Posts Tagged 'cookie bite audiogram'

Kookybite Innovation #6

My quest for the perfect hearing aid-free digital piano playing experience is being hampered by a combination of total ignorance of music software and hardware, combined with extreme impatience with technological matters. The sort of impatience that can lead to things getting smashed up.

I want to equalize the output of my Clavinova as I’m playing it, to fill in the cookie bite, but I don’t know what I’m doing.  Recent exposure to my mistakes is causing the spouse to run away in terror with his hands over his ears whenever he sees the laptop going anywhere near the piano.

Someone invent this plug-in thingy that does it all for me. Pleeeeeease.

 

Update 11 Sep 2015…come on, I’m still waiting

 

 

 

Red wine = headache + tinnitus

I’ve been suffering from serious sense of humour failure recently, and I think I may have found the cause. After a nice glass of the red wine last night, taken in the full knowledge that it doesn’t agree with me these days, I awoke from my slumbers at 3:15 am. My head was sore, the facial twitch was in full swing and the phantom pure tone generator in my right ear had been mysteriously turned up in volume while I slept.

As I tossed and turned for the next 4 hours and 45 minutes, I decided to pass the time by identifying the chord which the two familiar tones in my lug were making. Lo and behold, it’s a minor interval, made up of C6 and E flat 6 on the piano. If anyone out there has anything harmonically similar ringing in their lugs, let me know and we can form a duet.

Frequency wise, it nestles right in the centre of the 1kHz trough of the cookie bite. I hope my brain doesn’t decide to create any more phantom tones in all the other dud frequencies of the cookie bite in future, or my current two-note tinnitus will turn into the monstrous chord illustrated below:

cookiebite chord

Fortunately, my little sad sounding Minor Third chord is usually very quiet, but it has clearly been exerting a subliminal influence on my mood. I’ll ask for a major chord next time I’m stupid enough to drink red wine.

Safe in the arms of the NHS

The spouse and I rolled up in darkness at our shiny new local hospital which shall be henceforth known as The David Cronenberg Clinic. It was a 6:20pm appt and the whole place was absolutely deserted. The front doors slid open noiselessly (I think) and we entered the vast three storey atrium. The escalators were running with not a soul in sight. I left a nice set of muddy footprints as I squeaked across the marble in my trainers, while the spouse contemplated the apparent convergence of shopping centre and hospital architecture.

We eventually found the ENT clinic on the 2nd floor and we were relieved to find a handful of people in there, so it made it feel a bit less like being in a David Cronenberg movie. I was pleased to see that they had the subtitles on the telly, but unfortunately I’m so short sighted I couldn’t see them, so I had to make do with the newly applied tree murals on the walls for my pre-appointment entertainment. Once I got bored with that, I looked down at my sparkly white trainers and noticed that there were big black balls of mud stuck to them. As I cast my eyes across the floor, I noticed several others leading up to my chair. Knowing the park-side locale, I was just about to test for dog-shit when the audiologist called me in.

I was pleased with my plentiful button pressing during the test, and felt sure that the unfortunate Boots Hearing episode was now behind me. I was despatched back to the empty waiting area and I decided now to have a closer inspection of the tree mural (verdict: quite nice, actually). Just as I was mulling over the finer points of the brushwork with my face 2cm away from the wall and my bum in the air, I heard someone shout  ”     -ra    – cer” . Since there was only one other person left in the waiting area and he appeared to be dead,  I assumed it was me who was being called.

When we went in, the consultant, Mr Bradford had my audiogram in his doctorly mitts. He examined it and then resumed his chat in a louder voice. “RIGHT MRS DANCER, YOU’RE HERE TO SAY YOU’VE NOT HEARD PROPERLY FOR YEARS AND IT’S JUST GOT  WORSE, AREN’T YOU?”  He dropped his otoscope on the floor and I noticed more black footprints and balls of mud in my vicinity. He picked up the otoscope and before I could get myself into the brace position, he was upon me with his instrument and muttering to the nurse. He then did a big theatrical sweep back to his desk and flourished his pen over the case notes.

“AGE?”

“43”

“SMOKING?”

“Er, gave it up”

“EXERCISE?”

