In September I moved to the town with the university where I took up my post-doctoral fellowship. I had a light teaching load, in addition to time for my research.
Although I was supposed to replace one of the professors on leave, it seems that his office was not available. So other members of the department suffered my temporary presence in their offices until something more fixed could be found. It was interesting to share space with a professor of Chinese history and a professor of Yiddish literature, even though I was probably a nuisance to them.
At that school, there was a very long vacation at the end of the year. So I planned to return to my parent’s home, have a stapedectomy done, recover there, and finally return to the university with the hearing of a hound-dog.
The Surgery
The surgery was done in the same hospital in which I was born. Of course, I have no recollection of the surgery itself, as I rapidly fell unconscious on the gurney outside the operating theater.
I woke up sometime later in my hospital room feeling great. I came out of the narcosis, but the anesthetic had not yet worn off. My father took me on a tour of the hospital, pushing me in my wheelchair.
Upon returning to my hospital bed, I must have briefly fallen asleep. When I awoke, the hell of severe vertigo, many times worse than what I had previously experienced, had descended on me.
My parents were still there in the hospital. I insisted to them that I wanted to return home immediately. Somehow, I was released from the hospital and my father drove us home. The whole trip was torture.
The Recovery
I made it upstairs in my parents’ home and collapsed again on my bed. That bed was my home for the next month.
The slightest motion of my head provoked waves of vertigo. Sitting up in bed was so unpleasant that I avoided it. Standing up and walking seemed an impossibility, although the call of nature has its own priorities.
I could hardly take an independent step. However, getting to the toilet by leaning against the wall and advancing slowly was workable. In any case, my parents were spared the indignity of handling a bed-pan.
In retrospect, I wonder if I should have made a greater effort to move and to walk much sooner. I couldn’t imagine doing so at the time. My strategy was to avoid the vertigo rather than to get used to it.
It was at this time that I was introduced to the Nero Wolffe books, by Rex Stout. My aunt gave me several volumes to read. They turned out to be just the thing—they kept me occupied during the long horizontal hours and did not require much effort to read. I don’t think I had ever read any detective stories before that. I can’t say that I became hooked, but I do enjoy a good one from time to time. Anyway, who couldn’t appreciate a fat, orchid-loving New Yorker?
Performing a stapedectomy results in a clot of blood in the auditory canal. Together with the bandaging to protect the incision, there is no immediate hearing in the ear that has undergone the procedure.
About five weeks after the surgery, I returned to the doctor. I remember crossing the street with my family, feeling like a spastic simpleton, completely unable to walk in a straight line. I imagined that I had to learn once again how to walk, just as infants must do.
After the doctor removed the bandage and cleaned up the ear, we could only conclude that the stapedectomy was a complete failure. I had no hearing at all in my right ear. And what is more, I had spent a terrible month in bed.
Although I was able to get around, I still had many bouts of dizziness and had very poor balance. I never saw that doctor again. I never had a diagnosis of what had gone wrong.
I suppose I could have insisted on getting a better understanding of what had happened to me, and why, and what could be done about it. But it seems that there was nothing to be done. I had no interest at all in blaming anyone. I was only anxious to put that experience as far behind me as possible.
A Return to Work
By rights, I probably should have stayed at my parents’ home another month. But the university was starting up again. I had a course to teach. So, I got in my car and drove back, a five-hour drive under the best of conditions. Half-way there, all the roads were covered with a layer of frozen snow. I must have felt charmed, for I did almost nothing to slow down. At least, there was hardly anyone else on the roads. As I drove, just moving my head to look at one mirror, then another mirror, or to turn around when backing up, provoked dizziness. I don’t know how I ever arrived safely at my destination.
The months that followed were accompanied by a buzzing in my head, together with my problems of balance. During the years that followed, I would very rarely have minor bouts of vertigo.
I entered a period of dependency on a single ear and the hearing aid place in it.
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