My left ear became compromised half a century ago. My mother shuttled me to a dozen doctors, and allowed them to do all manner of experiments to improve my hearing. But in the end we all just accepted it. I did my best with the one good ear and the middling sound of the other. 

Last winter things got worse. I went to a specialist who tried a few things, and then referred me to his partner. The one who knows how to reconstruct bones more slender than a spaghetti noodle. This week was my follow up appointment, and the hearing test to see how things landed. 

It was already clear to me that my hearing was much improved. But I still took the test seriously. I held that little button and concentrated for all I was worth while the technician sent little beeps and boops into the earphones on my head. It is not as if I wanted to cheat. The results were to tell all of us how much sound was reaching my inner ear, and if I fibbed about whether I could actually hear it, well that would be dumb. 

When the results were in front of him the surgeon smiled. He explained the baseline from before the surgery, as well as what normal looks like.

"This would be a home run," he said. 

"Do you get paid more?" I asked.  I was already brimming over with gratitude. I realized that I am just another patient to him, but he is my hero. You know that bonding that happens when someone is rescued by a stranger? It's real.

"We can do the other ear whenever you are ready," he went on. "The increase will not be as dramatic because the loss is less."

"Yes!" I almost started crying. 

I read a story about a man who spent most of his life unable to tell his wife that he loved her. He did of course, and couldn't understand the fuss about saying it. But when he was nearing the end, the words came out. 

"I love you," he said softly. 

She wrapped her arms around him, and smothered him with kisses. The declaration was a long time coming. But when it finally arrived, it was sweet.