The ear

OK, so I admit it. I should have known better. There is no excuse. Every medical student knows that the smallest thing you should stick in your ear is your elbow. But I was proud. I thought I knew what I was doing. I had done it before and crazed with the flush of success I did it again. I syringed my own ear.

Let me explain myself. It first happened back in December. Newly arrived in South Africa the heat dislodged some ear wax and I lost some hearing, common in new arrivals I was told. After several miserable dinners in which I was incapable of joining the conversation I took the bull by the horns, bought a syringe and spent 20 minutes flushing out the ear. Imagine the joy of seeing the numerous bits of waxy debris fill the basin and the relief as the last rubble of draining soapy water brings with it the crystal clear high fidelity hiss-free noises of the world around for the first time in days.

So when last week I awoke unable to hear out of said ear unless, bizarrely, pulling firmly down on my right ear lobe I felt I knew the drill. After a couple of patient encounters in which the limitations of the ear-lobe-pulling technique were demonstrated (tricky with a stethoscope) I nipped home and spent some time flushing it out. The results were, I admit disappointing. There were no acoustic revelations. The following morning the impediment was slightly worse. The day after that I awoke aware that the ear was discharging and olfactory investigation revealed it to be offensive.

That evening several of us (the doctors) went of to the tourist seaside town for St Lucia for the night, celebrating the fact of the public holiday that followed. By now my ear felt enormous. I could not understand why my colleagues were not commenting on the prodigious size my right pinna must have reached. I asked them, and they examined it and true to their polite and gracious natures said each looked identical. But I know they were simply hiding their horror. That night I awoke almost smothered by my own ear. It throbbed, it leaked, it stank.

I dragged myself over to the lodge reception the following morning. We spent some time on the phone. All the pharmacies were closed for the public holiday. The local GP claimed to have no antibiotics and did not want to see me. The receptionist, moved by my tears, suggested I walk down the road to where the only other GP in town worked. Perhaps he could help.

The reception room held four other people – one white and the other black. The door leading from the reception room opened. Standing in it was the GP, a stocky Afrikaaner in his early 60s, clad in shorts with long socks and sandels. “Next!”

I gestured to the others in the room. They gestured back to me. I said “But you were first.” They shook their heads and indicated I should go. Apartheid would appear to be slow to die in the minds of some. “Well if they want to be so polite that is their right.” said the exasperated GP

In his office I described my problem. He grabbed antibiotics and ear drops off the shelf announcing that he saw a lot of this (the divers apparently). He was more interested in talking about Hlabisa (“You must learn surgery. Here you will see real medicine!”).

“You must come to St Lucia again. Next time you come you must come out on my boat…” He grabbed a flyer: his yacht charter company. “…and stay in my hotel…” Another flyer, this time for a lodge a short walk from where we were. “… and come have dinner at my restaurant.” A third flyer was thrust into my hand: a slightly tacky looking restaurant – with a water chute. Further questioning revealed that he also owned the local (and only) bar club. So, I observed, you could stay in his hotel, go out on his boat, eat as his restaurant before going to his club, getting beaten up in a fight and calling him to stitch you up. He grinned.

I walked out clutching my antibiotics 2 minutes later (“no charge in the profession”) and gulped down the first dose. I am, you will be relieved to hear, now cured. Won’t be syringing my own ears in a hurry again.