Friday, Doris, her mother and father, and I went to Guatemala City to see a specialist and get a special hearing test done--one that's only offered in the capitol. This is a 7 to 8 hour trip for someone coming to my village. Which is not to mention braving the dangers of the city. Thankfully, we all arrived on time and in one piece at the doctor's office bright and early Friday morning.
Doris' mother stayed in the waiting room. I went up with her father. The doctor, a portly Ladino man who said everything with a dramatic flourish, asked her father a few questions about her general health, then took off her ponytail holder and started to massage her scalp and her face. Then, without warning, he took a pair of scissors off his desk, and began to cut a quarter-sized bald patch on Doris' scalp.
"Uh...whatcha doin' that for?" I asked.
"Oh," he said, nonchalantly. "It's so the electrode will stick on better."
Like so many moments I have had in this country, I maintained a somewhat placid facade, while my mind scrambled to make sense of the situation and I personally resisted the urge to panic. Electrodes??? I thought. What is going on? What have I gotten this poor family into?
After a preliminary ear exam, the doctor bade her lie down on a small exam bed. He then got out four electrodes and proceeded to place one on the tiny bald patch on her skull, one on the middle of her forehead, and one behind each ear.
"¿La va a doler?" I asked. Will it hurt her?
"No," the doctor assured me she wouldn't feel a thing. I was skeptical, given the fact that what I knew about electrodes involved electroshock therapy or torture devices.
"¿No la va a dar un choque?" It won't shock her?
Finally, Mr. Bedside Manners explained that the electrodes only measured brain activity, to see if her ears were sending signals to her brain.
He then showed us a graph of a normal ear's hearing patterns. It looked like a mountain range, with five distinguishable points representing different phases of the test.
The computer began to read Doris' activity. Where there should have been peaks and valleys, there was nothing but an empty horizon. No activity. My heart froze. The doctor confirmed my worst fears as he explained to her father and me that the results showed complete deafness in her right ear. Something the most powerful hearing aid in the world couldn't hope to fix.
The doctor, explaining the procedure the whole time with his typical unnecessary gravitas, waxed philosophical. "As you know...we are all capable...of making...errors. And...I have made an error just now...as it seems the electrodes are not connected to the computer."
Once again, my mind reeled. What kind of a quack was this? What if he hadn't noticed?
The computer started a new reading. Foothills, ridges, and yes, small mountains appeared where before there was nothing but a flat line! We knew then Doris could hear in one ear and that a hearing aid could potentially help a lot.
Her left ear showed much less promising results. But one ear is enough to develop much better speaking, comprehension and social skills.
Poor Doris! The test took about 45 minutes, all told. As the doctor removed the headphones and the electrodes, I could see a little tear starting to slide down her cheek. As she got down off the table she started bawling. I offered to go fetch her mother, but the men in the room thought it wasn't necessary. "It's over, it's over," they said. I gave her a Strawberry Shortcake pin I had saved from a birthday party goody bag, and she cheered up a bit (thanks Charlotte).
Afterwards, we went to the Guatemala Zoo. Now, let me tell you. If you ever are having a hard time, a depressing season of your life, go to the zoo with a child--or anyone--who's never been before. The wonder of seeing a live giraffe, tiger or kangaroo for the first time is positively infectious. Doris' favorites were the meerkats, and we practically had to drag her away from the monkey habitat.
Friday was one great day.
