Wednesday 20th November – final expectations with cochlear audiologist

I’m feeling super nervous today. Anxiety has grown bigger than me, and my shadow, Meniere’s, is using it as a punching bag while tinnitus whistles. I have an appointment with the Cochlear Implant audiologist to discuss “final expectations”. This is my do or die day. My “yes, let’s do it day”, or, “I’ve changed my mind, I’ve decided not to go ahead with the procedure day”.

Do I really want to take the step into the bionic hearing world? Am I brave enough? I just want to sit and cry.

I suck in a deep breath. Calm, I tell myself. It will be okay. Be still and know. Faith.

My daughter sits beside me in the waiting room. We’re thirty minutes early. I flip mindlessly through one of the 50 million magazines displayed with obsessive spacing. I almost don’t want to mess up their perfection. Anxiety sits beside me and taps me on the arm. I shake my head at it while tinnitus holds on for dear life. I’m okay. My shadow, Meniere’s, is jumping from seat to seat, trying to catch my attention. I ignore it.

Jane greets me with a smile. The universal language that puts you at ease. Anxiety, tinnitus, deafness, my shadow, Meniere’s, and I follow her to her office.

We sit with a sigh and Jane turns to me. ‘Today is our ‘final expectations’ discussion.’ It’s all about ensuring that I know what I am signing myself up for.

She picks up her blue pen, and starts checking items off her checklist, questioning me for my understanding of each point:

– Technical aspects

– The Cochlear Implant manufacture of my choice – Cochlear or MED-EL – I choose Cochlear – based on conversations with many CI recipients.

– Ear fitting

– Care of the outer device of the Cochlear Implant

She stops talking and looks at me. ‘All good so far?’

‘Yes,’ I answer.

She nods, then pulls out colour samples, like choosing colours for a car.

I gaze down at them and narrow my eyes. Skin colour. Brown. Black. Grey. White.

‘Which colour would you like?’

I lift my chin a little as I visualise each of them on my head. ‘White, please.’

‘Really?’ Jane looks at my dark wavy hair.

‘Yes. Black is the colour of depression. I don’t like gray, skin colour or brown. White for me, is a symbol of a new start. New beginnings. Hope.’

‘Okay. Just email me if you change your mind,’ she says as she takes note of the colour I have chosen.

‘Sure,’ I say, knowing that I won’t be changing my mind.

I am certain the meeting is now over. I have survived yet another appointment. As taxing as they are, the appointments are important. I feel like they are preparing my mind for the change that is to come. If I think too much about the entire process, I wonder how much of a change to my life it will make.

Jane moves her chair backward and stands. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ She leaves the room.

I look at the desk at the CI implant that will be inserted under my scalp, a hole drilled in my skull, and the electrodes fed inside my cochear, and am struck with intense panic, my mind saying, ‘What are you doing? What. Are. You. Doing?’

I am filled with an incredible doubt that nearly cripples me. Do I really need a CI? My shadow, Meniere’s, is climbing the large glass windows like Spiderman and laughing. My tinnitus turns up the volume on a new noise, louder than the rest.

I close my eyes and focus on my good ear. Yes. It feels different. I am losing my hearing in my good ear. The Cochlear Implant is the right choice.

Jane returns with some paperwork. I quickly switch into a cool, calm, composed mode after my intense moment of panic.

‘I need to let you know that if you were going through the public health system, you wouldn’t be a candidate for a CI as your hearing in you right ear isn’t bad enough.’

My eyes widen for a moment. I feel like I am cheating the system with my private health insurance. What am I doing?

‘I need to talk to you about the bad things about the Cochlear Implant.

There’s bad things? I think.

‘Any residual hearing that is left in your left ear may no longer function.’

I frown. ‘But I can’t hear anything out of it. So, don’t the benefits outweigh that risk?’

Jane nods and smiles at me, then says, ‘For some recipients, their tinnitus gets worse.’

I nod. Can this really be true? My five noise of impossibly loud tinnitus, louder than anything in my life, no matter what my environment is, couldn’t get worse, could it? My tinnitus screams and shouts while doing the happy hoola dance. I flick it a backhand and it behaves.

Janes gives me a smile. ‘You are the person with the longest time of deafness to go through our clinic with activation.’ She seems kinda excited by that.

Great, I think. ‘I always like a challenge,’ I say. I change the subject. ‘The technology of the CI blows my mind. It’s such a great age to live in. A friend of mine lost his eye while surfboarding and told me that sight for the blind is being developed based on the cochlear technology.’

Jane smiles and nods her head. ‘There are companies working on a vestibular type of device for vertigo, based on the cochlear implant technology.’  

A vestibular pacemaker, I think. My skin prickles. Happiness for my fellow Menierian’s and other vertigo sufferers fills me until I overflow with joy. I can’t imagine a world without vertigo. But maybe it is getting closer.

Jane looks around her desk at her paperwork. ‘Okay – your surgery date is the 19^th of December, and switch on of your Cochlear Implant is the 7^th of January. I will organise for delivery of the Cochlear Implant to your surgeon and then everything is good to go. Any questions?’

I sit for a moment in silence. My shadow, Meniere’s, anxiety and tinnitus all fold their arms and look at me. ‘You have covered everything exceptionally well. I don’t have any questions.’

We both stand and leave the room. This is really happening.

Claire smiles at me when I enter the reception room. We walk to the car and she tells me a story about an old lady who kept staring at her. The old lady finally spoke up. ‘What are you doing on your phone?’

‘I’m reading the news,’ Claire had said.

The old lady nodded and said to Claire, ‘I was on a bus with my friend. We were the only ones without phones. The bus driver said over the speaker, “If you don’t put away your phones, I am going to pull the bus over and stop”.’

Claire said to me, ‘I find that hard to believe.’ We laughed.

Next appointment – Wednesday, 27^th November – balance therapy