SILENCE MURDERED:

THE BLACK HOLE OF MY BRAIN

By

Lorenzo Fritz-Francisco

August 2019
La Paz, Bolivia
Revised 17 February 2020
Derechos Reservados – Estado Plurinacional de Bolivia

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 COPING WITH
THE IMPRISONMENT OF TINNITUS

There exists a hole in my brain, more or less tubular, that runs from one ear to the
other. It lacks visibility or even measurement. It permits partial, if poor, purporting
but not provable perception. No one but me knows it prevails for real. Yet, I am
constantly reminded of its persistent presence and constantly respectful of its
pertinacious power. Dreams, sleep, drunkenness, drugs and deep meditation do
nothing to drive it away. Like the scores who perished in the Black Hole of Calcutta,
unable to free themselves from their inevitable fate, so will I too perish with the
black hole in my brain.

Having a black hole in one’s brain may not seem terribly bad. After all, most people
use only a small proportion of that complex organ anyway. And, based on the
majority of current worldwide elected political figures, most people don’t seem to
use even that small portion very well. No. Void or uncharted spaces in the human
brain aren’t of much concern to most of the populace. That’s because but a few can
imagine the worse-than-nightmarish noise that Tinnitus creates and releases every
second of every day. Frequent words describing the condition include “buzzing,”
“ringing” and “whistling.” A “booming,” “roaring” or “hissing.” One dictionary
amusingly calls it “a sensation of sound.” Indeed, subjective, chronic Tinnitus
embodies the vociferation of satanic screams and bellowing banshees.

Consider the steady, screeching sensation of fingernails across the surface of a

limitless blackboard sending shivers down the spine. The combined chilling howls of
hyenas and werewolves regardless of which phase the moon shines. The squeals,
squalls and shrieks of fearsome, frantic fright common to men and mice facing
decisive doom. Those faint to fierce cries in the night piercing through the fog by an
undetected being in dire distress. A heated coffee pot or tea kettle that won’t stop
hissing behind a locked door with no key. The baby on a plane who refuses to stop
crying and then debarks with you through eternity. Tinnitus personifies an
oppressive, unmerciful god of deathless cacophony. It murders silence.

Most medical experts and even some sufferers report that the shrill noise originates
in the ears. Mine does not. The sounds may come close to the inner ears but they
always exude from that black, intangible tubular hole of the brain. They often move
from one side to the other and create a symphony of different sounds throughout
that tubular space. I know where sounds that enter my ears come from. They come
from people, pets, streets, the wind, the atmosphere. All places outside of my
physical body. I don’t know where the sounds of Tinnitus come from. They are
emitted from my brain and are just as mystifying as the origins of my thoughts.
And although in deep meditation, I retain some control over my thinking mind for a

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short time, the slightest chance of pausing the perennial torture of Tinnitus never
occurs.

Imagine, if you will, that dark, tubular space between the ears filled with myriad
parallel or slightly undulating cables of energy. Each tiny, hairline cable, like the
strings of an instrument, capable of producing a note of sound anywhere along its
length. Sometimes sonance develops closer to one ear than the other. Sometimes
the cables near both ears create sounds simultaneously. Occasionally, sounds come
from the very middle of that black, bewildering space. Often, however, they are
emitted from multiple spots on many different “cables.” High notes, higher notes
and sometimes even unimaginably higher notes than those, resound in my brain.
Some may fade and some may increase in volume, and then materialize and
wither, respectively. Attempting to change the tone, except for slight movements in
the articulation of the jaw, produces ineffective results.

Considered a “subjective affliction,” meaning one that is only perceived by the

sufferer, medical diagnoses are futile. One Tinnitus Website, obviously written by
some caring person who does not suffer from Tinnitus, talks of the “inaccurate
sense of hopelessness.” “There is always treatment,” the writer says. Therapeutic
sympathy? Yes. Thank you. A cure for elimination? No. Forget it. Patients pass from
one treatment to the next with only hope binding them together. I tried consuming
Fluxus (a combination of sodium lauryl sulfate, microcrystalline cellulose, maize
starch, lactose monohydrate, colloidal, anhydrous silica and magnesium stearate)
for about five years. The noise never went away, although it often diminished in
volume. The drug made me drowsy, inattentive and lackadaisical. I lacked vital
incentive and felt indolent nearly all the time. As a writer, I hardly wrote a word.

