Stranger Things: My Septoplasty Story – Part 3

At 8am the night-shift nurses said their goodbyes to me, and new staff started to enter the room.  An hour or so later I was given some antibacterial hand gel to clean my hands, and was presented with a yogurt, a clear jelly, a pack of plain biscuits, and some thick sweet fruit juice. I devoured it all. I paid only momentary notice to the difficulty I was having in swallowing food and eating, whilst only being able to breathe through my mouth. A doctor then promptly came to give me my medical notes and said I could go home. My boyfriend arrived and a nurse changed the bandage on my nose. This time the bandage was wrapped around, leaving a small opening, showing a glimpse of the tip of my nose. My boyfriend later commented that it looked like a beak and that I should paint it yellow. Soon I was sitting up in a chair, back in the first recovery room in which I’d been the night before, just before my operation. We were given my medical notes, a Ziploc bag with painkillers and antibiotics, and an appointment for the next day for me to have the packing removed from my nostrils.

The rest of the day I spent in exhausted fogginess. I lay on the sofa and dozed intermittently; happy to be home. My boyfriend bought groceries, made soup, and washed my hair; which made me feel a little better. My nose was extremely uncomfortable. It felt like the worst congestion I could imagine; like having a terrible cold, but not being able to blow your nose. As the day turned into evening I became increasingly uncomfortable. The congestion seemed to be spreading to my throat, and breathing was becoming more of an effort. My bandage was quickly turning red. I frequently had to clear my throat of bloody mucus, which was unceasingly replenishing in supply. By the end of the evening, whenever I attempted to swallow; little pink bubbles of mucus foamed in the small opening in my beak.

That night I slept. It wasn’t a restful sleep, more of an exhausted crash. I kept waking myself up with the loudest of snores; a consequence of my mouth breathing. On waking each time I realised my discomfort, and I made numerous trips to the bathroom to spit out more mucus. Then around 5am I woke in a panic, almost unable to breathe. I went to the bathroom with the feeling of something stuck in my throat. Whilst looking at my reflection in the mirror through tired eyes, I forced the muscles in my throat to contract and relax in order to remove the obstruction. Then it slowly appeared. I gently pulled on the offender; some gooey, mucus soaked gauze. It was like something from a horror film. I was just happy that the rest of the packing from my nose didn’t follow.

The next morning I had my appointment at the hospital. I walked into the consultation room, and was happy to see the initial doctor I had spoken with, when I had first lost my hearing. Today she spoke to me in Spanish.  She examined my throat for gauze, and then with a thin metal hook, she removed the packing from my nose. I had an immediate sense of relief. Oh my goodness, I was so much more comfortable. The specialist asked me to try to breathe through my nose. I had a few wonderful moments of clear airways. I was breathing through both nostrils! I felt a little lightheaded. Then rapidly the airways started to clog. The doctor carried out the usual nasal examinations; inserting the thin rigid tube with the light on the end, and then using the metal pliers-type tool to lift up the end of my nose and view my nostrils. She cleaned out my nose using a spray that stung slightly, and told me that the operation had gone well.

When I arrived home that day, I realized I could smell the soup from the night before. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I couldn’t smell anything the previous day. My nose freely dripped with blood all day. I resembled the character Eleven, from the television series Stranger Things, though I was unknowing of what magic I was performing during my nosebleeds.

It has now been 9 days since my septoplasty operation. I still have numbness in my top front teeth and on a small patch of my palate. The headache, stuffiness and pain from the congestion is lessening every day. My nose is still sore, and I am still very tired. A couple of days ago I discovered stitches on the left side of my septum, which I assume will dissolve or fall out over time. Every day I have to perform nasal irrigation to clean out my nose. This entails using a specially designed plastic bottle with a thin applicator spout with a plug on the end, which fits into the nose. I fill the bottle with water and add a salt solution, and then squeeze the bottle; allowing the water to travel through one nostril and then come out through the other. My right nostril is now clear. Although I am not yet able to breathe air in through my left nostril, due to the swelling and stitches, I have been able to breathe air out of this side of my nose; which I wasn’t previously able to do. This is already a positive result.

