Once you reach middle age there are certain physical changes that make you feel ancient. It could be grey hair, knee pain or taking ever longer to haul yourself off the sofa.
At 58, I’ve managed to escape all the above – so far.
No, it was something else that sent me crashing headfirst into Old Lady Land. Due to a freak medical incident, I now wear hearing aids in both ears.
Most of us have experienced that disorientated feeling when we first wake up – something is different and it takes a while to realise what it is.
And one morning last year – having gone to bed with perfectly normal hearing – I woke up and realised that I couldn’t hear a thing.
In a panic, I went around the house creating all sorts of different noises to see what registered. I could make out some loud, deep sounds – doors being slammed, the whir of my blender.
Higher-pitched sounds were another story. I tapped a glass with a fork; when I covered my left ear I could hear it faintly, when I covered my right ear there was nothing at all.
A relative visiting from overseas had been staying with me. She arrived from Singapore with a mystery virus (a Covid test was negative) and after a few days, I was struck down, too. We both lost our voices and had throats that felt like they were lined with barbed wire. It was after a few days of this that I went deaf – while she just had breathing difficulties.
One morning last year – having gone to bed with perfectly normal hearing – Claudia Connell woke up and realised she couldn’t hear a thing
Anybody with hearing aids will tell you what an extraordinary feeling it is when you wear them for the first time
I went to my nearest Urgent Care Centre, where I was misdiagnosed with an ear infection and put on antibiotics. A crucial opportunity to save my hearing with a high dose of steroids was lost – it might not have worked, of course, but there was a chance.
The antibiotics did nothing, and a later MRI scan ruled out a brain tumour. After undergoing tests the consultant told me I had ‘profound’ hearing loss in my left ear – around 75-80 per cent – and ‘severe’ loss in my right ear of 40 per cent.
Naively, I assumed it was temporary. The consultant looked taken aback when I breezily asked, ‘How long before it comes back?’
‘It’s not coming back, Claudia,’ he replied. ‘The nerve damage is permanent.’
He explained that what I’d experienced – a little-known condition known as sudden sensorineural hearing loss – can be a rare side-effect of viral infections. I left the hospital in a daze, with a referral to be fitted for NHS hearing aids.
So for seven months, while I waited for an appointment, I struggled with conversations, especially in settings like restaurants, where there is so much background noise.
I’d tell people I didn’t quite catch what they said . . . but after they’d repeated themselves three times I’d just pretend I’d heard – including the time I said, ‘Yes, that’ll be fine’ to someone asking if I could drive them to Gatwick Airport at 5am. I thought they’d asked if the drive would be easy at that time in the morning.
Anybody with hearing aids will tell you what an extraordinary feeling it is when you wear them for the first time. I felt a flood of relief to be able to hear again, tinged with the sadness of knowing this was it now for the rest of my life. I’d imagined I might need hearing aids in 25 years’ time, not while I still felt (relatively) young and healthy.
I could now hear the conversations of people on the opposite side of the road. On the bus, a snapping sound made me jump out of my skin – it was somebody five rows in front opening a crisp packet.
I constantly felt like I was being followed because the footsteps of people metres away sounded so close by.
My own voice sounded so loud I became convinced I was shouting. ‘What are you whispering for?’ asked one friend on a night out. ‘Have you lost your voice?’ At that point, still clinging to the hope of a miracle cure, I hadn’t told many people about my deafness.
The audiologist warned me that this supercharged hearing is something you must tolerate until your brain eventually learns to tune out excessive sound.
Some things will never be the same. Music now sounds tinny and soulless. Concerts and theatre are ruined by the sounds of hundreds of others fidgeting, coughing and sniffing.
No matter how much I fiddle with the settings I can’t hear the phone, so I have to conduct calls on loudspeaker. I’ll admit I quite enjoy people squirming with embarrassment when they complain and I tell them I am deaf and have no choice.
With my hair down nobody would know I wear hearing aids but with it up – as it has been a lot in the hot weather – they’re noticeable and, as grateful as I am, they make me horribly self-conscious.
Friends have assured me they’re not noticeable but I’ve still decided, for vanity reasons, that I’m going to invest in a pair of invisible aids instead.
Smaller than a peanut, they sit inside the ear and will cost about £2,000. A price worth paying to not feel so ancient and uncomfortable.
After 16 months of deafness, I try to have a Pollyanna approach and be glad I can hear and live a pretty normal life. But I can’t shake the fear that my hearing could deteriorate further. Hearing aids are only effective if you have something left to work with. Should I start learning sign language as a precaution? Lip reading?
Even after all this time, I wake up experiencing those first few seconds of confusion.
Something’s not right. Why does everything feel so strange? Oh yes, that’s it: I’m deaf.
