Forever, forever-ever? Forever-ever?
A sudden hearing loss, a crash course in the american healthcare shit-show, and the uncertainty that follows
The past 4 weeks have been trying. I say that and you’re probably thinking I’m speaking more broadly than I actually am.
On a Thursday morning a few weeks back, I was sitting having coffee with my wife and my right ear started ringing loudly. I’ve had bouts with tinnitus but this was acute— unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Raw guitar feedback.
After a few minutes, my ear suddenly felt very full as if I’d been swimming for the past few hours. Then, the ringing subsided. Sort of. But I was left with very little hearing in that ear— like, maybe 10%.
My wife was looking at me funny as I began rather frantically snapping my fingers in front of each ear— left then right, over and over again—while offering her no context as to why. When I tried to stand it felt like a was on a boat. I was wildly off balance.
I was scared as fuck. And remember, I work in audio; losing my hearing is not an ideal situation.
When she asked what I was doing, I shared with her some of what I was experiencing. Wasting very little time she sent the kids to the neighbors (it was a snow day) and insisted we go to the ER. It all happened over the course of an hour or so.
I do not like doctors. I especially do not like hospitals. But I agreed because this felt urgent, so off we went to Maine Med.
I know stepping through the automatic doors alone at the ER will cost us $700. That was certainly on my mind. But something felt seriously wrong, and no amount of financial anxiety was going to change that. My wife and I approached the woman at the intake desk. She was surrounded by cups of ground coffee. Is that a thing? She asked me what was wrong and I rifled off a quick explanation. I must’ve looked as off-balance as I felt because she didn’t hesitate to hand me a clipboard and tell me to take a seat, nodding to the triage person to ready their station. I think she thought I was having a stroke. I think maybe I thought I was having a stroke.
Hospitals have a way of making you feel both important and completely insignificant at the same time. The fluorescent lights, the quiet, controlled movement, the low murmur of voices—it’s a holding space for fear and frustration. The TV had a show about puppies playing. Tactical, I thought.
I sat there, ear buzzing, ruminating, but trying not to fully spiral into dread— mostly meaning I wasn’t allowed to go on Reddit while waiting for my name to be called. My wife was in charge of “research,” not me.
To her credit, my wife is so fucking good in these type of situations. Like, really good. Poised. Clear-headed. Level. I am a small child in a medical setting; a white coat syndrome-worst-case-scenario-ist. Which, is probably why my blood pressure was the highest it’s ever been when the triage person ripped off the cuff.
About 30 minutes after triage they called me back to speak to a 25 year old resident with face piercings and tattoos. I know, I know! That feels super judgmental and it is. Mind you, I am covered in tattoos. I’m not, however, dealing with incredibly vulnerable people at their most scared and weakest. I make podcasts for Christ’s sake— I have little room to judge. But I want to be clear, it wasn’t her body art and metal face that set me off; it was her dismissive, shitty attitude. She ran through a series of questions. Have you been sick recently? Any history of hearing loss? Any recent trauma to the ear? I shook my head “no” to most of it. Her diagnosis?
“You must just have a common cold...like, just some sinus stuff happening.”
I didn’t even have time to move my eyebrows lower than they already are before my wife asked very directly to speak to the attending physician in a way that only a 40 year old super-pro-boss-lady can cut down a 25 year old girl. She melted into a small puddle of ink and silver rings and slithered out of the room. Very shortly after, the attending popped-in and began asking the same series of questions, except her response was different. Very different.
“I think you’re experiencing sudden sensorineural hearing loss,” she said. “Which means, we need to act quickly.”
I squinted at her. Wait—what? Sudden sensorineural hearing loss? I had never even heard of it. Ears don’t just stop working like that, right? I mean, I’ve been to enough loud concerts, but this wasn’t some gradual decline—this was a switch flipping off. I waited for the part where she told me this was temporary, that my ear was just being dramatic and would sort itself out. Instead, she started explaining that SSNHL is rare, often has no clear cause, and if untreated, the hearing loss can become permanent. Permanent. There’s only a very small window of time to treat it. Like, days, not weeks. My brain latched onto “permanent” hard, refusing to let go.
