I’m 75 now.

I must have been six or so when I first heard the name ‘Jane Goodall’. She was a quirky, eccentric scientist who was one of the first to devote a lifetime to the study of chimpanzees and apes. She spent more than six decades in the field studying the social and family life of wild chimpanzees in the Gombe Stream National Park in Tanzania. Her work was remarkable allowing us to understand human commonalities with chimpanzees, using tools, forming social bonds, developing complex emotions, engaging in organised warfare and passing on knowledge to the next generation. And cleaning ears.

Her early film of chimpanzees grooming one another in an organized social setting left a lasting impression on young Tony. The cleaning ears thing fascinated me.

Which brings me to last week. I heard about Jane Goodall’s death on my way to a scheduled visit with an RN at the Flowerstone Clinic in Qualicuum Beach, BC. I had an appointment for an ear flush, a rather understated title for allowing a perfect stranger to flush several bottles of water into one’s ears, in an effort to dislodge a rather disgusting buildup of ear wax. Her name was Christine.

“Look up to the corner”

The crisp instruction leaving me staring at the geometric convergence of several flat ceiling panels and counting the triangles to pass the time. That in ordinary circumstances would be the easiest of tasks but bear in mind that I had the mighty Fraser River at full freshet, coursing through my inner ears. The noise was distracting to say the least. And that’s when I thought of Jane Goodall.

Nurse Christine, who I should hasten to add, was a friendly, chatty, inquisitive and eminently competent practitioner of The Art of Flushing Ears, was not to be denied. Years of buildup had apparently constructed a layered application of hair and ear wax. My apologies, I suppose I should have warned the squeamish among you. This blog may cause your face to scrunch up in a less than attractive way and sounds reflecting just how revolting the whole thing is, may escape from your mouths. But bear with me, this is actually not about my ear wax, it is about Jane Goodall.

My visit to the Flowerstone Clinic in Qualicuum Beach, may not have mirrored the jungled canopy of the Gombe Stream National Park in Tanzania, the sanctuary where Jane Goodall first witnessed chimpanzees cleaning ear wax from their companions ears, but it did mirror the equivalent social experience.

Now as many of you know, my wife Mac is a nurse and might well have been able to flush my ears, so one might suggest why not ask her to help. Here’s the thing. I believe one of the reasons our marriage has prospered is that I have recognized where the ‘DO NOT ASK HER TO DO THAT!’ line is. Flushing ear wax, is just not something one should ask one’s spouse to do. Ever. There is just no recovering from that experience for the one doing the flushing.

‘Friend. Wife. Partner. Lover. Inspirer. Muse. Flushor.‘

Do you see which word should never be in that descriptive of one’s primary life long relationship.

But I digress. As I continued to gaze into the ceiling corner of that small office in Qualicuum Beach, I reflected about this odd experience in which I was now fully immersed, a perfect stranger trying to dislodge ear wax.

“Oh, this is a tough one.” she said.

Forty minutes had passed and several bottles of water had been dispensed into my ears. I knew now with some certainty, that my ear canals were not leaking, but I was harbouring thoughts that I might have to come back later, for another go.

“No, not on my watch. We’ll get this today.”

Her commitment and unwillingness to quit felt reassuringly Canadian in it’s own way, so I resubmitted my ears to her care. And then, it happened. I was looking now at the floor, again on instruction, so I can be a first hand witness to all of what I am about to report. A large, now I neither want to overstate nor understate just how large, but let me just say this in BOLD font.

LARGE!

A very large clump of hair and wax fell from ear. And it landed on her beautiful leather boot. Her right boot. It didn’t thud, not that I could hear at least although given the state of my hearing at the time, one can easily imagine that it did THUD. Thud or not, what was unmistakeable was the orangy, browny, hairy clump of DISGUSTINGNESS that had fallen from my ear.

“Got it!’ she said with the conviction of someone who had harboured some doubts.

“That was a tough one.”

I was still staring at her boot, the one now ornamented with what I had been carrying in my head for so long.

“But it’s landed on your boot” I said with as much contrition as I could muster.
“I am so sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be bothered ,Tony” she said, looking down, “That boot has seen a lot worse.”

God Bless nurses.

As I drove back to my home in Nanaimo, I could hear my windscreen wipers going back and forth, and I was shocked at the cabin noise in my car. I had thought for the last two years that my Subaru Outback had such a quiet ride. I even boasted of that to friends looking for a new vehicle. I was thrilled. I could finally hear clearly again.

And I thought of Jane Goodall, and her immense contribution to our understanding of chimpanzees, and ourselves. Going forward I shall no doubt have other occasions to visit the nurses at the Flowerstone Clinic in Qualicuum Beach. It is some version of what Jane Goodall taught us, it is a a place for communal care, an experience shared by humans and apparently, chimpanzees. Perhaps the difference is that the Gombe Stream National Park in Tanzania doesn’t have a front door.