Read Online The Miniature Wife: and Other Stories by Manuel Gonzales - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Manuel Gonzales
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cells sit within the organ of Corti—inner hair cells, which are the auditory receptors, and outer hair cells, which help to “fine-tune” the pulses of sound. The sensitive stereocilia (sensory hairs) of the inner hair cells are embedded in a membrane called the tectorial membrane. As the membranous labyrinth bounces up and down, the basilar membrane bounces up and down, and the fine stereocilia are sheared back and forth. When the stereocilia are pulled in the right direction, the hair cell depolarizes and releases a signal. This signal is transmitted to a nerve process lying under the organ of Corti, and is then transmitted back along the auditory nerve to the brainstem, where it is read, finally, as understandable sound—car horns, voices, jet engines, or music.
But why should any of this matter?
Bear with me for just a moment longer.
The outer hair cells of the organ of Corti help to “sharpen the tuning” of the frequencies of sounds we hear. Outer hair cells can change length in response to nerve stimulation. By pushing the basilar membrane up and down, the outer hair cells can amplify or dampen vibrations, making the inner hair cells more responsive or less responsive. The theory, then, is that if the outer hair cells can move the basilar membrane (and it has been proven that they can), then they can, in special cases, also move the oval window, and then, possibly, the eardrum. And in severe cases, by shifting the eardrum, the outer hair cells can make the ear work in reverse so that the ear acts, in essence, not like a receiver, but, rather, a speaker. Even before Abbasonov, there have been many cases in the history of medicine of a patient complaining of persistent whispering in her ear, dismissed as crazy until an obliging doctor finally places his stethoscope to her ear and listens, only to discover that he can hear the whispering, too. It is this phenomenon, of the ear reversing roles, that most doctors use to account for the constant ringing or roaring that plagues sufferers of tinnitus.
What I have just presented here is almost word for word the same anatomical lesson I was given by Dr. Larry Franklin, a tall, emaciated, and young professor at the Washington University School of Medicine, who was, according to most experts, the first doctor to understand and then explain how it is that Karl Abbasonov can not only speak, but speak well, even though every muscle in his body is contorted in such a way that even the simple act of breathing is, for him, performed by a machine. At the end of the lesson I was, to be honest, almost afraid to ask the next logical question:
“So, Dr. Franklin, what does all that mean?”
“What does it mean?” he said. “Well, simply put, it means that Karl Abbasonov communicates, verbally, through his ears.”
IV.
The piano in Karl Abbasonov’s living room is an old, wood-finished Steinway upright. The legs are scratched, and there are spots along the body and on the bench and on the lid where the finish has been rubbed away. “Those come from water damage,” Abbasonov told me. “My mother had a goldfish in a small fishbowl on the top of the piano for a while—which, in hindsight, doesn’t make much sense—and I accidentally broke the bowl against the wall, sometime during my Beethoven phase, a year or so into my piano lessons.” He paused for a moment before concluding: “I was very exuberant about Beethoven.”
His parents had bought the piano from a woman who had wanted to learn but who had quit playing after just three lessons. No one plays the old piano anymore, as most of the hammers have been worn away through Abbasonov’s exuberance, but he has kept it as a memento of his parents, his childhood. On more than one occasion, a music fanatic or a freak show fetishist has offered to buy Abbasonov’s old piano from him, and one woman from Wyoming once offered to buy, for fifteen thousand dollars, his entire collection of piano lesson books, the kind of
But why should any of this matter?
Bear with me for just a moment longer.
The outer hair cells of the organ of Corti help to “sharpen the tuning” of the frequencies of sounds we hear. Outer hair cells can change length in response to nerve stimulation. By pushing the basilar membrane up and down, the outer hair cells can amplify or dampen vibrations, making the inner hair cells more responsive or less responsive. The theory, then, is that if the outer hair cells can move the basilar membrane (and it has been proven that they can), then they can, in special cases, also move the oval window, and then, possibly, the eardrum. And in severe cases, by shifting the eardrum, the outer hair cells can make the ear work in reverse so that the ear acts, in essence, not like a receiver, but, rather, a speaker. Even before Abbasonov, there have been many cases in the history of medicine of a patient complaining of persistent whispering in her ear, dismissed as crazy until an obliging doctor finally places his stethoscope to her ear and listens, only to discover that he can hear the whispering, too. It is this phenomenon, of the ear reversing roles, that most doctors use to account for the constant ringing or roaring that plagues sufferers of tinnitus.
What I have just presented here is almost word for word the same anatomical lesson I was given by Dr. Larry Franklin, a tall, emaciated, and young professor at the Washington University School of Medicine, who was, according to most experts, the first doctor to understand and then explain how it is that Karl Abbasonov can not only speak, but speak well, even though every muscle in his body is contorted in such a way that even the simple act of breathing is, for him, performed by a machine. At the end of the lesson I was, to be honest, almost afraid to ask the next logical question:
“So, Dr. Franklin, what does all that mean?”
“What does it mean?” he said. “Well, simply put, it means that Karl Abbasonov communicates, verbally, through his ears.”
IV.
The piano in Karl Abbasonov’s living room is an old, wood-finished Steinway upright. The legs are scratched, and there are spots along the body and on the bench and on the lid where the finish has been rubbed away. “Those come from water damage,” Abbasonov told me. “My mother had a goldfish in a small fishbowl on the top of the piano for a while—which, in hindsight, doesn’t make much sense—and I accidentally broke the bowl against the wall, sometime during my Beethoven phase, a year or so into my piano lessons.” He paused for a moment before concluding: “I was very exuberant about Beethoven.”
His parents had bought the piano from a woman who had wanted to learn but who had quit playing after just three lessons. No one plays the old piano anymore, as most of the hammers have been worn away through Abbasonov’s exuberance, but he has kept it as a memento of his parents, his childhood. On more than one occasion, a music fanatic or a freak show fetishist has offered to buy Abbasonov’s old piano from him, and one woman from Wyoming once offered to buy, for fifteen thousand dollars, his entire collection of piano lesson books, the kind of
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