WAX JOB

"... And it's the last time he's getting past security!"

Is there anything more pathetic than a 65-year-old man weeping in a doctor’s office during a simple two-minute procedure?        

Having been the man in question, I can tell you, without debate, the answer is no. But at least it likely gave the doctor a chance to tell his colleagues, “You wouldn’t believe the nut who came into my office this morning!”

You’ve likely read about men -- and it’s always men -- who visit an Ear, Nose and Throat professional to remove earwax that’s been building up for anywhere from 15 to 50 years. And if just the idea of earwax going back to the Vietnam War era isn’t enough to turn your stomach, the photos should do the trick. (This might be one case where Google isn’t your friend.)

Unlike those procrastinators, I don’t wait two generations to seek medical help. I merely put it off until I forget when I last had it done. You may put it down to laziness, but (if you’ll pardon the pun) hear me out first.

Maybe she should sit closer to the dials.

While I’m so nearsighted that people who have tried on my glasses nearly fall down with dizziness, my hearing is excellent. Unlike many of my peers, my concert-going experiences were the exception rather than the rule. Nor do I blast music through earbuds. Being a nerd, then, has paid off auditorily. So much so that my wife occasionally feels the need to ask me to turn up the TV when to my ears it sounds just dandy.

Therefore, I wait until my annual physical, when the doctor whips out the otoscope, and says something like, "Wow! Your ears are looking pretty scuzzy. You need a good cleaning."

And then I wait another year. Then another, and another, until a decade has passed, and I decide it's time to get the job done before the wax hardens like cement. Which was how I recently found myself in an ENT’s office, squirming like a child getting his first haircut.

He'd have to be courageous to
work on me.

Not that it was the doctor’s fault. His earside manner was completely professional. Nope, this was all on me. But I ask you: what would you do if an alarming-looking pointy tool several inches long was heading straight into your ear? Would you sit in the chair calmly and say, “Go for it, doc! I’ll just sit here and meditate.”

Or, like me, would you writhe, squiggle, and wriggle as you continually jerked your head away, thus making a fool of yourself in front of this stranger whose diplomas prove without question he knows what he’d doing? I think we all know the answer to that.

My suggestion of anesthesia was brushed off as unnecessary. When I recommended he strap me to the chair, he advised me that such a move was unethical. Ethics, shmethics! I just wanted this over with.

Frankly, so did he. And who could blame him? There was a waiting room full of mature people – half my age, mind you – who wouldn’t put up this kind of fight.  After three minutes of struggling unsuccessfully with me, he sighed, “Maybe you should go home and use some drops, then come back in a few weeks when it loosens.”

That was when I started to weep. Not from pain but embarrassment. My threshold of discomfort, infinitesimally low at best, has never been a point of pride for me. But that same self-reproach can lead me, as we used to say in less woke times, to eventually take it like a man.

“No,” I whimpered after a moment of reflection, “try it again.”

Taking advantage of the unexpected door of opportunity cracking open, the doctor went back to work. Pushing my head back on the chair and gripping the armrests until I thought they would snap in half, I sat still long enough to get through this self-perceived horror show -- and even took a picture of the results to prove it.

The scene of the grime.

Had I not initially made things difficult for both of us, the doctor could have wrapped things up even faster and more efficiently.  Was there any way we could avoid going through this slice of hell on earth again?

“When you shower,” he advised me, “put some mineral oil on your fingertip, stick it in as far as you can go, and swish it around. Then, if you want, you can drop by again in six months and I’ll take a look.”

Six months?  It’s going to take that long to forget the nightmare I just experienced. Waiting 50 years like some of my brethren is starting to look pretty good – considering I won’t be around to drive another doctor or myself crazy ever again.

And for those of you who don’t believe the cleaning hurt as much as I claim, the doctor admitted he understood my reaction. “Your ear is so dry that the earwax was stuck. And as I removed it, the skin was being torn off.”  

So if you notice a sudden shortage of mineral oil on Amazon, you’ll know who to blame. And I’ll be delighted to hear you loud and clear.

By the way, did you know it was called an otoscope?

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