 4 times a day. The food was brought to each patient in a big grey rectangular tray made of thick plastic. On top of the tray, was a lid that fitted extra snugly, always proving difficult to remove. Taped to the lid was a small rectangle of paper with the patient’s name and the type of diet they were eating; vegetarian, bland etc. Underneath the name, was listed the contents of the tray. It became a ritual that before every meal time, I’d first read the label and imagine what the meal would look like, and then I’d unwedge the lid, moving it in small movements from side to side and lifting at the same time, until the contents were revealed. First there was breakfast, which was always bread, little packets of jam and butter, and a luke warm milky coffee that was served in a blue plastic cup with a lid which resembled a toddlers sippy cup. Next was lunch: usually something cooked such as a starter of Spanish vegetable puree, which is a thick green soup consisting of blended vegetables and stock, and often a generous amount of salt – this kind of soup was aptly renamed ‘Shrek soup’ by some of the children I used to teach a few years ago. This would be followed by a main course of something such as a deep fried portion of chicken with a small piece of salad. For dessert: something like be a prepacked plastic pot of flan – a wobbly and very yellow vanilla egg custard with a sickly caramel sauce. Around 5 pm the merienda would come. Merienda is the Spanish afternoon snack, and in hospital was usually identical to breakfast. On every meal tray was a small clear plastic packet with a bread roll inside. This bread looked like a tasty homemade treat, but was in fact the toughest bread I’d ever had the task of biting through. My first ever meal was the evening meal consisting of an omelette, a plate of square slices of sandwich ham with a ‘garnish’ of half a tomato, the ever-present bread roll and a desert of fruit puree that came in a small metallic foil pot with a peel off lid, and resembled baby food; that left a bad taste in my mouth.

Whilst in hospital I had a steady stream of messages from friends, colleagues and family, asking me how I was doing, and sending me their get well wishes. My best friend came to visit me on my first day. She appeared by my bedside, looking slightly alarmed at the environment she had walked into, but she hugged me, and made me smile with stories and her gifts of chocolates, magazines and a colouring book. I felt so lucky to have such a lovely friend. The head teacher from the school I work at, visited the next day, bringing another collection of stories and bag of treats; this time blueberries, raspberries and chocolates. Before my time in hospital, I had been somewhat unaware of the support I had in this country that I had called home for just over two years.  It was only when I found myself in this vulnerable position that I realized that there are people in my life here in Spain who are keen to offer their help, and I was inexpressibly comforted to know I was in their thoughts.

In the first few days of my time in hospital there had been no change in my hearing. I couldn’t hear anything in my left ear and there was still a lot of pressure in my ear and in my head. Loud noises were uncomfortable for my ‘good’ ear, and tinnitus sounds were incessantly swishing around my deaf ear, accompanied by the occasional screeching noise. In addition to all of this I was now exhausted from lack of sleep and the intensive drug treatment I was receiving, and I had begun to feel like things weren’t going to get any better.

72 hours in A&E part 3 – Mission Impossible?

Later that morning I was told that the medication they had been giving me was causing me to have low blood pressure, which had caused me to collapse. Whilst I was on this ward I was given a combination of anti-viral medication and anti-inflammatories, and also a mysterious pill that came in a little white envelope that I was told to take with meals – this was the pill I would no longer be taking, due to my low blood pressure. Then came the corticosteroids. These types of steroids are different to the type that you hear about athletes abusing, and are used to help reduce inflammation in the body. I think the reason that people who have experienced sudden hearing loss are given this drug, is because many of the possible reasons for the hearing loss could have caused inflammation, e.g. infection or trauma. Hence, reducing the inflammation could increase the potential to hear again. Whilst on the A&E ward, the corticosteroids came in the form of a white liquid in a syringe. Every few hours, a nurse would come by and squeeze the syringe through the line, into my arm. This liquid stung like warm acid as it entered my body.

There was only one shower for everyone in the ward to use. There seemed to be some kind of shower rule about when we were allowed to use it, as it appeared to be out of bounds after around 11am, but nobody had explained these rules to me. The shower room was a tiled cubicle in which there was also a toilet and a sink, and a trolley where two material sacks hung: one was a laundry basket to put your gown in to be washed, and the other had a supply of clean gowns. In the mornings, it seemed impossible to shower as there was a steady flow of elderly patients; each with a nurse by their side, to aid them in cleaning themselves. This meant that anybody who was mobile, it seemed, was forced to the back of the queue. My first two mornings, I had managed to sneak into the shower between the old people’s shower appointments. However, each time a nurse knocked on the door and told me come out, as people were waiting. By the end of day 2 in A&E I was desperate to wash my hair. Enough was enough! I had been monitoring the activity of the nurses. The evening meal started to be brought into the ward around 8pm every evening, and I didn’t usually get my food until around 8.30pm. At this time, the other patients were promptly in their beds, obediently awaiting their food, and so wouldn’t be needing the shower room. My boyfriend and I waited until 8pm. I grabbed my wash bag and towel, and by boyfriend accompanied me. I got to the shower room door, looked both ways to check nobody was watching, and I quickly ran in. My boyfriend waited outside, guarding the door. It was amazing to step under the shower and feel the drops of warm water on my head. After washing my hair, I peeped around the door, and my accomplice told me that the ward was busy with the meal time routines, and nobody had passed by. He walked quickly, yet casually, back across the ward and grabbed my hairdryer. This cubicle was now mine, and I was going to use it to its full potential! I applied face cream, and dried my hair. I emerged from that bathroom refreshed, and feeling quite mischievous, after successfully completing our mission! We arrived back at my bed to find that my meal had just arrived.