My next appointment at the hospital is in a couple of weeks, and I am in excited anticipation for the day when I am able to breathe with ease.


Waking up: My Septoplasty Story – Part 2

I awoke from a deep satisfying sleep with my first memory being a blurry vision of my boyfriend. Well, it was rather the shape of my boyfriend in a burgundy haze; the colour of the top he was wearing. I was moving past him in my bed. Bleary eyed, I blew him a kiss. He followed me into a recovery room. The room was brightly lit, and my eyes slowly started to focus. I excitedly told my boyfriend that I had been dreaming. I was so hungry and my throat was sore. I recollect eagerly telling the nurse that I was hungry and that although I didn’t eat meat or egg; that fish was okay. Maybe this was only a thought? My boyfriend told me later that he spent quite some time asking me whether I wanted to keep my mobile phone with me whilst staying in hospital overnight. I couldn’t make the decision. This scene is a confused dream rather than a memory to me. I saw the nurse gesturing with her arm and saying, “Adios”; requesting my boyfriend to leave. He gave me a kiss. He told me that my nose was bandaged, but that I looked okay.

Shortly, I was feeling more awake. There had been only one other patient in the room when I had arrived, and they had since been wheeled away. Now there was just me, in a space large enough for 5 more beds. There was a finger clip attached to my left index finger, which I believe measured the oxygen in my blood. Adhered to my chest in a seemingly random pattern, were circular stickers with electrodes to monitor my heart; these were attached to a machine situated behind my bed. Wrapped around my right arm was a blood pressure cuff which every hour, on the hour, inflated and took my readings. I was intravenously being administered, a steady supply of saline solution, antibiotics and painkillers. I was extremely well monitored.

There were numerous nurses that came to visit me and to check my vital signs. One of the nurses, evidently meaning well, spoke directly into my deaf ear; her lips pressed against it, with the intention of aiding my hearing. She must have been informed of my hearing loss beforehand, although evidently she hadn’t been briefed on which particular ear was affected. I didn’t have the energy or the emotional resolve to tell her that her efforts were being wasted on this ear. Later, after I guess a lack of adequate response on my part, she realised she was speaking into the wrong ear, and for the rest of the time she replicated her close-talking technique, into my hearing ear. I appreciated her committed determination to help me understand the proceedings. The dark green bed sheets were straightened by two other nurses, and within less than an hour of waking up I was happily straining my eyes to read a magazine. I didn’t want to go back to sleep yet. I already felt like I’d had a period of concentrated rest, albeit brief. I wanted to be conscious. I didn’t like the idea of being unaware of the activity around me.

I asked the close-talking nurse if I could go to the toilet; assuming she would hook my IV bottles onto the moveable pole, so I could wheel it behind me as I walked. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. The nurse collected something from a small cupboard and then returned to my bed with the object in question. It was a bedpan made of a thick paper material. She lifted up the dark green sheets and placed my paper throne in position and then walked away. Well, after a few minutes I concluded that there was no way my body was going to allow this to happen. Maybe it was a result of the anaesthetic. Maybe it was simply due to the fact that I hadn’t consumed any liquid all day. Or maybe, and most probably, it was because my body was in a state of stubborn shock. The toilet was only a few steps away from me bed – Why couldn’t I attempt to go there? I was lying down – Surely I couldn’t pee whilst lying down!? The nurse took the bedpan away after quite some time, without much comment.

