Juliet England: My cochlear implant diary Part 2

The second part of Juliet’s journey towards having a cochlear implant

It is halfway through the night (OK, OK, maybe not, but it was pre-8am). I’m at my local station at this ungodly hour to catch a train to Oxford for my next pre-op cochlear implant appointment.

It doesn’t take long for disaster to strike. I have researched this journey meticulously in advance, given the importance of the occasion and the earliness of the hour. But, minutes after I rock up at the station, those plans are thrown out of the window.

Not only is the train I wanted to catch cancelled following a fatality on the line, but, inevitably, I can’t hear any of the staff when trying to decide an alternative, since their faces are all covered by masks.

Before I quite know what’s happening, I’m being bundled into a cab and whisked Oxford-wards. Clearly, I’m grateful, but the mask-wearing driver and I are unable to communicate.

“Please. Take me to the John Radcliffe, I’ll pay the extra,” I beg.

If he responds, I can’t hear a word. Also, I can’t even call the hospital to let them know I’m running late, or indeed anyone else to do it for me. (I guess I could have texted someone, but hindsight is a lovely thing.) I jump out of the cab and into another taxi at Oxford station, screeching into Outpatients two minutes after my 9am allotted slot, flinging myself through the doors in the manner of Indiana Jones escaping the rolling ball before that thing comes crashing down.

The surgeon, a white, middle-aged man with glasses and thin, pale hair, sits behind a Perspex screen, as if behind some sort of ticket booth. Two female staff members sit my side of the screen, behind masks, but writing down anything I don’t catch.

I’m obliged to halt proceedings briefly while fumbling around with my hearing aid battery, always fully guaranteed to pack up the moment you need it most.

I can feel my excitement mounting as the surgeon runs through the procedure. We talk about which side of me to implant (the left, if you’re interested, my worst side), the colour of the bit that will go on my head, the chosen brand, what the switch-on will be like, and the number of post-op appointments.

When I ask about the age of the oldest patient Oxford has ever implanted, I make them repeat it to me at least six times. For surely I have misheard? They implanted someone aged 96?! Even when I realise I haven’t misheard, I spend the next 20 minutes telling them that this is a sensible appointment and that they should stop winding me up immediately.

Then there are also the risks to discuss. In truth, these are minuscule, but they are real nonetheless. And none of them sounds especially appealing. Meningitis. Facial paralysis. I hadn’t previously realised either was a thing in a CI op, but the surgeon insists neither has happened on his watch.

He tells me about the team. It seems they have a ‘lady surgeon’, a Miss Kumar. Woah. Lady surgeon, eh? What will they think of next?

Anyway, it seems that, in a triumph of hope over expectation, they should be able to operate before the year is out, far sooner than I’d dared believe.

I bus it back into a sunny, if somewhat deserted, Oxford, more convinced than ever that, while it wouldn’t be for everyone, this procedure is something I badly need to go ahead with. I have no choice.

But the day is not over. That night, I have dinner with M, who is, for various reasons which need not detain us here, a dangerous man with whom to dine.

I am far, far more nervous than I should be, and kicking myself. Why have I not made it clear that I was accepting a friendly invitation to go out under the government eat-out scheme, and not up for a date?

As it is, he’s lovely, but it feels like quite a long evening. His own hearing loss, compounded by the mask-wearing waiting staff, make communication sometimes feel like swimming the Channel through syrup.

At the end, having split the bill with no small relief, I insist that I am fine to walk home. True gent that he is, M is having none of it, and won’t hear of not driving me the half-mile home.

I had wanted to avoid this, the late-night lift thing, though at least in the quiet of the car we can talk and hear each other more easily. (For all of five minutes.)

It’s probably against the social-distancing rules, but we hug to say good night (exactly the sort of scenario I’d been so keen to swerve), hearing aids whistling in the darkness. It lasts a fraction longer than it should.

Having extricated myself, once inside I almost literally collapse on to a beanbag, weak with, with what? Relief and exhaustion, probably, that this jittery day and night are over. I will message M in the morning, and apologise for not being clearer with him from the outset.

Most importantly, I am now a step nearer the longed-for CI.