72 hours in A&E part 2

There was no natural light in the ward, and the few windows that they did have in the room were frosted, concealing the outside world. The beds were so close together that the patients could probably all hold hands. The first patient, who my boyfriend and I laid eyes on, was a lady who was in the bed to the right of me. Wearing her backless gown with confidence, she would circulate the ward with sociable ease; chatting with the other patients, and helping them by pouring water and getting them tissues. This lady had the biggest pair of knickers on; the skin coloured kind you see hanging up in town markets. From the top of her knickers emerged the line of her bottom which seemed to carry on all the way up to her shoulder blades! My poor boyfriend didn’t know where to look! Then there was the old lady who sat opposite me. Her name was Ana. She was 97 years old – I know this because the nurses kept shouting conversation at her – I think she must’ve been quite deaf. Ana spent her days sitting in her chair with her head moving from side to side in some kind of uncomfortable looking spasm. When her family came to visit though, she appeared to transform into a much more independent and happy woman. Her visitors also never shouted at her, and seemed to converse with her effortlessly, something I found curious. I spent three days on this ward, with patients coming and others replacing them. The sociable lady in the bed next to me, left after one day, in a big floral dress, waving happily goodbye to the short term friends she had made. Her replacement was a very ill looking guy, who was probably in his early thirties. As soon as he was in his bed, he was connected to lots of bottles of fluids and medicines. The whole time he was there, he had someone by his side; his mum who sat on a chair and knitted throughout the night, and a younger girl, who may have been his girlfriend.

My first night was a sleepless one. The nurse’s station was in the ward, so there was always a light left on, and quiet chattering from the staff. A chorus of snoring also filled the room, and at various intervals there was the clinking of glass bottles, as IVs were changed. In the early hours of the morning, I got up to go to the toilet, but found it was being cleaned. I waited, but started to feel unsteady on my feet, so used the men’s toilet instead. When I came out, I proceeded to walk past the nurse’s station, back to my bed. After only a few steps, my legs started to wobble and I was feeling really hot. My heart was beating strongly and breathing became difficult. Everything around me started to blur, like when children mix poster paints together on paper. I started to tell the nurse at the station, that I didn’t feel well. Soon after, I was falling.

72 hours in A&E part 1

Having seen my GP again, after a week of taking the anti-inflammatory tablets with no improvement, I was then referred to a specialist.

I began day 19 of being deaf by going to see an ENT (ears, nose and throat) specialist. I had taken the morning off work – it was a Friday. I was hoping that this would be the end of my ‘journey’ of deafness, and that someone would find the problem, give me some medicine, and all would be well.

I waited a long time at the specialists. I wasn’t even sure if I was in the right area. Everything was labelled in Spanish, and I kept double checking the number on the door that I was waiting outside. I remember noticing how people to my left were all in silent mode. Their lips were moving but they were speaking with no sound, like they were performing a mime.  To my right, things were as normal, I could hear doors opening and closing, and people’s names being called by the doctors.

My name was called, and a friendly woman asked me what the problem was. I told her briefly what had happened, and then I had to do my first audiometry (hearing test) – this was to be the first of many. The woman who explained the test to me was small, thin, and serious looking. After the test, her manner changed to a more motherly figure, and she took me by my arm. She spoke quickly and in Spanish, and I only understood part of what she was saying. She was telling me that I had to go to the A&E department of a nearby hospital immediately. She wrote down the hospital details and explained to me which Metro to take. I thanked her, and she looked me in the eye and told me she hoped I would be better soon.

When I left the building, I walked down the road to a bench that I had noticed earlier that morning. It was a sunny day, and nice to be outside as the city was beginning to warm up. My mind was disorganized with worry. I informed my head teacher that I wasn’t going to be back at work just yet, and contacted my boyfriend to let him know what was happening.

I was called into the ENT’s room at the hospital. I had been sitting outside waiting, thinking of all the things I had to remember to tell her, and exhausting my Spanish language skills to form sentences in my head. I walked through the door, and she immediately asked me if it would be better for me if she spoke in English. Oh my goodness, I was so glad to be able to explain my problem in my home language. She told me that she had lived in York for some time – a city close to where I grew up. After she had listened to my story, and she had looked inside my ears and mouth, she told me that I would have to stay in the hospital over the weekend. They were going to try giving me various medications, and on Monday they would do some tests.

Soon after, I was taken to a narrow room with a row of chairs, where people were being administered intravenous drugs. First I was attached to a giant glass bottle of anti-inflammatory medicine that dripped quickly through the line into my body. I was sat in a chair next to an American woman who was having problems with her gall bladder, and was in Spain traveling. She had recently been awarded her sommelier certificate, and had planned to travel around Spain with her husband, tasting wines from different regions. I helped her, by translating some of what the nurse was saying to her, and asking for water. I also met a guy, whose name I later learned was Alvaro. He was skinny, pale with dark shoulder length hair, and had kind eyes. He came to speak to me, and told me that he could translate if I needed it. Alvaro was there with his grandma, who was also being given the giant bottle of anti inflammatories. I was in this room for over 5 hours. Just as I was being attached to a bottle of antiviral medication, my boyfriend walked through the door and gave me a big hug. Sometime later, I was taken to a bed in an A&E ward, and I was so happy to finally get a hospital bed for the weekend.