That night was a restless one with merely fragments of disturbed sleep. My nose was packed with gauze-covered cotton, and there was a pad of gauze taped underneath my nostrils to soak up any blood. I also had gauze and tape wrapping around the outside of my nose. I could only breathe through my mouth. I was thirsty, yet I was only allowed a few sips of water that night, before the lights were turned down. I guess this, and the introduction of the paper throne, was part of the aftercare procedure for patients following anaesthesia. I had to sleep propped up at an angle to allow the warm trickle of blood from my nose to drain into the gauze. There was a clock on the wall to the left of me, and I lay watching the movement of the hands. I slept for what seemed like half an hour, yet after observing the clock, I realized only a couple of minutes had passed. Time was behaving strange. I guess this was a consequence of the anaesthetic, or the drugs I’d been given. There was a young male nurse who checked on me every hour during the night; each time making a note of my vitals. With each check he asked if I needed anything, and if I was okay. Between his checks I realized he was asleep in a chair around the corner from my bed. Early in the morning he asked me if I wanted to try and pee again. I agreed. I hoped this time I would allowed to use the facilities. But to no avail. He was soon sliding my paper throne into place. I waited and waited, urging my body to allow this unfamiliar process to happen. And then finally it did! The nurse seemed very happy with my achievement and exclaimed “Muy bien”! I had the impression that this had been a prerequisite task to be accomplished before my release. I breathed a befitting sigh of relief.

Roses are Red: My Septoplasty Story – Part 1

We were waiting in a room full of voices and echoes, and were discussing how to pronounce the word for ‘surgery’ in Spanish. There was a constant movement of people in and out, and around the room. Some would walk into the room wearing orange visitor stickers. Some were carrying a single red rose wrapped in a clear sleeve. It was Valentine’s Day, and the day of my operation to correct my deviated septum; to straighten it, to allow better airflow through my nose.

I was sitting with my boyfriend in the off-white-coloured waiting room. Around the perimeter of the room were rows of chairs, with metal frames and hard wooden backs that curved slightly into the seat. In the middle of the room were two more rows of the same chairs; back-to-back. There was a dropped ceiling with suspended ceiling tiles; the Styrofoam type that are often found in offices or classrooms. Some of the tiles were discoloured or stained with the light-brown outline of irregular shapes, and were interspersed with rectangular light panels. The walls were bare apart from two Van Gogh framed prints: his Sunflowers and a painting of some wheat fields. It was difficult to judge the time of day as there was only one window, allowing a small amount of natural light to enter the room. I sat, looking around the room and watching the movement of people. There were people here of all ages. I scanned the room observing their faces. Like a detective I assessed every person in the room. Were they wearing makeup? Jewellery? Nail polish? These were things I was told to strip my body of before the operation. Were they wearing comfortable, loose-fitting clothing? I was evaluating who was here for an operation and who was simply visiting a relative or friend. There was a small door off from the waiting room, to the left of where we were sitting. Some people walked straight through this door, with confidence and without the need for permission. Others had their name called by a nurse before entering. Some people came and went. Some went through the door without returning. Everyone seemed to be here for a different purpose. Every time the door opened, a sharp unsettled feeling attacked deep down in my stomach. Was it going to be a nurse calling my name? The waiting was arduous.  After about 3 hours had passed we started to doubt whether we were in the right place. My boyfriend went to check; back to the original reception desk we’d passed through before entering into the room. My appointment was for 4:30pm. It was now after 7:00pm. We were playing the game again. We were in a Spanish hospital with no idea of the procedure for having an operation here. This was new territory for us. The receptionist confirmed we were in the right place, and that they were behind schedule.

When my name was finally called it was around 8pm, and the waiting room was almost empty. I was hungry and tired, from fasting since an early breakfast. My boyfriend and I walked through the door into a corridor that opened out onto a ward. In a small changing room I dressed in a hospital gown. On my feet I put elasticated blue foot covers that looked like delicate elf shoes. I completed my outfit by tucking my hair into a blue hair net; an action that reminded me of a short period of time spent working in factories, many years ago. We put my clothes in a locker, and retrieved the key: number 1.  Then we went to wait in another room in which there were about 6 beds. I sat in a chair next to a hospital bed with dark green sheets. This seemed to be a recovery room. There were patients leaving the room after being given their hospital notes and Ziploc bags filled with medication. Some patients were in beds, with a relative beside them; waiting for them to feel well enough to return home. We waited here a while longer. I started to feel nervous.

