Throughout my life, I’ve been able to steadfastly rely on art to save me, but none more so than music. Poetry, getting lost in a painting, watching Swan Lake – that’s all well and good. But have you ever been a 12-year-old girl all alone at a new school, listening to Avril Lavigne? Frida Kahlo and a troupe of Russian ballerinas could perform bypass surgery on me and I’d still grovel at the altar of Bright Eyes for getting me through my first heartbreak, such is the lifesaving ability of some lyrics and a few chords.

As a teenager, music was more than a hobby, it was how I connected with the world. Bands were my saints, vinyl my holy relics. My obsession only intensified; in my early 20s, I worked as a music journalist, interviewing bands, attending gigs and festivals with a hallowed media pass. My friendship group were all fellow music obsessives, and my social life revolved around live gigs, even flying from Australia to the UK just to see Belle and Sebastian perform. My obsession even nabbed me a life partner: I met my now-husband on the music forum site Last.fm, a fact that will be hilarious to explain to our two boys when they’re old enough to understand “scrobbling” and that they exist due to it. We even had our favourite artists’ lyrics inscribed on our wedding rings (his: “I’m so glad that you exist” – the Weakerthans. Mine: “Time is just a symptom of love” – Joanna Newsom).

Then, two weeks before we were set to get married, with our first dance song carefully chosen and playlist painstakingly perfected, I was told I would lose half my hearing due to an unwelcome wedding guest: an acoustic neuroma, a benign tumour on my vestibulocochlear nerve. It felt like a huge cosmic joke; me, the music nerd, would be hard of hearing. The night before the 13-hour neurosurgery to remove the tumour, I sat in front of my vinyl player, like I used to do with my parents’ stereo as a child, and listened to my favourite song, Joanna Newsom’s Sawdust and Diamonds, for the last time with both of my ears.

When the dust settled after the surgery, I awoke to a new reality. Noisy cafes became overwhelming, a static shriek of voices. I constantly squawked “WHAT?” to my husband, sounding like an irate sitcom grandma. Social interactions were as fraught as dodging tripwires: in conversation, I found myself nodding to things out of politeness, hoping desperately I wasn’t agreeing to donate a chunk of my liver or my retirement savings.

Trying to get to know this new version of myself was complicated by a grief that was only comparable to that of when I lost my father, which sounds glib but it is true. Sadness settled on my skin like sea salt I couldn’t wash off. I was reminded every day: music just didn’t sound the same to me any more. When I realised, while singing along in the car, that I could no longer hear a refrain buried in the mix in one of my favourite Los Campesinos! songs, I had to pull over and sob it out.

I constantly misheard lyrics, notably belting out lines about eggs and fries on a Fiona Apple song. Live music, once my sanctuary, became hostile territory. The surgery left me with a nifty thing called noise-induced tinnitus, so concerts and stereos made my head buzz like a chainsaw. I often left shows in tears.

This sadness was huge and immovable. The tumour wasn’t cancerous and it didn’t take all of my hearing – so it’s not too bad, right? I began to listen to podcasts instead of records. My husband kept up with new releases, and I didn’t. Music slipped, quietly, from my life. Until I decided to translate my experience into a book.

While writing Thunderhead, a children’s novel based on my experiences, I interviewed several people with profound hearing loss. I was stunned to discover they still play instruments and listen to music, which seems silly to say now. Of course they do! But to learn that was possible was electrifying. I made myself listen to music again as part of my research for the book, the main character loving dorky 70s music. I dived deep into Joni Mitchell, Carole King and Abba, and discovered some new artists I came to love along the way. I started playing music while cooking dinner, and felt excited about new releases. I felt saved again, just as I had at 12, finding Avril Lavigne so many years before.

I recently bought hearing aids to help me better hear at book events. As I got into my car after seeing the audiologist, a Magnetic Fields song was playing on the stereo. For the first time in seven years, I could hear the song in surround sound, but the robotic interpretation from the hearing aids made it sound alien, buzzing and distorted. I turned the aids off and sang along with my wonky hearing ear, misheard lyrics and all.

• Thunderhead by Sophie Beer is out now (Allen & Unwin, $17.99).