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They said it was a miracle cure. A treatment that would not only restore my hearing, but improve it.
Auri-LX was a state-of-the-art cochlear implant, designed to combat long-term deafness. A bio-mechanical aid, they called it. As a layman, I never understood the science part, but I was told it worked by regenerating cells which have become damaged, or, as in my case, were impaired from birth, bringing them back to optimum size and strength. Only, as one of the first guinea pigs, I discovered they don’t always stop at the desired level. Sometimes, they go beyond optimum.
It was a simple procedure. I was under for no more than an hour, and when I came round I was overwhelmed by my newly restored sense. For the first time in twenty-five years I could hear things I thought I would never experience: the sound of the city, the rumble and screech of the elevated train above my apartment (now a noise, rather than just a vibration), the bright laughter of children on the street outside. Hell, even the sound of a whistling kettle brought a tear to my eye. That was the miracle.
At the end of the first fortnight, I phoned my doctor (just using the phone itself being another milestone in my life!) and thanked her profusely, babbling to her like a fool, but not caring. For that briefest of times, I was happy.
Then things began to go wrong. I noticed that sounds began to ‘sharpen’ - that’s the only way I can describe it. Ambient city noise became so clear I found myself cringing, tensing up continuously as I went about the streets. Dr. Maloney allayed my concerns by telling me this was perfectly normal. “It’s just like getting a pair of prescription spectacles,” she explained. “The first day or two, you’re seeing things sharper than before. But it quickly settles down. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry? She wasn’t the one who began spending an increasing amount of time indoors, afraid to venture outside into a world of TOTAL NOISE. I didn’t phone her again, even when I began to hear the conversations of my neighbours (on either side of my apartment, as well as above and below). I didn’t complain because I didn’t want to appear ungrateful. What a fool. By the end of that week I was able to hear conversations on the street below - policemen, businessmen, crack dealers - three storeys down.
When the el-train passed overhead, I caught the excited babble of hundreds of passengers, multi-layered dialogue filling my head, making me sick. Pretty soon I was wearing ear plugs, the ones demolition guys wear, but still I found myself eavesdropping on people’s lives in apartments up to six blocks away. The hacking coughs of an elderly woman dying alone in her flat from advanced pneumonia. The exertions of a middle-aged couple who made love to each other without love, hearing the hollowness in their prosaic cries at the climax. The terrified sobs of a little boy whose father is only able to communicate with his fists. The final, hitching breaths of a junkie who has just taken his last fix…
I heard all this and more. I was a prisoner in my own head. I did try to call Dr. Maloney, but placing the receiver to my ear was like placing a microphone up to a 1000-Watt concert speaker. All I could hear were a thousand voices all talking at once.
In the end, there was only one solution. It was painful, and there was a lot of blood. I wish I’d been able to find something a little more hygienic than a fountain pen, but it was the only thing I could find that fit inside each ear. You get the picture.
I’m writing this now with that same pen. I can see a small circle of encrusted blood near the nib. Unfortunately, I can’t hear the beautiful scratching noise it makes as it crosses the page, but that’s a sacrifice I was willing to pay.
That final physical pain was nothing compared to enduring the emotional agonies of others. Having to listen to all those thousands of voices, all that bitterness, all that sorrow, all that human misery, would have driven me insane.
Afterwards, I couldn’t help thinking, maybe that’s what we sound like to God.
Maybe that’s why He stopped listening a long time ago.
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