Shortly, I was asked to get into the bed with the dark green sheets. I was wheeled through the hospital, into the lift, and then through some corridors. I was aware of my boyfriend changing position, moving from behind the bed, then to my side; endeavouring to keep up with the fast moving trolley. The two nurses who were controlling the bed looked tired and had sour faces. At an intersection of corridors one of the nurses mumbled something hurriedly in Spanish. She was telling my boyfriend to give me a kiss and to wait “over there”. The two nurses hardly slowed the motion of the bed, and I could see my boyfriend was still processing what they had said. I told him to kiss me, and as he swiftly moved towards me, I observed his confused face in the moment of our separation.

I was on my own now. I was wheeled to a corridor where I was left without comment from the two tired nurses, for what I guess was about half an hour. I lay in the bed with my good ear facing the wall. I could hear people; I think they were behind me down the corridor. They were the voices of women speaking in quick passionate tones. They didn’t sound happy. Someone was shushing them continuously. During my wait, a few people came to talk to me, and to read my medical notes. They all asked me similar questions: Where was I from? How should they pronounce my name? Do I have any allergies? All this was conducted in Spanish. I was happy to talk to people as they came to my bed. Talking was a distraction. During this time I was told that I would have to stay in hospital overnight, as it was now late, and there wouldn’t be time for me to recover from the anaesthetic. One of the members of staff asked me if I was warm enough. I told her that my feet were cold, and she folded a blanket, placing it over them. The anaesthetist also introduced himself. I think he said his name was Pablo. He was handsome, and had a kind face.

Without warning my bed began to move backwards. As the bed reached a doorway, the trolley was turned around and I was facing one of the tired nurses from earlier. I was going into the operating theatre. I remember the colour green. I made an effort not to observe the room too much. The kind nurse, who earlier had asked me if I was cold, came to speak to me. She questioned me as to whether I had noticed the feeling of warmth on my feet. She had positioned a heat lamp over them, and I thanked her. The anaesthetist was situated on my deaf side, and he was kneeling down, talking to me whilst holding my hand. Simultaneously he was using his other hand to pat my arm; trying to find a vein. I smiled as he talked. I couldn’t hear him. After a moment I told him I was deaf in my left ear, and he told me he would talk louder. He said jokingly that he would try to make the sound of his voice bounce off the wall opposite, and then back to reach my good ear. The cannula was inserted with a quick sharp sting, and the anaesthetist asked me to breathe some air from a mask made of thick black rubber. I breathed in the air, and then breathed in some more…

Playing the game: another hospital appointment

Going to a hospital consultation, in a country where I only speak a little of the language, is not dissimilar to my time spent as a child playing adventure games such as Monkey Island, on my old Amiga computer. Yet instead of following the misfortunes of the hapless Guybrush Threepwood as he struggles to become the most infamous pirate in the Caribbean, the focus is on me, an English girl; half-deaf and with limited Spanish, trying to fathom her way around a Spanish hospital system. Yeah, it doesn’t sound as interesting, and it’s not, but it presents a puzzle in itself nonetheless. As in such adventure games there are questions, feelings of apprehension, and puzzles that must be solved before progressing with the story and moving forward in the game.

My game begins with the intense feeling of nervousness whilst sitting in the waiting room. I sit asking myself various questions: Will the specialist speak English? Will they listen to my Spanish and take me seriously, even though I’m obviously not fluent? Will they slow their speech down so I can understand some of the words? Will they be OK with writing down the names of any necessary tests, so that I can go home and Google them? Will I even hear them when they call my name!  My main hope is that they will be patient with me.

