Page 44 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“A week. Though, now that I think back, I have had a few over the last couple of months. They come and go.”

She presses her scope into my right ear and it warms, from the light I presume.

“Okay,” she says. Is that a good okay? An interesting okay?

She moves to my left and does the same. The scope feels hotter against my skin, but I think that’s simply my nerves.

“And you mentioned that you’re having some hearing issues. Have you had a hearing test done?” She still has the scope in my ear as she leans forward to look me in the eyes.

“No.” I’m afraid to move my head.

“We can do one here. No problem.” She pulls the scope out and moves back to her computer. A few seconds later her assistant pokes her head in.

“Can you bring in the audiometer?” Dr. Davis asks.

Her assistant nods and disappears back through the door. I feel like my world hit fast forward suddenly, my head swiveling as I try to keep up with the doctor’s questions and now the equipment being set up in front of the chair. I move to the seat and put on the headphones, which are somehow nicer than mine. The assistant to my right and the doctor on my left, they run me through a series of tones, asking me to raise my corresponding hand when I hear something. It feels like a trick at times because they ask me where the sound is and I hear nothing, so I don’t raise a hand.

My worry ramps up when her assistant wheels the system away and Dr. Davis scoots on her stool so we’re sitting face-to-face.

“You have a slight infection, which is probably from your own investigations into your ear,” she says in a kind way.

I nod because yeah, I went at both ears pretty good with the Q-tips. They did zero good, and apparently a lot of harm. My pulse slows because an infection is what I hoped for. Some antibiotics, drops likely. Maybe another hearing test.

“Nikki, you might also have a small acoustic neuroma in your left ear. That’s probably what’s causing the dizziness, and I would almost guarantee that’s why you have trouble hearing midrange tones.”

“I’m sorry, I . . . I’m what?”

I’m going to faint.

“Let me show you,” she says, holding up a finger. She swivels the computer table so I can see the screen and the results from the audiometer. I’m not really hearing her, maybe because of the neuroma in my ear or maybe because I’m in a full-blown panic attack, but I’m able to somehow hold it together enough to visually understand the results. The red dots are all sounds I missed. Sounds like the ones I couldn’t tune on my project. Like songs I’ve had trouble with lately on the mixer.

“I’m sorry, but . . . I’m really hot,” I say. I lean my weight onto the right arm of the chair while the doctor pushes the computer out of the way so she can fill a cup with water.

“It’s natural. It’s a lot of medical jargon. I’m sorry,” she says, handing me the cup. I take it with two hands, like a toddler. I bring it to my lips slowly and take small sips, focusing on my breathing. I haven’t freaked out like this since we were in a minor car accident on our way home from the Iowa State football game when I was twelve.

I’m not sure when her assistant came back in, but I’m grateful for the cool pack she’s put on my neck. And my pulse seems to be regulating.

“It isn’t serious, and it is common, though not usually in women your age,” Dr. Davis continues.

“Okay. What does that mean? For me, I mean. Are you saying it’s not cancer?” This was my biggest fear. Stupid Google.

She shakes her head.

“It’s a small noncancerous tumor. The usual course is to monitor it and make sure it doesn’t change or grow. And if the vertigo gets worse, we can find ways to treat that, help with the symptoms.”

“And the inability to hear midrange tones?” This. This is what I care about most. I would be fine falling over every other day if it meant I could hear everything as it should be.

She pulls her mouth into a tight line, and my chest collapses. I will not cry. Not here.

“There’s surgery. It’s an option, but I wouldn’t recommend it with how small yours likely is. Surgery itself comes with risks, and?—”

“I’m a sound engineer,” I blurt out.

She stops being a doctor then and there. Her expression softens, her eyes rounding. She looks down at her hands and nods.

“Before you do anything, you’ll need to set up a CT with contrast to confirm the diagnosis. They’ll be able to see the size and exactly where it’s located. We don’t have that here, but the main hospital does. I’ll print your referral. You’ll want to fast beforehand so I recommend scheduling it in the morning. I’ll also print you some information on options for surgery. There’s radiation, but . . .”

Her doctor persona is back. She moves her stool back to the monitor and types feverishly, the small printer whirling to life as it spits out page after page. She gathers them into a hefty stack and steps next to me so she can explain everything I’m going to obsess over for the next however many hours.

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