Waxing Ineloquent

An account of a summer sabbatical morning gone array.

According to old Roman superstition, I've been getting up on the wrong side of the bed for the last ten years.

That is to say, since Jess and I got married, we established from the outset—as I would imagine most couples do—which side of the bed was our own. I took the left, and she took the right. There wasn't really any rhyme or reason to it that I recall. We just sort of fell into it.

Old Augustus Caesar himself was meticulous in his surety of getting out on the literal right side of the bed to avoid the assumed pall of ill fortune and malcontent that would follow him for the rest of that day until sleep found him again and there was a chance to start afresh. I've always been fascinated by little cultural quirks and idioms like these, and for the writer's brain, they are some of the finest fuel for the fire.

As I write this, I'm just over two weeks into a ten-week summer sabbatical. A time where I don't have to think about the intricate inner workings and machinations of the ministry and creative department I lead at my church, where the ever-present and always looming runway to the weekend worship experience—and all that comes with preparing for it—has miraculously evaporated into the aether. Each time the veritable muscle memory of my brain reaches out for what task I ought to be thinking about for the coming weekend, it emerges from the well only to come up dry, in the most surreal and sublime sense. It's a pleasant surprise almost every time, that comes with a sprinkling of existential panic. I think stepping aside from the vocation and the modus operandi of life you've been immersed in for more than half of your life can only ever come with a mixed cocktail of emotions and wonderment, but even now I'm happy to report that it by and large has been a dish served blissfully, with a side of ignorance and a dusting of desperation to know I'm still needed.

All of that to say, vacating from your vocation does not by any means insinuate a vacation from the everyday pangs for more meaning, nor does it equate to an elimination of time scarcity even when there seemingly is nothing but time at hand.

Those two specters are probably the things that have haunted me most in the past few years, in the wake of the early fatherhood and trying to become a writer and author, leading my ministry, being a good co-laborer to my peers, and most of all, attempting to lead my family well—even upon trembling legs that tremor with fear and uncertainty in the face of it all most days.

And so, when I wake in the mornings, swing my legs over and off the left side of the bed—or the wrong side, according to Caesar himself—I take the first steps unthinkingly amid sleep inertia, and for those first fleeting moments I don't feel that I've gotten up on the wrong side of anything. Most of the time.

Yesterday though, the second third Saturday of this sabbatical was an exception to that rule. I woke up immediately feeling flummoxed at the ceiling for being white and swirled with its stupid popcorn finish, then looked out in deflation at the brightening sky, realizing I had yet again missed the mark of waking up as early as I wanted to get some time and space and elevation before the day started and the kids were up, only to hear the playful pitter-patter of said brood down the hallway—a sound that, by all rights, ought to bring a man pride and gratitude that he indeed has been blessed with healthy, living, breathing heirs. But, as any parent will tell you, it breeds much more nuanced and fluctuating feelings—in this case, one of sheer ire.

I flung the covers off, strode down the hall to get my wakeful infant son out of his crib, and plopped him down on our bed next to my wife, who was just barely waking herself. Unbeknownst to me at the time, she had been up most of the night dealing with one of the many joys that come with nursing a child, having to painfully pump milk out that had become clogged. I don't envy the fairer sex most days.

I went about my morning, hastily sating my two daughters with a quick snack so I could head out for my morning run. All the while I tried to shake off the spirit of grumpiness, and I made some decent headway toward it. But, as is often the case, knowing I had left the house and curtly informed Jess I was leaving to run, I knew there was an apology to be made but held onto it a little longer—at least until I got a shower and was feeling alive and alert and happy. That was the hope.

Then a funny thing happened, and it became clear the curse of the left edge of the mattress was truly out for my head.

I had the fleeting thought that I should clean my ears again, as after a recent doctor's appointment, I was informed of a good amount of earwax buildup caused by my frequent use of molded in-ear monitors. Good protection and a far superior listening experience, but as it happens, when wax builds up and then you try to clean it with a saline solution meant for just that, and the plastic cleaning tool meant for such a thing gets in there to remove the considerable buildup, it can collapse upon itself, leading to a total and complete blockage of the ear canal.