The next part of the adventure is the actual consultation. If I am not fortunate enough to meet a specialist who speaks English, I feel the difficulty level increase immediately, and uneasiness starts to claw at me. Trying to make sense of what a specialist is saying, involves me grasping at the words of which I know the meaning of, and putting them together as quickly as I can. Sometimes I find myself listening and trying to concentrate so hard, that I actually end up not concentrating at all. Sometimes I succeed in listening carefully and I manage to understand some words. However, in the time it takes me to make sense of the words, I end up missing the rest of what has been said. On occasions I am handed papers and may be told to take them to another department or area of the hospital, or to use them to inform another member of staff as to the nature of a follow up appointment. The next level follows my journey as I walk around the hospital following signs, and then coming to the realization that I have no idea where I’m going, or why I’m even walking around clutching my paperwork in the first place!

Four weeks after my appointment with the new ENT specialist, I went to the hospital for my referral with the maxillofacial doctor. The upper jaw is referred to as the ‘maxilla’, and the type of doctor I would be seeing, specializes in treating problems related to the hard and soft tissues of the face, mouth, and jaws. I went to the hospital by myself. As usual, my game began with me sitting and waiting anxiously in the waiting room. A mixture of questions were eagerly pushing themselves forward; fighting to be at the forefront of my mind. I scanned the faces in the room. There were people here of all ages. I had found myself sat next to an old man, who kept coughing loudly into a crumpled handkerchief. Whilst battling to ignore the interrogation of persistent questions in my mind, I couldn’t help but glance at a few individuals around me; studying their faces, and wondering why they were here. I’d focus for a while on someone’s features; looking at the shape of their jaw, and assessing the symmetry of their face, until I felt they had sensed my stare, and were about to look back at me. I’d then quickly move my eyes away from my subject.

My name was called, and I walked into a small room. Immediately the specialist started speaking in Spanish. Difficulty level up! I started to answer her questions, and I apologized that my Spanish wasn’t good. She reassured me by saying it was OK. The doctor had a young face, dark hair and radiated compassion. She listened to me as I explained how I had suddenly lost my hearing. She was writing everything down. Then she examined my jaw. She asked me to open my mouth as wide as possible and she felt the joint. She then asked me to close it. I repeated this a few times and she asked if I had any pain in the joints. She placed a tiny piece of card with measurements on, next to my front teeth, and told me my teeth were 3mm to the left, off centre. Then she told me that I was going to do a test. If the results of the test were negative, the treatment would be physiotherapy and wearing a night-time mouth guard. But, if the test showed that I have…then…Oh dear, my skills of following the Spanish conversation were dwindling. I had missed some important information. I told her I didn’t quite understand. She told me not to worry, and the main thing was that first I would need to do the test. I asked her to write down the name of the test and condition she was referring to, so I would be able to research it later at home. Then I was handed some papers and told to go to the receptionist.

Next I went around the corner to the receptionist. As she was speaking to me there was also another woman in the small room, speaking very loudly on the phone. I couldn’t hear my next instructions.  I apologized to the receptionist and said that I didn’t understand and that I couldn’t hear very well. She kindly accompanied me out of the door, handed me some more papers, and directed me to take them to a window down the passage. I thanked her.

Next level. I then walked forwards as far as I could go – which is the direction I was given, and wandered around for a bit. Then it hit me, the moment of realization that I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was supposed to go, or why! I spoke to a nurse who was talking to another nurse in the corridor. She directed me and told me I needed to get a ticket and then go to a window. I walked again in the direction she told me, but didn’t find a ticket machine. Hmm puzzling…I spoke to a man who was sitting at the Information desk in the entrance, and he printed me a ticket. Oh, there wasn’t a ticket machine – this man was in charge of tickets! Then he pointed to the first window and told me I was next. Next for what, I wasn’t sure! I handed the woman behind the glass screen my papers, and she was very patient as she spoke to me. I had to put my ear into the small opening of the glass, so I could hear some of what she was saying. I managed to make appointments for the test and also a follow up appointment. Then I went back to the receptionist in the maxillofacial area, and showed her my papers. She checked them. She seemed happy with my accomplishments and we said our goodbyes.