The omnipotent god Tinnitus entered my head in 2005, even though it took several
months to realize that it conquered me from the outset. For two weeks I laid up
with Typhoid Fever, also known as Typhoid, but the “fever” part provides an
accurate adjunct to the sickness and seems more appropriate. A friend in the non-
profit organization I worked with brought her doctor to see just how close death
legitimately approached. I barely got out of bed. Stomach cramps, pounding
headaches and, to be sure, ferocious fever plagued all pleasure of living. To be
sure, certain salmonella bugs entered and took refuge in my body, turning most of
it to refuse. Who knows where I contacted the uninvited things? They live in water,
food, saliva, dirt. I live in Bolivia. Then, the poorest and least hygienic country in
South America. Today, the second-poorest and least hygienic country in South
America.

The doctor reported that the Pluri-national State maintained seven common strains
of Typhoid, although more than two dozen additional varieties actually subsisted in
the region. He explained that each strain of Salmonella typhi somewhat resembles
those of hepatitis, which I also scarcely survived nearly a decade earlier. An
afflicted patient receives immunization from that particular strain of the disease if
they survive. That’s cause for celebration, I guess… as if the Jews and gypsies in

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mid-20th century Europe might celebrate living after the fall of German Nazism.
They certainly welcomed its termination, but the pain and suffering of the
experience clung to one’s soul.

Considered endemic From Mexico to Tierra del Fuego the disease from Salmonella
typhi bacteria presents a serious crisis. Since first visiting the Andes in 1987 my
bouts with Typhoid fever numbered six before 2005. Each time, presumably
combatting a different strain. Fatalities from Typhoid are “statistically” rare.
“Statistically,” of course, indubitably represents a mathematical expression that
lacks significance for any individual. At the turn of this millennium, the number of
Typhoid cases reported worldwide reached 21 million, 700 thousand. Only 217,000
afflicted individuals died from the disease. Good news for 21 million, 483 thousand
people. Not so good for the rest. Statistics didn’t help them.

The first time I tussled with Typhoid, two elderly Indian sisters from the department
of Potosí treated me. As Andean curanderas, or shamans, they routinely practiced
the positive art of blessing and the negative art of revenge, depending on their
sponsors’ desires. Fortunately for me, they also proved adept at curing the sick.
During an entire night, I sat naked on a small wooden bench in an isolated, dark
room while the two cholitas made incantations, blew copal incense over my body,
washed me in a bath of flowers, herbs and weeds and then persuaded me to drink
their own intoxicating, fresh, hot urine… with no chaser. It worked. I survived. I
took antibiotics the following times I fought the disease, though.

Typhoid fever constitutes a known, although rare, cause of Tinnitus. The actual
relationship between the two maladies lacks understanding or explanation. Too
much of this. Too little of that. A blockage here. An open fossa there. Who knows? I
know that Typhoid strain # 7 changed my life and relations with everything and
everyone from that time forward. It left me a grueling gift that I can neither return
nor discard. The elusiveness of Tinnitus prohibits my sharing of how it affects me
with friends or loved ones. For comparison, think of those rare vegetarians who
don’t eat meat on moral grounds. Their frustration, anger, disgust and sadness at
watching fellow human beings eat their relatives is unimaginable to anyone who
otherwise consumes animals. Likewise, few understand or even believe the misery
of persistent, immutable, endless, unceasing, unremitting, relentlessly shrill,
deafening, resounding vociferations that characterize my existence. If you don’t
suffer from Tinnitus, you can’t.

No matter how decrepit, aging or senile its host, Tinnitus just keeps on living its
narcissistic dream. It typifies an age-defying and non-racist evil. It doesn’t concern
itself with how much success I gain or how much money I accumulate. It cares not
if I display genius or idiocy. It loves me unconditionally. It is the last thing I hear
before sleep and the first sound I detect when I awake. Every now and then, it gets
lonely and wakes me up from my slumber… it likes reminding me that we’re still an
inseparable team. It epitomizes the perfect dependent. One thing seems sure: I
either live with it or I die with it. Either way, I die with it.