I have a hidden disability. It is not readily apparent or visible to most people. I do my best not to call attention to it unless I have to. I’ve adapted to it, mostly. Some days I can almost forget it’s there. But it’s always there.
In 2008, I began to lose the hearing in my right ear. At first I thought my ear was “plugged up,” as sometimes happens when one has a cold. But after it persisted for several weeks, I figured I should go see a doctor and have it checked out.
(At this point in the story, I want to say that I’m thankful that seeing a doctor was even an option for me. I fortunately had medical insurance through my employer. There was a time in my young adulthood when I had no medical insurance for several years. If this had happened then, I wouldn’t have gone to the doctor, because I couldn’t afford even a simple doctor’s office visit, much less any treatment.)
That first doctor’s examination was relatively uneventful, as far as I knew at the time, being relatively young and having never had any significant health issues before. After asking me a series of typical diagnostic questions, the doctor looked in my ear and reported seeing nothing out of the ordinary. She told me that sometimes temporary hearing loss is caused by a virus, and then prescribed a steroid treatment. (Taking steroids was an interesting experience, to say the least — but that’s a story for another day.) But before ending the examination, she told me that she would schedule an MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) test, just to be certain.
I, in my carefree way at the time, didn’t find this alarming. Doctors run tests all the time, just to rule things out. I figured that the MRI was just that: ruling out anything more serious than a virus. I had medical insurance. It wouldn’t cost me anything out of pocket, I reasoned. Tests like this are what we pay premiums for. Plus, I was taught to always follow the doctor’s advice.
When I arrived at the MRI department the following week for my test, I was juiced up on steroids, which again was an interesting state to be in, but that is beside the point of the present story. It was at the MRI exam that I first realized that my condition was potentially very serious.
The MRI technician was a no-nonsense man, middle aged, serious in mien, wearing a lab coat, apparently of eastern European descent, rather gruff, and my first impression of him was that he probably cranks out fifty MRI exams per day, every day, and he has no time for pleasantries nor any bedside manner because those things are time consuming and are not necessary for the accurate scanning of people’s body parts.
The thing I remember most about that experience wasn’t the oddly comforting feeling of being nestled inside the futuristic-looking MRI chamber, nor was it the technician’s clipped, rather stern verbal instructions over the intercom reminding me to hold still, nor was it the incredibly loud and knocking racket the machine made. What I remember most came after the test was done and I was getting dressed to leave.
Next to the big room where the MRI machine stood, there was a little booth filled with controls and video screens where the technician sat and did his work. As I moved from the MRI room to the little dressing room, I caught a glimpse of the main screen showing a scan of what appeared to be a human head, apparently my head. I marveled at the technology as the technician tersely ushered me through the curtain.
When I emerged from the dressing room, I saw him seated in his booth looking intently at the screen. When he noticed me coming out, he stood up and came over to me, standing in such as way as to subtly block my view of the screen. I was holding my coat in my hand, and as we exchanged words to wrap up the session, I began to put it on. To my surprise, he began to help me put on my coat. The way he held up the coat and helped me put it on was striking. He was suddenly very kind, even adjusting my collar. He told me that the doctor would review the test results and get in touch with me. But in his eyes I sensed he was telling me more than his words. I knew that he could not tell me what the scan showed, and I didn’t ask. But it was in that moment that I knew this was no virus.
…
Part two: www.cityliteral.com/2017/09/02/do-you-want-to-know-how-i-got-these-scars-part-two