The Road Less Traveled

I must be a real weenie when it comes to minor forms of pain. Allow me to explain…

My ears have been bothering me since we got back from the beach. Since I spent most of the vacation in water, I assumed it was just water stuck in my ears. Today, though, I was having trouble hearing and a little bit of pain in my left ear.

So, I did the smart thing and went to Health Plus. The doctor looked in both ears. “They’re a little pink, and you have some wax building up in there. We need to flush out your ears.”

Hmm, sounded harmless enough. A few minutes later, a nurse walked in with a spray bottle that had a long tube on it with a plastic disc and a much tinier tube at the tip of it.  Again, it didn’t look so bad. The nurse politely asked me to hold this oddly-shaped white plastic tray under my ear as she gently slid the tiny tube into my ear. As she squeezed the nozzle on the spray bottle, my ear filled with water and a felt just a slight stinging. She sprayed again and again. “There’s nothing coming out,” she said. After a few minutes of me grabbing the side of the seat, she finally cheered, “Oh, there we go. That’s a big chunk of wax.” (I clean my ears, I swear. Doctor said the buildup could be due to the infection.) Simple enough, right?

However, when she slid the tiny hose into my right ear and squeezed the nozzle, I immediately felt pain on the inside of my ear that grew worse with every squeeze of the nozzle. “Ow,” I whispered, figuring the pain was normal.

“Does that hurt?” the nurse asked. I could only mumble my answer as my eyes began to get glassy and I could hear (or maybe feel) a ringing in my ears. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes for just a second, hoping to ease the pain. I didn’t open them again until I heard the nurse shouting for one of the girls in the hallway.

“I need someone to help me get this chair back, he just passed out.” After a few minutes of embarrassing stares from nurses walking in and out to check on me, the doctor wandered in and checked both of my ears again.

“This right one is still a little clogged, but the left one looks good. Want to try to finish the right one?” Was he serious? Sure, why not, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve already embarrassed myself by passing out during an ear cleaning.

After giving me some time to relax, the nurse sat me up carefully, handed me the plastic tub, eased the tube into my ear, and squeezed again. After about the fifth squeeze, I felt that familiar wave of nausea again. As if on instinct, in a series of swift motions, the nurse pulled the tube away, scooted the trash can over next to me, and then back away.

I puked. Couldn’t help it. And the embarrassment got worse with every heave. Once the doctor got word that I had vomited, that was it. I lay with my knees up, breathing and relaxing for about thirty minutes until they finally gave me permission to check out and go home.

Here is my confession. This is the third time this has happened to me. I passed out when I had to have lead removed from under my thumb nail and the doctor injected me with a local anesthesia to numb my thumb and then walked off for a few minutes to give it time to work. I was out in just about a minute and a half. Something similar happened when I had to get debris removed from under my toenail. I didn’t actually pass out this time because I felt it coming and managed to bring my knees up and breathe through it.

Why? Why me? I don’t have a low threshold for pain. I walked away from being hit by a car while riding my bike. I once tumbled down a rocky hillside and walked home looking like I had just fought Edward Scissorhands. I was able to stay conscious when I twisted my ankle, which was definitely the worst pain I have ever felt. So why did something so simple make me dizzy and nauseated?

Can any medical experts out there answer that question for me, or do I remain a mystery.

I know I’m just as tired of saying this as you are of reading it…  It’s been a long time since my last entry.  I discovered a lot over the holiday, about myself, about my grandmother, about Alzheimer’s.  I found myself spending some of my Christmas money on others (my wife and my grandfather), an act that used to be the equivalent of chopping off one of my hands.  But I think I’m finally growing up to the point that I give without much thought, especially to people closest to me.

I used to whine about not having anything (as far as possessions go) to connect me with my grandfather, no handed-down pocket knife or toolbox, nothing.  This Christmas, however, I bought him a pair of slippers that looked like moccasins and while I was at it I bought myself a pair.  I felt like a child, smiling over how cool it was to have the same pair of shoes as my grandfather.  I also bought him a thick shirt that can be worn as a jacket.  I didn’t get one of those for myself, but I bought it because I knew he would love it.

As for my grandmother, I watched her become nervous and confused on Christmas Eve as she tried to recognize the faces of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren while they opened presents, munched on ham and meatballs, and kissed her goodbye.  She finally became so nervous that my aunt opened a package with a baby doll in it and handed the doll to her.  “In hospitals and nursing homes, they give these to alzheimer’s patients all the time to calm them down,” she said.  It amazed me to see how quickly my grandmother relaxed as she rocked the baby doll and even showed it off to us.

Christmas Day, I returned to my grandparents to take another shirt to my grandfather.  Gramma was is good spirits and as I was leaving she asked, “Do you have school today?”

“No, Gramma, we’re on break,” I answered.

“Oh.  Well do you want to spend the night?”  I hesitated because the question caught me off guard.  She had not asked me that since I was about ten years old.  Later, at home, as I sat upstairs alone, I thought about her question and could not stop my tears.  Gramma had recognized me, but in her mind I was a little boy again, the young school boy I used to be, coming over during Christmas break to spend the night and eat ice cream or play with my new toys.

A part of me is still that little boy.  I’m tempted, now, to take her up on her offer, to come over and stay for a week or so in the summer, or even just a couple nights.  I miss that wandering, curious little boy who used to find comfort in morning cartoons and a big bowl of cocoa puffs, mixed with cheerios, rice krispies, and raisin bran.  I miss eating Grandpa’s cakes that stretched just a little beyond the recipe.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just emotional, but there is a quote in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Cat’s Cradle from one of the characters that says, “We all missed a lot.  We’d all do well to start over again, preferably with kindergarten.”

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

My wife sent me a text a few hours ago to tell me that my mother-in-laws dog, Lucy, probably has cancer and is going to be put to sleep.  I can’t remember how long she’s had the dog, but I do remember that I am the one who picked it out for her.  My wife and I chose her from a group of young Yorkshire Terriers at my grandmother’s. 

She is a tiny teacup Yorkie and so lovable and sweet.  To see her is to instantly fall in love.  I normally hate the tiny ankle-biters, but every time I visit my in-laws, Lucy jumps up on my lap, rolls over, and demands to have her belly rubbed.

Cancer… man…  I’ve got a lot I could say about that.  One of my old friends’ mother died of lung cancer when he was a teenager.  One of my students had a brain tumor.  My grandpa had lung cancer and died of a stroke.  It’s been a drama twist used in nearly every television drama.  You wanna bring the tears, start a discussion about cancer.  But it’s real.

No more for now.

 Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”