I have flown into the city dozens of times, but this time — slam — it felt like a crash-landing in my ears. Nothing — yawning, swallowing, those little rubber ear screws that make you look audio-animatronic — worked. After we landed I heard as through a glass, darkly.
Not hearing is like a little imprisonment. It is not all bad. Happy hour in your favorite restaurant is now endurable. Nevertheless it is bad. Home conversation becomes a comedy sketch on marriage and/or old age. “. . . .” [Nothing] “. . . .” [Nothing] “. . . !” “I can’t hear you!” After a few days of this I went to the doctor. The cabbie, an immigrant, recognized me from a TV talk on one of my more obscure subjects. Quick, without looking it up, who was Gouverneur Morris? Isaac from Ghana knows. That was cheering. The doctor was not cheering, but he was the next best thing, which is clear. The inner tubes of my ears had swollen, trapping fluids. The three treatments from most to least aggressive were poking small holes in my eardrums; taking oral steroids; or a regimen of decongestants, nasal sprays, and gum chewing (innard calisthenics). We went with Number Three.
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