Which is precisely what happened to my right ear. Totally blocked, could hardly hear a blasted thing. There was a strange and immediate psychosomatic sensation that accompanied it too, as if my right earlobe had gone numb, the stimuli of normal hearing resonance and vibration severely reduced. It even felt like my balance was off. In a panic, I tried to right this, and for a moment was able to clear enough to provide some relief and hear a little better.

But it still wasn't right, and mind you I'm operating in crank mode supreme at this point still. So in my stubbornness, refusing to have this be a thing that dampers my day, I went in again, poured in more of the Debrox solution meant to break up said wax, and had another go with the tool.

This made things worse. Much worse. I felt I was essentially deaf in this ear. Up until this point I hadn't informed Jess about what I was doing or that I had a sudden and random earwax blockage, because of course in my stubbornness I had held off on engaging and apologizing for my earlier curtness.

I called the urgent care office, made an appointment, and at long last admitted my folly and the issue at hand.

"Just go get yourself taken care of," she said. "And then maybe stop being so grouchy."

It hadn't gone unnoticed despite my silence, maybe even because of my silence. It never does, and you think I would learn by now.

I simmered in the rebuke for a moment before grabbing my car keys, when I remembered something. The day before I noticed my car battery was dead. I haven't had need to drive much on sabbatical, and I called it a problem for the next day. But now, on top of being suddenly deaf in one ear, I was reminded of having to jump my car, which I did by pulling the minivan out of our garage, as our two girls ran after me in half jest and half real panic, because they needed the van to go to the store with mom, and I was just more annoyed despite it being sort of playful and cute. I pulled the van in front of my car, opened the hoods, and went through the rigmarole of connecting the cables for the third time in two months because of half-shut doors and dome lights toggled on and off by curious uncaring little hands. The raging rant played on repeat in my mind, lamenting the day for being the way that it has, as my wife comes up the drive rightfully wondering where the car was and what I was doing.

I took a breath after getting the car started up, only to have her point out matter-of-factly that my back driver's side tire is inexplicably and suddenly very flat.

The left and wrong side of the bed. My right ear functioning very wrong. The left side of my car sunken down and immobile. At this point, I was beginning to question what exactly God was trying to test in me. If it was patience, I had already failed with flying colors.

Eventually, I got on the road, taking the van and telling Jess I'd be home asap, hopefully with renewed hearing. It was a quiet car ride, since I could hardly stand having the radio on, a constant reminder of my skewed hearing. It's amazing what having a sense removed from its normal function will do to you in the sense of gratitude for having had that functioning sense all your life till that point. Of course, I knew—mostly anyway—that this was a fleeting thing, but amid the wrongness of my day so far, and only four hours into it mind you, catastrophization becomes something of a default mode. What if I didn't get my hearing back fully? What if I had punctured the fragile layer of skin on my eardrum like a drumstick bashing through a snare head?

I held on to hope, and striding into the urgent care, me the only soul there on an already humid and sunny Saturday at 8:48 am, I signed a few things and sat for maybe a minute before an Asian nurse named Kim summoned me and brought me into a room. She was cheerful and kind, and it helped my disposition and my hope for a fleeting moment, and the doctor came in as I recounted my 'harrowing' morning thus far, only the parts to do with the ear, and leaving out the myriad of other things.

The doctor, an older gentleman, stout and tall with a head of silver-white hair, was all the more cheerful and had a careful and caring bedside manner, and I was encouraged that after this irrigation maybe things would turn around after all.

An ear irrigation is probably about the closest you can get to the old cartoon cliché of a character having water come in one ear and straight out the other. It feels like your brain is being washed, and not in the sinister comic book sense, more like the jets of a car wash cleaning the insides of your cranium. Of course, that's only the illusion of the feeling, and the smooshing swishing sound of water being sprayed into your ear is overwhelming and pleasantly numbing in a strange way. Ironically, the left side of the ear, which also had a good chunk of wax in it, gave up the ghost easily with a few pumps. As many medical professionals are, Kim seemed elated and fascinated with the size of the chunk that came out, and asked if I wanted to see it. I said I did and looked into the frothy soapy water in the cup I'd held to my ear a moment earlier and the liquid ear gold. You're next, righty, I thought with increasing confidence.