When I returned home I Googled the words the doctor had written down for me. The ‘gammagrafíatest was a ‘bone scintigraphy‘.  I would be having an injection of a dye of radioactive material. This dye would then travel around my body and emit radiation. Then a camera would take pictures of how much of the dye accumulated in my jaw bones. It was a test to rule out a condition called ‘condylar hyperplasia‘ which is a rare bone disease that affects the jaw bone, and causes asymmetry in the jaw amongst other things.

Anyway…Game over, for this day at least!

Testing testing

Eight weeks after experiencing sudden hearing loss in my left ear, I was back at the hospital to have a test called a Brainstem Auditory Evoked Potential (BAEP). I had read that this test involves monitoring responses to a series of ‘clicks’ using electrodes positioned on the scalp. In my case the BAEP could be used to assess conduction through the brainstem and auditory nerve pathways that are not as accessible to other testing procedures. In other words; the results could give the specialists more of an idea as to why I couldn’t hear anything in my left ear.

I arrived at the hospital early in the morning, slightly before the time of my appointment. I was on my own, and feeling somewhat nervous about what was going to happen. I watched as people went into the room where they do the hearing tests. I watched people who arrived after me, go in before me. I guess that due to the amount of time the test was going to take, they saw the people first who were going to have the, less time consuming, routine hearing tests.

My name was called, and a man explained to me what was going to happen. He cleaned my forehead and behind my ears with what I assumed was alcohol, and then used what felt like a small piece of sandpaper to rub the same areas in order to help the electrode pads stick to my skin. Then he stuck two pads in the middle of my forehead, one above the other, and also one behind each ear. My face stung slightly as the alcohol permeated my newly exfoliated skin. The electrode pads were white circles of thin plastic with a silver metal circle and raised bit in the middle; where wires would be attached. They looked like small targets on my head. I asked one of the staff members who, after my many hospital visits, I was now well acquainted with, and who always greeted everyone with a smile and a joke, for something to tie my hair up with. He shortly emerged from one of the rooms and handed me an elastic band. So there I was, on my own; hair roughly tied up with an elastic band and white targets on my head. I waited for the next step of the process. I was sitting in a doorway. Nurses and hospital staff kept passing by, taking a look at me and making little comments such as, “Pobre!” or “Pobrecita!” –  Literally translated as “Poor person!” or “Poor dear!” Every time someone came in or out of the room of the doorway in which I was sitting, the people in the waiting room opposite were presented with me, the ‘pobrecita’, with the electrodes stuck to her head. When the doors slid open, there I was for all to see! I waited for over an hour. They were carrying out the test that I would be having, on a young child, and it must have been taking longer than they had planned for.

When it was my turn, I was shown to a small room with white walls, two chairs, a desk and a computer. I was asked to sit on a chair that was covered with a white sheet. Wires were then connected to pads on my head and behind my ears. I put on a pair of headphones and I was told to relax and listen to the ‘clicks’. My brain was going to do the work for me; I just had to sit there. I was also told that sometimes people fall asleep during the test. Throughout the process I could hear lots of ‘clicks’. Some that were played into my good ear were almost painfully loud. I have no idea how anyone could possibly fall asleep; sitting in a small room with a stranger, with electrodes attached to their head with clicks being randomly played at loud volumes! I had the thought that, what if my brain was picking up the signals from me hearing my tinnitus noises and confusing them with the real sounds that were being played into my ears. Would this show on the results? I’m sure this isn’t the case, as most people with hearing loss also have tinnitus. But it was a thought that intrigued me. The test took about an hour. The electrode pads were removed and I was free to go home.