Steroids. That was the answer. A high dose of prednisone immediately to try to reduce inflammation and, hopefully, restore some or all of my hearing before it was too late. She wrote the prescription and helped expedite a trip to the ENT.
I wish I could say this came out of nowhere, but my ears have been a bit of a mess for a while. I’ve had tinnitus on and off for years—mostly an occasional nuisance but sometimes loud enough to hijack my focus. A few months back, I started noticing weird fluctuations in my hearing, random fullness that would come and go, and this vague sense that something wasn’t quite right. I’d tried to book an ENT appointment last October, but thanks to the glacial pace of american healthcare and the black hole that is specialist scheduling, I was still 2 months out from being seen. And then, just like that, my right ear decided it wasn’t waiting any longer. The ER visit—at best—got me into an ENT with haste. The boy did not cry wolf, but he did cry.
Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss (SSNHL) is exactly what it sounds like—hearing that vanishes, seemingly out of nowhere, usually in one ear. It’s classified as a medical emergency because the window for treatment is brutally short—typically less than two weeks—before any hearing loss becomes permanent. The cause? Often a mystery. Viral infections, circulation issues, autoimmune reactions—doctors throw out theories, but in most cases, they never pinpoint exactly why it happens. And because it’s both terrifying and frustratingly vague, it’s all over Reddit (obviously), where people swap horror stories, treatment successes, and desperate pleas for reassurance. Lately, it feels like more people are experiencing it, whether due to post-viral complications, stress, or just better awareness, but one thing is clear: if your hearing suddenly drops, you don’t wait. You act fast, or you risk losing it forever.
No one talks about this, but it happens all the time. To musicians, to accountants, to people who wake up one morning and realize their alarm clock is suddenly on mute. There’s no warning. Just silence.
Forever, forever-ever? Forever-ever?
I went through the full course of prednisone—the high-dose, taper-down regimen that’s supposed to give you the best shot at recovery. And to some extent, it worked. My low and mid registers came back, which was a huge relief, but the high end? Still gone. I can’t hear the hi-hat. That crisp, bright shimmer that should be cutting through a mix just isn’t there. It’s like my ear has an EQ filter permanently rolled off at the top.
Now, I’m deep in the world of specialists, navigating appointments with more ENTs, audiologists, neurologists, acupuncturists, hyperbaric oxygen chamber therapists, Reiki energy healers, I don’t fucking care! I am hitting them all; really anyone else who might have a clue.
I had an MRI, which at least ruled out the truly terrifying shit—no tumors, no major structural issues. So now, I wait. Maybe my hearing keeps improving on its own. Maybe it doesn’t, and I’m stuck with this new reality where concerts, Celtics games, and every goddamn loud restaurant (including my own dinner table) turn into a miserable wall of sound— like, a broken fluorescent lightbulb crackling away. Networking will forever be a nightmare, and networking events already sucked.
I don’t know where this goes from here. I try not to obsess over it, but when you lose something you’ve relied on every second of your life, it’s hard not to notice its absence. I catch myself instinctively cupping my ear, snapping my fingers— is it back? Hearing is such a passive, automatic thing—until it's not. And then, suddenly, you're hyper-aware of everything you're not hearing, of the ways you have to work to follow a conversation, of the little joys that just... vanish.
Maybe my hearing improves. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I just get used to it—learn to work around it, lean into it, figure out how to navigate the world with a busted right channel. People adapt. Brains compensate. Life moves forward whether you’re ready or not. Truly, I’m grateful for all that I do have, even if I have to strike an attribute off the list. Right ear.
The hardest part?
No one can tell you what happens next. It’s a bizarre limbo where doctors shrug, tell you to hope for the best, and send you back into the world with a broken sound mix. But here’s what I do know: I will never take sound for granted again. I will savor every crisp cymbal hit, every whispered “s” or “th”, every goddamn delicate frequency that I still have in my right ear. And if I don’t get it back? Then I figure it out. I adjust. I learn to live inside this new mix—because what other choice is there?
The steroid shot in my eardrum seems to helped. I did only one. It was not pleasant. But remember, he only has a very short window to get on steroids.