‘There’s no water,’ said the doctor. ‘We evacuate all the wax with suction. We place a probe with a tiny camera in your ear so we can explore the auditory canal. You can watch on the computer screen.’
The treatment was very expensive, but I was desperate. After going to the swimming pool and cycling home in the cold with wet hair, I’d gone deaf in my right ear. Two weeks later there was no improvement and, as waiting times at the National Health Service were so long, I opted for the private clinic.
Watching the procedure on the screen made me feel faint. When the suction started I heard strange crackling noises, then there was a sudden loud pop and a sharp pain. The room spun and I think I blacked out for a moment. When my vision cleared, I discovered my hearing had come back — strangely amplified.
When the doctor had finished both ears, they hissed like the speakers on a hi-fi system turned up to maximum.
‘You have narrow auditory canals,’ he said. ‘I recommend you undergo this treatment once a month.’
‘Once a month?’ I couldn’t afford that. ‘Is it OK to take all the wax out? Don’t I need a bit for waterproofing, or as a sort of filter or something?’
‘No, no!’ said the doctor, smiling broadly. ‘It’s best to get it all out.’
As he spoke, I was sure I heard a quiet voice in the background say ‘Absolute rubbish!’
‘I’m sorry?’ I looked at the doctor, perplexed. ‘What was that?’
‘I said you should repeat the treatment regularly,’ he answered. ‘Didn’t you hear? Perhaps we should have another session next week.’
‘Don’t listen to him!’ The voice was quiet but insistent. The doctor hadn’t said those words and there was no one else in the room.
I smiled hesitantly. ‘OK. I’ll book another appointment as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t do it!’ whispered the voice. ‘He only wants the money.’
Outside the clinic, the traffic was deafening and I put my hands protectively over my ears. That night I didn’t sleep. It wasn’t just my husband Steve’s heavy breathing that kept me awake. It was the rumble of the central heating and the hum of the fridge downstairs in the kitchen. They were all sounds I’d never noticed before.
But the worst thing was the voices. Whenever people spoke to me in the next few days, I seemed to hear their real thoughts. When I reminded Steve that we were going to my mum’s for the weekend, he smiled at me, but another voice groaned and said, ‘Oh God, not again!’
‘What’s wrong? Don’t you want to go?’
‘Of course I do!’ Steve reassured me, but the voice whispered, ‘I can’t stand that old battle-axe!’
It was worse at my mother’s. Although she and Steve were polite to each other when they spoke, the disembodied voices told a different story.
‘Nice to see you Steve!’ (‘You boring idiot!’)
‘How are you, Marion?’ (‘Who cares?’)
‘Have you had enough to eat, Steve?’ (‘I hope so, you’re putting on weight.’)
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ (‘I’ve always hated your cooking.’)
The crunch came the night I actually heard Steve dreaming. I was lying awake as usual, when he turned over in his sleep and I heard an echo of chattering voices. Startled, I got out of bed, and looked out of the window, thinking there were people talking in the street, or even in the house, but there was no one there. Steve moved again and I distinctly heard several voices talking at once. With a cold shock, I realised that one of the voices was mine. My husband was dreaming about me!
Quietly I moved closer and listened. This was a mistake. As I leaned over him I heard my own voice moaning and complaining.
‘Haven’t you done that yet? I’ve asked you a hundred times. No, of course that’s not what I said. Don’t you ever listen?’
Horrified, I sat on the edge of the bed. Was that really how I sounded in Steve’s dreams?
How I wished I’d never had the ear treatment done. Could I go back and ask the doctor to put my filtering wax back in?
There was only one solution. Somehow, I had to block my ears up again. It took me three more trips to the swimming pool and three cycle rides home with wet hair, but on the morning after my last attempt, I woke up with a temperature, a sore throat and my head comfortably full of catarrh. I didn’t hear my alarm clock and I woke up at 10 feeling ill but immensely relieved.
I got better, but, thank God the supernatural hearing didn’t come back. I’m careful not to nag Steve these days and we only go to my mother’s for lunch once every two months. We’re all a lot happier as a result and sometimes I think the ear treatment might have been worth the money.