That confidence was quickly knocked aside as I awkwardly brought the cup to hold to my ear while Kim prepared to spray the water, and my arm knocked right into what was undoubtedly the buoyant squish of a breast. She paid it no mind, but an accidental boob brush is enough to make any man go red in the face and flush with embarrassment through about every internal organ. Blessedly, there was no acknowledgment of it on her end, as she was dead set on getting this chunk of wax out of my lame right ear.

I could tell right away it wasn’t taking like the other side, as spray after spray cascaded into the canal.

She stopped, wiped away the excess, and made a tsk sound as she brought the ear scope to check. Sure enough, the stubborn block was still there.

She called the doctor back in, at this point my stomach sinking thoroughly and surely into the abyss, and all the more as he shared his thoughts.

"Well, shoot. You know, we are successful about 80 percent of the time with a block like this through irrigation, but well darn it, it's just still stuck in there good. Now we don't want to hurt the ear; it's an organ and fragile like any you see. So we can either try one more time with the irrigation, or you can go home, keep working it with the Debrox solution for a few days, and let it fall out on its own. If that still doesn't work—and sometimes with one like this that's oxidized, it might not—you might have to make an appointment with a specialist to have them suction it out. And I can write a referral for that."

I was nodding and giving my best "sures," and "uh-huhs" during all of this, putting on a brave, even-keeled face, my default even during moments like this one when I'm internally broiling and boiling and hoping to the high heavens that there'd be some kind of third way. Something that could work today.

"Let's try the irrigation again," I said.

I sat there in that most vulnerable of positions, legs hanging down from the table with that thin and crackling parchment paper that seems to amplify the sound of your every move tenfold, and nurse Kim came in to give things another go. My arms were trembling as I sat there on a hope and a prayer that it would work this time, that I wouldn't be sent home to have to deal with a deaf right ear for the next few days while I applied a slow trickle of earwax solution for the next five days in hopes that the Hoover Dam within my ear canal would break loose and simply melt away. My chest was tight and I felt that faint queasiness in my gut, the kind where you full well you aren't going to be sick but you get the privilege of experiencing all the precursory cues and feelings with none of the violent relief.

Lo and behold, to the glory of all glories, it worked this time. Nurse Kim, brilliant in her maneuvering and angling of the spray bottle, got the offending calcified rock of wax out of there, as water swirled in what felt like my brain cavity and the foaming pop of bubbles pervaded as if I were immersed in a bowl of Rice Krispies with freshly poured milk.

I think, as I felt the chunk break loose, I may have even uttered something like, "Ah, there it is," which in hindsight feels like a strange exclamation to have made, but I couldn't help it.

In the aftermath of all that as I left the urgent care, feeling pounds lighter in my cranium and with a brand new pep in my step, it didn't take me long to realize how melodramatic I'd been about the whole thing. Sure, it was a momentary loss of a sense and it was inconvenient, but how many people are there who, due to some freak accident, health condition, or things 'breaking,' have lost one or more of their five senses completely? A lot, I'd wager.

And when that happens, in young or old age, I imagine the existential terror and dread that creeps in holds a fair bit of common ground. I experienced a micro version of that, and I knew things would be fine. But what if they hadn't been? It got me to wondering how I would really cope with a sudden onset disability or ailment. Would I become entirely miserable to be around, or would it make me all the more grateful for what I still had? Probably both at different times and maybe all at once. That's the great mystery of being human, and part of what makes our minds so unique, that they can hold all the memories and emotions and experiences in tension and in tandem, comprising our sense of self like strands rising up to one concentric point, comprising our whole self, our very soul.

Not to wax eloquent here (pun quite intended), but this blockage that took away one of the senses I most value, even if for only hours, made me realize how fickle I am and how grateful I ought to be. Not only this, but I felt like I was hearing frequencies and high-pitched sibilance in the scraping scuffle of footsteps and the crinkling of dollar bills that I'd never heard before. It could have simply been a psychosomatic reaction, and maybe I was just paying more attention.

Either way, the whole morning gave me something to think upon. It gave me new hope and gratitude, and the ability to be fully present the rest of the day with my family. If that's what it took—for my hearing to be compromised in order for my ears to be truly open to what God had to say to me that day, and what I needed to be reminded of—I suppose there are far worse ways to have spent a sunny Saturday morning.