Note: Noel Holston, a writer who lives in Athens, Georgia, suffered a catastrophic, overnight hearing loss in 2010. He tried everything from steroid treatments to cranial massage to a gluten-free diet before finally undergoing a cochlear implant surgery that failed to restore more than the crudest hearing ability. A do-over in 2013 was more successful, but what happened in between was a comedy of errors that tested his patience, his sanity, and his marriage to — oh, the irony — a professional singer.
His memoir, “Life After Deaf,” is not subtitled “My Misadventures in Hearing Loss and Recovery” for nothing. The following excerpt deals with a storytelling show in which he participated once his bionic ear finally kicked in:
“My reconditioned ears perked up when I saw that Rabbit Box, Athens’ answer to the public-radio storytelling series The Moth, had listed “Down the Rabbit Hole” on its website as one of its forthcoming themes. In keeping with my vow to exploit my disability to positive effect whenever possible, I pitched myself via email for the June edition and got a message back telling me I would be on the bill.
I wrote, memorized and presented a rant/yarn at The Melting Point, a music club that hosts the monthly storytelling jams. I was one of eight performers that evening, facing double-tier seating of about 250 people.
I stepped up to the microphone in khakis, a white dress shirt and sneakers, my script in hand. I dropped the pages to the stage, and began by telling the audience that, however long, convoluted and preposterous it might seem, this was in fact like a Reader’s Digest version, condensed and simplified and cleansed of numerous expletives.
“I’m not sure how much you know about the topography of our beloved Peach state, but in addition to mountains and swamps and savanna, it has an enormous rabbit hole. Not just a single rabbit hole, either, but a warren of labyrinth-like proportions with portals in Columbus, Atlanta and other places. It’s a strange, nonsensical maze entirely worthy of Lewis Carroll and his jabberwock and Red Queen and Tweedle Dee and Dum.
You may recognize this rabbit hole by its common name – Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia – or by its acronym, the very fitting BC BS.
Now, we all know that insurance companies sometimes seem to go out of their way to make transactions difficult for their clients. You can get the feeling they’re hoping you’ll just get frustrated and give up. But I didn’t truly appreciate Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia’s Mad Hatter sensibility until I had the misfortune of waking up one morning in March 2010 to find myself, for all practical purposes, deaf.
One of those practical purposes was communicating by telephone. After trying various drugs and therapies, the ear specialist I was seeing determined that a cochlear implant – a sort of bionic ear – was my only hope of hearing much again. I had to start wrangling with BCBS over coverage. They disputed whether I was deaf enough to warrant the operation.
I couldn’t phone them, so I went to their website, thinking I would start an email dialogue. But, it turned out, you can’t have an email correspondence with them. You can only email to request a call back.
Which I did. And there ensued a series of conversations that went something like this.
My wife, Marty, would answer the phone. A BCBS representative would say, “May I speak to Mr. Holston?” Marty would say, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Holston has lost his hearing. He can’t talk on the phone. You can talk to him through me.”
And the BCBS customer service rep would say, “Sorry, but you’re not authorized to speak for him.” And she would say, “Well, he can’t hear, but he can talk. What if I write down what you need from him so he can read it and then answer you aloud?” And the rep would say, “Sorry, we can’t do that.”
And she would say, “Why?” And the rep would say, “How do we know it’s really him?”
And Marty would say, “Well, the same way you’d have known if he had answered the phone.” And they would not be amused.
She ultimately learned that I needed to fill out something called a HIPPA form that would allow her to speak for me. I would need to download the form from the website, fill it out and fax it to a BCBS number.
I did this. And the next time BCBS called, we went through the same nutty conversation. I filled out HIPPA forms four times before they finally acknowledged Marty as my designated spokesperson. The first three forms just disappeared into the rabbit hole.
I finally had cochlear implant surgery October 2010, and BCBS, bless its little bunny heart, paid for it. And I got out of their hair, pardon the expression.
Alas, the cochlear implant was not working as it was supposed to work. By early 2011, it was pretty clear something was amiss. Both the manufacturer and my doctors recommended a do-over. I had to revisit the rabbit hole.
By this time, since I still couldn’t talk on the phone, I had acquired a CapTel phone – a phone that translates the worlds of the person you call into captions you can read on a little screen. I wanted to spare my wife the frustration, so I tried calling BCBS.
Trouble was, there’s a time delay on the captions. So when I didn’t respond immediately to the automated systems’ request for various information – punching in numbers and stuff — it would hang up on me, presuming I had lost interest or died or something.
So it was back to emails and BCBS calling my house and telling Marty it couldn’t talk to her unless I filled out a HIPPA form.
I finally got my implant do-over – in April of 2013. I had to go to a clinic in Los Angeles for the surgery. No surgeon in Georgia felt qualified to do it. I know this because Blue Cross insisted I see each of them and get a rejection. So, I went to the renowned House Ear Institute in California with an out-of-state, out-of-plan authorization from BCBS in hand.
But, as they say down in the rabbit hole, it gets curiouser and curiouser.
A couple of weeks after my implant do-over, I start getting notices from doctors and labs saying that Blue Cross has declined to pay my claims. They include a big, big bill from the doctor in California who BCBS had authorized to do my surgery. They all wanted their money.
I used my trusty Cap Tel phone to call BCBS. By now I know all the codes so I don’t get cut off. I finally get a human on the phone and explain what’s going on. She tells me it’s because I turned 65 in March and I’m now on Medicare. I tell her I’m not. That I am still employed by the University of Georgia’s journalism school and still their client. She says, well, you should have informed us. And I say, well, doesn’t the fact that I’m still paying you several hundred dollars a month in premiums tell you something?
Anyway, she vows to correct the error and notify the creditors. Two weeks later, I start getting second notices. There’s mention of collection agencies.
I get back on the CapTel with BCBS. An agent named Michelle is apologetic. She swears she’ll straighten it out. She asks if she can put me on hold while she calls one of the creditors, Lab Corps. And, once again, it gets curiouser and curiouser.
I can hear the conversation. Or, rather, I can see the captions, a few seconds behind. The two customer reps are chattering away. I see the name Michelle popping up. I politely interrupt. “Excuse me, but are you both named Michelle?” The captions indicate “yeses.”
I say, “Would you mind identifying yourselves before speaking as Michelle 1 and Michelle 2?”
One of the Michelles says, “That would be kind of awkward.” And I say, “Well, not nearly as awkward as me trying to figure out which one of you is which from captions.”
Michelle 1 assures me that the Lab Corps bill is taken care of and that she will notify the other creditors of the Medicare mix-up. And she asks if there’s anything else she can do for me.
I say, actually, yes, there is. When this call began, BCBS’s automated system notified me that it was being recorded. I tell her I’m a professional journalist and that I’m writing a book about my hearing-loss adventure. I tell her would be helpful to have that recording so I can quote everybody correctly.
After a long pause, I read the caption of her saying, “I’ll see what I can do.”
That was four weeks ago.
I am still waiting for my copy of the recording.
I’m not upset, though. I’m a patient man
as you can see. I’ve retained a sense of humor about all this. And I’m an optimist.
I have every confidence that one day soon that recording will be delivered to my doorstep.
By a white rabbit.
A white rabbit wearing a waistcoat and carrying a pocket watch, a blue cross and a blue shield.
The audience rewarded my tale with sustained, enthusiastic applause. They may have been clapping for my perseverance rather than my skill as a monologist, but whatever the case, it felt good.
Noel’s memoir “Life After Deaf: My Misadventures in Hearing Loss and Recovery” is available at Amazon
…. also, the Rabbit still hasn’t shown up
Talking Hearing Loss 
Leave a comment