The first sign that something was wrong was a static noise that emerged suddenly in my left ear. It was 2008 and a doctor had just syringed my ears, washing out the antibiotic drops she had prescribed a week earlier, and which had rendered my world temporarily muffled. I was so relieved the drops were out that I didn’t question the strange new noise. I simply thanked her and left.
As I lay on my pillow that night, trying to ignore the new whooshing sound in my ear, a puzzling crunching noise caught my attention. My brain tried to unscramble the disturbance until, confused and now wide awake, I lifted my head up, only to realise it was our grandfather clock, chiming away the hour. My left ear, I realised, was no longer hearing sounds as they really were.
After a few days with no improvement, I returned to the doctor. When I mentioned the constant white noise and hearing problems in my left ear, her eyes widened in alarm and she quickly referred me to an ear, nose and throat (ENT) specialist.
I was studying music at the Victorian College of the Arts in Melbourne and had to endure an agonising six-week wait to see the specialist. During that time, my world changed drastically. My saxophone, once a source of great joy, became an unbearable cacophony; my ears tensed up whenever I played.
Until that point, all my life’s dreams revolved around music. My goal had been to study saxophone in New York, immersing myself in the city’s rich music scene. I had fantasies of making a life for myself in the Big Apple as a professional musician, but with my left ear rendered mostly deaf and my right ear extremely sensitive from overcompensating, music became intolerable. Friends looked on in confusion as I cried in music venue bathrooms, unable to bear the sound of the band or even the joyful chatter of patrons celebrating the weekend.
When I finally saw the ENT specialist, he struck a tuning fork, placed it on my forehead, and diagnosed me with degenerative hearing loss. He told me I would eventually become deaf or need an operation. When I mentioned that my hearing problems began after having my ears syringed, he dismissed it as a coincidence.
I was 21, and anxious about my future, so I sought a second opinion. After putting me through various hearing tests, a different specialist confirmed significant hearing loss in my left ear and agreed the syringing likely caused it. But he brushed away my concerns, saying my right ear was perfect and I’d learn to live with the tinnitus and deafness in my left. I reluctantly accepted his advice and tried to adjust to my new reality.
I pushed through my music degree, ignoring the discomfort, and graduated in 2009. Then, without meaning to, I completely stopped playing music. My saxophone gathered dust and shame pooled in my belly at my inability to continue to enjoy music.
Gradually, I found new ways to be creative. Writing became an emotional outlet for me and I created an online magazine, Ramona. Despite the persistent discomfort of tinnitus and deafness in one ear, I enjoyed the challenge of writing, editing and mentoring young creatives. Although I struggled with feelings of envy, I liked interviewing musicians, having found I could still enjoy their concerts with proper ear protection.
I’ve since learned that having your ears syringed is no longer recommended due to the high risks involved. My tinnitus has become a barometer for my stress, and while always present, it flares up in times of anxiety, reminding me to slow down. I’ve even found a silver lining: by resting my good ear on a pillow and keeping my deaf ear up, I can block out noise to take a restful nap at any time – quite the superpower for a sleep-deprived mum.
In 2023, with earplugs firmly in place, I danced the night away to Harry Styles in Melbourne with my sister-in-law, soaking up the music and atmosphere without feeling jealousy for the musicians on stage. Then, last year, I took my seven-year-old daughter to see Norwegian singer Aurora perform – a truly incredible experience. This year, I’m making time to see more local acts – supporting smaller, homegrown musicians feels doable finally, and important.
It has taken 15 years for me to feel content with enjoying music as an audience member. I used to avoid concerts and seeing friends perform because I was scared that I would be overwhelmed by the longing to play myself, but now I’ve learned to appreciate music as a source of joy, rather than a reminder of what could have been. The course of my life was changed drastically when my ear was damaged, but I no longer wish I was a musician. I’m happy to watch others dazzle on stage.
