Cleaning his ear, a guest removed the Q-tip and
discovered that the cotton tip had disappeared.
Extracting objects from an ear is a satisfying
experience everyone involved. Over thirty years, I’ve removed ten cotton balls
and one bug.
Mostly, of course, I remove wax. I’ve done this 110
times. Using a sharp curette, one can scoop it out in seconds. Ear-nose-threat
specialists use a curette, but I don’t have the nerve, having seen bloody
results from attempts by other GPs. I use a large syringe.
All hotel rooms have an ice bucket. I fill it with
warm water and set it on the bathroom sink. Warned they are about to get wet,
guests remove expensive clothing, drape a towel over their shoulders, and lean
over. After filling the syringe, I pull the ear back, rest the tip just inside
the opening, and squirt. Most impactions require a dozen attempts or less. A
few specks flowing out herald the great moment, and the plug itself may pause
coyly at the opening.
“Get ready for the big show!” I announce before
delivering the final spray. Guest invariably recoil with horror as a soggy
brown lump, often the size of a kidney bean, flies into the sink.
Sometimes I pay a heavy price. Guests who work hard
with a Q-tip (a device designed for pushing wax) confront me with a solid wall
of material resting deep inside. Time passes as I refill the bucket and work
the syringe. Water drips from the guest. My thumb aches from pushing the
plunger. At intervals I stop, either because the guest begs for a rest or to
peer inside with my otoscope to check the waxy wall, now glistening but
stubbornly immobile. I often joke that when doctors die and go to Hell, they
receive a syringe and a patient with an ear sealed with concrete.
During training, doctors learn a rule for procedures
that aren’t working (difficult spinal taps, searches for slivers): keep trying.
So I persevere, ignoring my throbbing thumb. On two visits, I stopped at the
guest’s request. All other ear washes succeeded although a few exceeded fifteen
minutes.
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