The summer of 2024 was enjoyable on many levels, but one thing I did not enjoy was three ear infections that seemed to go on forever. They began in my right ear, then moved to my left, and then, just for the fun of it, came back to my right ear for an encore performance—something I didn’t know was possible, but obviously, it is. When I was much younger, I was told I may be prone to ear infections and my ears getting plugged easily due to narrow ear canals – to use the colloquial term and to keep things simple.
The relentless throbbing in my ear began as a minor annoyance, an infrequent dull ache that could be dismissed as just a hint of pressure, a sensation that something was not quite right deep within my ear. I ignored it, convincing myself it was a temporary issue that would resolve itself. After all, who has time to worry about a little earache when life is bustling around with endless demands and responsibilities? But the throbbing didn’t subside. It grew. It morphed from a minor inconvenience into a persistent, pounding pain that began to overshadow my daily life.
I found myself constantly reaching for my ear, pressing and rubbing, as if somehow the pressure of my fingers could alleviate the pressure building up inside. But nothing helped. The pain was a persistent, nagging companion, tagging along wherever I went. My focus wavered, my patience thinned, and sleep became an elusive dream. Nights were the worst. Lying in bed, the world quiet and still, the pain seemed to amplify, becoming the only thing I could focus on. The dull ache would transform into sharp, stabbing pains that shot through my ear and radiated down my jaw. Sleep was a fitful, restless experience, punctuated by groans and tears of frustration.
The mornings brought little relief. I would wake up groggy, my head heavy and pounding, the pain a constant reminder that today would be just as miserable as yesterday. Simple tasks became monumental challenges. Concentrating at work was nearly impossible. Every beep of the phone, every clatter of the keyboard, every conversation felt like nails on a chalkboard. The world around me was a cacophony of sounds that seemed to intensify the pain.
Visits to the doctor offered little solace. The diagnosis was always the same: ear infection. Prescription after prescription, antibiotic after antibiotic, nothing seemed to quell the relentless agony. The painkillers provided only brief respites, numbing the pain but never truly eliminating it. It was a cruel cycle of temporary relief followed by the inevitable return of the throbbing, stabbing pain.
Social gatherings were torture. I became irritable, snapping at friends, unable to hide my discomfort. The ever-present pain overshadowed the joy of being around people, and I found myself retreating, isolating, avoiding the very people who could have provided comfort.
The worst part was the helplessness and reduced hearing capacity. The earache was an invisible tormentor, a pain that couldn’t be seen or easily explained. Friends and colleagues would offer sympathetic looks and words of encouragement, but their understanding was superficial. They couldn’t feel the constant, gnawing pain that had taken over my life. It was a solitary suffering, a private misery that I carried alone.
Daily routines became an endurance test. Showering was a dreaded necessity, with the sound of water amplified painfully in my ear even while wearing earplugs. Eating was a chore, each bite causing a reverberation of pain that echoed through my jaw. Even speaking became difficult, the vibrations of my own voice sending waves of discomfort through my head.
The days dragged on, each one blending into the next, a monotonous haze of pain and exhaustion while hoping that this time, the antibiotics were powerful enough to work. I tried every home remedy: warm compresses, garlic oil, and even dubious internet cures that promised miraculous relief. But nothing worked. The pain remained a stubborn, unyielding presence that refused to be ignored.
Yet, somehow, there was also some joy that came with it. As mentioned in previous entries, I am a stickler for table manners, and now, with my hearing limited, I didn’t have to listen to the smacking and slurping around me as I eat a meal. Loud conversations nearby were now somewhat muted and didn’t raise my ire.
However, desperation set in. I began to dread each day, knowing that the pain would be there, waiting for me. The earache consumed my thoughts. Life became a series of strategies to minimize the pain, a constant search for moments of relief in a sea of discomfort.
In the darkest moments, I questioned if it would ever end. Would I be trapped in this cycle of pain forever? The thought was unbearable; the idea of living with this constant, unrelenting agony was more than I could fathom. The earaches had taken over my life, turning me into a shadow of my former self. It’s amazing how my imagination began running away from me. Of course, it would end – eventually. But I wanted eventually to be now, not later.
But slowly, imperceptibly, the pain began to recede. It was a gradual process, a slow easing of the relentless throbbing. There were moments of doubt, times when the pain would spike again, and I would fear it was back for good. But each day, the pain lessened, the pressure eased, and I began to feel glimmers of hope.
The day I woke up without pain was a revelation. It was as if a weight had been lifted, a shroud of misery finally lifted from my life. The world was brighter, sounds were softer, and the simple act of existing was a joy once more. The memory of the pain lingered, a reminder of the torment I had endured, but it was a distant echo, no longer the dominant force in my life.
The experience left me with a profound appreciation for the absence of pain. It taught me the value of small comforts, the joy of simple pleasures, and the importance of patience and consuming all, not most, of the pills in my prescription while waiting for the cure – powerful antibiotics – to work.
John Berkovich Talks 