Three weeks later I was back at the hospital, with my boyfriend, for a consultation with an Ears Nose and Throat specialist. We were there to talk about the results of the BAEP test; whether the steroid tablets and steroid injections had helped me; whether my hearing had improved; and how I was feeling in general. My boyfriend and I had unintentionally placed a lot of hope in this appointment. We hoped the specialist would be able to tell us some more information, or give us a plan of what to try next. We walked into the specialist’s office with all of our questions written down, so I wouldn’t forget to ask them. Things always feel a bit rushed in the hospital, and they are always so busy. My heart sank when I realized it was a specialist whom I hadn’t previously met. I had hoped to see one of the many specialists who were familiar with my story. I had done a hearing test before I went into the consultation room, and the specialist explained that the test results were the same as when I first lost my hearing. He told us that the MRI results were normal: I already knew this as I had received these results weeks ago from my GP. He also told us that the BAEP test had shown the same as the hearing test – that I couldn’t hear. The test results weren’t explained in any more detail.  He said that sometimes there are cases of sudden hearing loss where, within a 6 month period, a patient’s hearing comes back naturally. He told me to wait for three more months and then come back for another consultation. Maybe a hearing aid could help me if there was no change in my condition.

Deflated, we went outside of the hospital and sat down on a bench in a park across the road.  I cried. They hadn’t told me anything I didn’t expect or already know.  I didn’t really expect them to have any more answers to tell us. But I couldn’t help but raise my hopes for a solution. I didn’t want to stop trying things that could help my situation.

We needed to put our minds at rest. We decided to seek a second opinion.



The next few weeks after leaving the hospital, blended into months. I finished taking the corticosteroids and I had 4 injections of steroids into my ear, each a week apart. Yet there was still no improvement in my condition.

Friends and family were keen to ask me how I was feeling. They saw that I was out of hospital and assumed that everything was OK. But it wasn’t. I was struggling through every day with deafness and other related issues: sensitivity to noise, light-headedness, tinnitus and the ever-present pressure in my ear and head. I almost felt like I was letting people down; telling them that I was not feeling any better. I looked like my usual self, but was feeling awful. There was no visual evidence of the discomfort and frustration I was feeling. My problem was completely invisible. If I had a visible scar, maybe people would be able to empathize with my situation a little easier. I wanted to tell them something positive, and I didn’t want to upset anyone, by responding honestly. I didn’t feel any better. Nothing had changed since the day in the auditorium when this all began.

Everyone seemed to have a story about an ear problem. There were stories about ear infections and tinnitus, and about ears feeling clogged when flying. Many people also turned into specialists; asking me if I had recently been swimming or if I had been on an aeroplane? Did the hospital specialists check for ear wax? People didn’t really know what to say to me. I know that they wanted to sound positive, helpful, sympathetic…I did appreciate their support. People just wanted to show they were thinking of me. I would have done the same, if one of my friends or family were in my position. I would have wanted to help solve the mystery and for everything to be better. I didn’t want to sound negative, but I didn’t want to lie to people. Sometimes the truth is difficult to share, and it can also be difficult for others to hear; especially when they have feelings invested in the person sharing the news.

I couldn’t go to work. Being an Early Years teacher demands having energy; being able to tolerate high levels of noise, being able to go up and down stairs without feeling lightheaded, being able to hear in background noise, being able to sing and dance without feeling dizzy. The children in my class were only 4 years old. They needed a teacher who could give them the care and attention they deserved. I missed being in a classroom. I only briefly met my new class, who I instantly loved, and who I felt like I’d abandoned. It was so frustrating. I could walk and talk and breathe and see. I looked the same. But to be able to do my job properly I needed to feel better.

I was having meetings every two weeks with my doctor to inform her of any updates. She also seemed to be getting frustrated with the absence of any change in my situation. Every time I met with her I would tell her that I felt the same. One time she explained to me that it was difficult for her also. Usually she can give her patients some form of hope. Usually she can give her patients a diagnosis, or prescribe some medication, and then with time, symptoms will improve. Usually people show some form of recovery and this gives them hope. However, in my case there had been no change in 10, 11, 12 weeks, and she knew it was difficult for me. She told me to take comfort in the knowledge that my hearing loss wasn’t a result of a more sinister problem, such as stroke or a tumour.