“Er, do you mean do I do it? Er yes, kind of run round the park every so often…”

“ANY 10Ks, HALF-MARATHONS, ANYTHING LIKE THAT?”

“God, no. Why?”

“JUST WONDERED WHAT YOUR TIME WAS FOR THE 10K… FAMILY?”

“Er, what…do you mean do they exercise?”

Mr Bradford looks at me strangely.

“Oh…right, do you mean have I got children? No.”

“BEEN IN CONTACT WITH ANY FAMILY WITH KIDNEY DISEASE, BOWEL PROBLEMS?”

“Oh my god! My mother-in law’s got renal failure…have I given her something?”

Putting two and two together to make five, I wondered with horror what Mr Bradford had seen inside my ears. A brain abscess? Suppurating necrotising fasciitis? A lurking David Cronenberg sausage-like thing with teeth, that was planning to ambush my mother in-law during Christmas dinner?

“NO, NO, NO, THERE ARE SOME CONDITIONS WHICH ARE LINKED. RUN IN FAMILIES. HEARING, BOWELS, KIDNEYS. THAT KIND OF THING.”

Just as I was wondering what this was all leading up to, Mr Bradford made another theatrical sweep, this time for his dictaphone.

“FOURTEENTH OF DECEMBER TWO THOUSAND AND NINE. DEAR DOCTOR PROCTER, THANK YOU FOR REFERRING THIS PATIENT TO ME. THIS FORTY THREE YEAR OLD LADY HAS CONGENITAL BILATERAL SENSORINEURAL HEARING LOSS WITH WHICH SHE HAS PREVIOUSLY COPED WELL, BUT… BLAH, BLAH, HEARING AIDS, BLAH”

I gripped the arms of the dentist type chair I was sitting in and stared at my reflection in the window. It must have been the slight ‘Dürer’s portrait of christ’ aspect to the sight of my hairdo which made me think of Billy Connolly’s Jesus and the Jaggy Bunnet crucifixion tale. “Haw, Jim, waaaaait a minute” was forming on my lips. I considered I’d take the Jaggy Bunnet over a couple of hearing aids any day.

Dictation of doom over, Mr B  went on to explain that I am now officially a little deaf in both lugholes and probably always have been. The ‘cookie bite’ audiogram is my official ticket to the club. Then came the solution: “YOU NEED THE CORNER, THE MEXICAN WAVE” and a third thing I can’t remember, we never got past The Corner. In the blink of an eye, a demo was in full swing in the corner behind me. Rooted to my chair, I was following his every move with my head, like a cat that’s having a ping pong ball dangled in front of it.

“YOU GET YOURSELF IN THE CORNER, OKAY, YOU MAKE SURE NOBODY CAN GET BEHIND YOU, GET AS CLOSE TO THE WALL AS YOU CAN.”

I imagined myself at work, jammed up against the fire extinguishers in the crit space in the studio, with fifty students looking at me in bemused wonderment. In a room where every corner is full of huge piles of discarded shite, I decided that The Corner was going to be of limited use as a coping strategy. Maybe I could just crawl into one of the piles and come out once someone’s invented a decent bloody hearing aid. Do tutorials through an ear trumpet under the pile in the meantime. If it was good enough for Beethoven…my reverie was broken as I returned to the present “…AND OF COURSE, THERE’S THE RESTAURANT. PHONE ‘EM UP,” he looks to the spouse ” TELL THEM, ‘MY WIFE HAS A DISABILITY, WE NEED A TABLE IN THE CORNER’. THEY’RE NOT ALLOWED TO SAY NO.” He turns to me, “WORST THING FOR YOU IS THE TABLE WITH YOUR BACK TO THE ROOM. NOISE EVERYWHERE AND YOU CAN’T HEAR A BLOODY THING.”

Just before I could get a chance to ask him what the heck the ‘Mexican Wave’ was, Mr Bradford jumped out of his corner, pumped both of our hands vigorously and sent us packing back to the audiologist. As I perused the life size fleshy silicone ear sitting on her table and wondered what it was for,  she looked at her watch and to my great relief said she’d make me another appointment in a couple of weeks.


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