A flea in the ear
For decades it had been my experience that General Practitioners at the Medical Clinic I attended were too busy to be bothered with whatever ailment I might have had. The Clinic in question became progressively uninviting over the years – to the point where in 2019 I tried the relatively new Medical Centre five minutes walk away at the end of my street.
The GP to whom I was assigned conducted a thorough set of tests, asked numerous questions, tapped data into her keyboard and generally behaved as if she took the job seriously. After a series of blood tests and prescription variations she informed me that I was good to go for twelve months and would need nothing more than to adhere to the prescribed dose of the pills that I’ve taken for more than fifty years.
Generally fit and healthy, I had been tempted to ask if there was anything that might be done about the annoying sensation of fluid in my right ear canal. The drops prescribed by various GPs over the years had invariably failed to alleviate the problem.
But in the great scheme of things it was a petty problem – a flea in the ear – not painful and so nothing to complain about.
No joy in this joist
A week or so ago, while breaking up hollowed-out deck joists I’d had to replace, the chemistry of white ant digestion came to mind. That train of thought terminated, as it were, in the ear that was bugging me and I phoned the Medical Centre.
Yes, my GP does syringe ears they said. The waiting room was crowded – but still in Covid seating mode. Every now and then a GP would emerge and whisper the name of the next patient on their list. Then a couple in the front row would inform the GP that there were plenty of patients outside.
When my turn came I commented on the fact that the Clinic was very busy. Was there something in the air? No, said the Doctor, all of its medical practitioners are at the Clinic on Thursdays. She checked the details, asked why I’d left it until now to have the canal syringed and then went about the business.
“Have you put anything in your ear?”, the Doctor asked.
“No,” I replied, “Not since someone told me, years ago, that one should never insert anything in there other than one’s elbow.”
She was not amused.
In the end my Doctor resorted to tweezers, removed the offending wax and prescribed drops. I asked if drops were really necessary, my right ear being immediately new again. Yes, because whilst there was no damage to the drum there was inflammation.
Once upon a time we had droppers to deliver eye, nose and throat solutions. Nowadays it’s guesswork – and I guessed I’d delivered the two drops prescribed. All good. The deck was as good as new and my right ear too.
First thing Friday, I put that day’s drops in. Is that one? Two? There’s no way to tell. My ear was blocked. I had to open up the venue for table tennis so couldn’t hang about. No-one had turned up at the prescribed starting time. On my bike. No, here they come. A good day’s play but the hearing loss was disorienting and continued across the weekend.
Come Monday, my GP was available and a lunchtime appointment fixed. Jack texted, asking whether I could meet him for table tennis at 6 pm. Maybe, I said, but I have a medical condition and will not know one way or the other until two-ish.
I was the sole patient in the waiting room. The Doctor shone her light down the canal. Hmm. There’s no blockage but a milky film over the drum. It may be a fungus. Surely not, I thought: it’s been my habit since childhood to keep that part of the anatomy diligently clean ever since my father reckoned mushrooms would grow in my ears if I didn’t. The GP prescribed non-fungal drops but we agreed that I’d wait and see before taking the medicine. Give it another week, she said. Don’t let any water get in there in the meantime. Lucky I didn’t get the drops, I guess?
I texted Jack. His real name’s Zbigniew so why he shortens it to ‘Jack’ is anyone’s guess. I told him I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to play table tennis but would let him know by 4:30 pm.
I rode to the shopping centre and stocked up. The blockage was driving me to distraction so I’d probably give table tennis a miss. I replied to various emails about the Federal Attorney General, reaffirming my view that it’s folly to follow Foucault. Suddenly, it was four-thirty. I didn’t want to go but neither do I want a flea running the show. Bugger it. Yes, I texted, see you at six.
I was already on the court and had the covers off the table when Jack came in. We’re both left-handed. After slamming backhands back and forth for five minutes we switched to forehand and I noticed he had a bandage over his right ear. “Yes,” said Jack, “I damaged it.”
Give me happy coincidence in preference to post-modernist philosophy any day.
After reading the two volumes of Helen Garner’s diaries, I was intrigued as to the identity of the dramatis personae – ‘V’ in particular. He’s so thinly disguised that I was driven to re-read the ‘novel’ he published in 1998. Now where did I shelve it? A thorough search yielded nothing so I concluded that I’d lent it – which, as you know, is to give it away.
Only since reading Helen Garner’s account of a conversation with a fireman had I adopted the practice of unlocking the deadlocks prior to going to bed: he had told her that many people who perish in house fires are found at the deadlocked entrance to their home. I didn’t have my keys so I couldn’t quickly open the front door and say Boo! to scare the intruder away so I pounded down the polished timber hallway and grabbed the phone. Maybe that would scare him (or her)?
“
There’s much to be said for initiatives to promote social cohesion but handing the job over to the Karstens and Margys to convey the message is bound to yield pap, isn’t it?