There was still hope. 12 weeks after the day of my sudden hearing loss, I went to see a specialist at the hospital. He told me that sometimes hearing can come back spontaneously within the first 6 months after the occurrence of hearing loss. I was told to wait and see if my hearing would improve naturally. I would go back to see the specialist in 3 months, and if there were no changes in my condition, they said a hearing aid might help me.

Taking corticosteroids

When I left the hospital, I was given a prescription for Prednisone tablets, which are a type of corticosteroid. I was to take them for four weeks, each week decreasing the dose. As I have mentioned before, corticosteroids are different to the type of steroids that you hear about athletes abusing.  They mimic the effects of hormones that your body produces in your adrenal glands, which are just above the kidneys. If they are taken in doses that exceed your body’s usual levels, corticosteroids can suppress inflammation. They also inhibit your immune system, which can help control conditions in which your immune system mistakenly attacks its own tissues. If you stop taking Prednisone abruptly or taper off too quickly, some people can express withdrawal symptoms such as severe tiredness or body aches. Another reason for gradually coming off corticosteroids is that this gives your adrenal glands time to resume their normal function.

With taking corticosteroids can come many different side effects. For me there were 4 main ones. The most noticeable effect for me was the loss of my muscle tone; very quickly I lost the definition in my arms and my legs. It was nearly autumn-time in Madrid, but the days were still often warm. I would enjoy going for short walks with my boyfriend, and in the warm weather I would sometimes have bare legs. Every day, when I looked down at my legs, they seemed to get thinner and thinner. I called them my Bambi legs. At first the sensation when walking, was as though my body was really light and I felt like I was almost gliding. Later, my legs started to become achy and wobbly, and I would become tired much more easily. Next were the hamster cheeks. I had read that people who take steroids can have a redistribution of fat. As the days went on, my cheeks seemed to get fuller. This side effect however, didn’t bother me too much. My face has always been very slim, and slightly puffy cheeks actually didn’t look too bad. I felt lucky, for the first time in my life, to have such a thin face, as I know that this is a side effect that can really upset takers of Prednisone who start off with more rounded faces. Similarly, another side effect was the little tummy bump that seemed to be growing with every tablet I took. It wasn’t that the tablets were making me fat, in fact my arms and legs were getting thinner, but that I had a little distribution of fat around my tummy that didn’t seem to be a result of how much I ate. Then there was the crying; this started when I was in hospital. At first I put my teary outbursts down to my situation: I was scared and tired and felt helpless. However, I realized that I didn’t seem to have any control over my emotions and would randomly start crying. These emotional eruptions continued during my weeks of taking the Prednisone at home. I would find myself thinking about my situation, about possible causes for my hearing loss, and about a future with unilateral hearing, and I would break into a mess of tears. I guess that when thinking about my condition, it was quite a normal reaction to become upset. However, there were times when tears were just unwarranted; sometimes my boyfriend would come back from work and I would be happy to see him, so I would cry. He would get me a cup of tea, and I would cry. I ended up telling him to ignore me when I was crying, especially when I was in the hospital and he had enough to worry about, than me bursting into tears at regular intervals. After taking corticosteroids for only a few weeks, I have so much sympathy for people who have to take this kind of medicine for longer periods of time. I know corticosteroids can save lives, but it is with the risk of some nasty side effects.

Every week, on a Tuesday, I would go to the hospital for steroid injections in my ear. There was about an hour each time, immediately after having the injections, that my ear felt more ‘open’, like there was slightly less pressure. But after that hour usually followed a headache and some pain deep inside my ear, with any small improvement diminishing to nothing.

It took a few weeks to get the results from my MRI scan. My doctor printed off the information, and told me that everything was ‘normal’. Although I was happy that there was nothing sinister on the scan such as an acoustic neuroma, I also felt somewhat frustrated, as we were still no closer to knowing what had caused my hearing loss. I found myself constantly searching on the internet for an answer, because it seemed like nobody else had one to give me.