Last month marked eleven years since losing 95% of the hearing ability in my right ear.

I went to bed one damp November night in 2007 with what I believed to be the beginnings of a cold and woke up the next day feeling so dizzy I could hardly walk. After I miraculously managed to drag myself to the doctor, I was prescribed a drug that made the dizziness so bad I couldn’t get up at all. I was then told to try steaming out my ear multiple times a day, as well as given a course of antibiotics. None of this had any positive effect.

After a week, my brain had adjusted enough to the loss of sound for an adequate recovery of balance. I now started to attend my university lectures again and go back to volunteering at the local primary school. Going back to regular public activities, however, was a huge shock.

From the very first morning of the hearing loss (up to this very day) I have had unceasing tinnitus. Most people would have experienced tinnitus in some form, such as ‘deafening silence’, or after temporarily damaging their eardrums after a loud gig. People also experience tinnitus because of hearing loss that comes with old age.

To these people I would say that, yes, you can appreciate the general sensation but you can by no means empathise with how my tinnitus affects me. For the brain to have one of its key organs unceremoniously unplugged, for it to go from getting the full healthy transmission of a 20 year old to an almost complete loss of signal at the drop of a hat, is akin to listening to a radio broadcast of whispering nymphs and in order to hear them you have to turn the volume up to full and put your ear real close and then … a someone comes along and turns the tuning dial to static. My brain is desperately exploiting the acute sensitivity of my ear for something and gets nothing. Not only have I lost half of my hearing, I also have to contend with the extra screeching and crackling sound in my brain when trying to hear with the other half.

The tinnitus does several things. It greatly disturbs my concentration. It is disorienting. It makes it harder to hear with my good ear. There was no progress with the doctor. I was told that my ear wasn’t blocked and if the cause was viral there was nothing that could be done about it anyway. In all likeliness I had contracted a virus that had killed off the hairs in my inner ear.

Being in my final year at university I decided to leave it at that and concentrate on what I was there to do. It had meant a lot to make it that far in my education and I certainly didn’t want to lose grip of the opportunity I had afforded myself with years of hard work. I was to carry on and make the most of the last few months I had left. That’s not to say I didn’t seek further help.

Something I was really struggling with was concentrating, particularly when reading. Philosophy probably requires more brain power per word than any subject! With several essays and, of particular concern, my dissertation due in the coming months, I approached my personal tutor and formally requested an extension of two weeks. He showed little concern and the same patronising attitude I have since experienced many times towards my tinnitus. Nevertheless, he passed me on through official lines to the person in the department responsible for dealing with such requests. I was hopeful. I thought maybe my tutor’s lack of sympathy is precisely why he isn’t responsible for reviewing extenuating circumstances.

Unfortunately, my optimism was misplaced. After explaining everything that had happened, rather than expressing a shred of sympathy, the woman interviewing me started questioning the validity and extent of my issues, not in a manner of inquisition but one of flippant disbelief. A wave of shame and helplessness came over me and after around 30 seconds of listening to a denunciation in this vein I abruptly got up and left. I was followed by the woman’s protestations; no apology but merely that I come back, most likely because she was worried that without diffusing the situation I would make a formal complaint.

I didn’t make a complaint. I didn’t follow it up at all. I simply notified the primary school that I could no longer volunteer because I needed the extra time to study. I found this difficult as I had developed a bond with the children and I felt like I was making a real, albeit small, difference. I was also learning so much about the teaching environment and I felt it was holding me in good stead for my PGCE application. Unfortunately, there was no hope of a PGCE without a degree and, since I felt I had lost the ability to manage both responsibilities, the degree had to come first.

One of the strangest things when I now look back is that nobody in the philosophy department followed it up. Not one member of staff mentioned it, even though I brought the issue to light with two staff members and I was suddenly sitting at the front of every lecture. I don’t think I ever spoke to my personal tutor again. Not even an email exchange.

I cobbled together the last parts of my dissertation, flew through my exams and then left. I was down and subdued. I had to stop running and playing football because it made my nauseous. I missed out on any festivities but by that time I hardly cared. I felt like I was finishing university with an enforced retirement rather than a celebration. I was expecting to come away after three years with a trove of achievements and memories. It never occurred to me that I may also leave having lost something.

What followed was a hard time for me. I wasn’t accepted onto the following year’s PGCE course. Then the financial crisis hit and with it went my chances of quickly finding a decent job. And all the while I was still trying to adapt to an endless confusion of noise; the echo chamber of my own disability.

As soon as I was back in Somerset I made sure that I got my ear checked out properly. I had been foolish to ignore the possibility of my hearing loss being a symptom of something more sinister. I had multiple scans and hearing tests which dragged on until the winter when the reason and extent of it was confirmed.

The next stage was to be fitted for a hearing aid to trial whether this would help combat the tinnitus by amplifying the 5% functionality I had. I never really understood the reasoning behind this, as the tests showed that the 5% was in a frequency range outside of most commonplace sounds. Unsurprisingly, after several weeks of persistence, the aid just made me more confused of my environs.

My final dealings with the health system were actually the most positive. I had expressed how much I was struggling with my tinnitus so I was referred to a specialist. At last I was able to talk to someone that not only understood precisely what I was going through but also had frank but helpful advice for the future as well as being able to help me understand the mechanism of the tinnitus itself.

She told me that it would probably be years before my coping would improve. She was right. It would take six years for me to not be negatively affected by tinnitus. Notice how in my description I said the ‘coping would improve’ and not the tinnitus itself. That’s because the tinnitus never goes away. What took six years was for my mind to be indifferent to it. As I have been writing this blog it has become annoying and noticeable because the subject has made me more conscious of it. The ability to not pay attention to it is probably similar to mastering meditation techniques. It’s difficult because you have to practice not doing something, which seems rather paradoxical.

I still have moments when it irritates the hell out of me, but they are just moments. They are usually moments when I have an intense need to concentrate and I put myself under too much pressure to do so. But I’m mature enough with it now to not let it continue to plague my thoughts any longer than that.

The most surprising thing I’ve found with all of this is how quickly I came to terms with the loss of hearing itself. It’s annoying, yes, and I live in fear of the same thing happening to my left ear. Being deaf would be a whole new kettle of fish, a completely different debility to contend with. I think I’ve been quicker to accept the deafness because I am blessed to still be able to hear. Also, when I can’t hear something it doesn’t tend to have that big an effect on me, and if I can’t hear someone talking I don’t feel ashamed as it’s not my fault.

There were times when I was at my lowest that all I wanted to do was chop it off (which of course would have made no difference, but you understand the sentiment!). Now I feel like I have a deeper appreciation for invisible disabilities and for the sensation of sound itself. I no longer feel like a victim. I feel lucky.

This month's favourites:
   Robyn, Robyn
   Jean Cocteau, Les Enfants Terribles
   (500) Days of Summer (2009)