It's My Life

You may have noticed the change of my blog's title.

I've decided this journey should come to an end. I'm not on a journey.
I've noticed there are so many "journeys" in life and so many people blogging about their particular life journey. We peruse our struggles in life as journeys quite often. But the definition of journey implies that there is a destination to be reached; there is an endpoint; it's a trip that at some point must come to an end. You have to arrive in a new place.

That's not really what my cochlear implant life is. It's not a journey. I'm not on a trip. I'm not traveling from one point to another. I may arrive figuratively at a new place mentally and spiritually, but I'm not really going any place new. I'm moving forward, but I don't anticipate that I will actually "arrive" anywhere. There is no end. No. This is not a journey. 

So, is this particular time in my life an adventure? Most certainly, at times, it seems so. Perilous, unusual, and often hazardous -- I remember the times my magnet finds itself unexpectedly attracted to metallic objects that come close to it. Car doors, umbrella tines, and the metal necklaces of my hugging friends are just some of the times my cochlear implant unexpectedly leaves my head to pursue its own adventure without me. Only last night, I found myself crawling around on the floor next to my nightstand with a flashlight searching for the evasive ear hook that popped off while I was wiping my processor clean of it's daily grime --hoping to find it before the snooping noses of three dogs (who thought they were helping me) could find and devour it. Adventurous?

Yes. It can be an adventure. But an adventure connotes a sense of danger and excitement. And though there is some excitement along the way, I'm not sure that you could call my cochlear implant very dangerous. No. Adventure doesn't describe this walk any more than journey does.

I think what I have is actually an undertaking -- a task that I have taken upon myself, though unwillingly. It's a pursuit, a trial, a job. It's a task I have undertaken. I like this term much better. It delivers a sense of accomplishment; an awareness of overcoming difficulties as I learn and grow. 

It's an undertaking of new life experiences, deeply affected by a hearing loss I am powerless to prevent, but can certainly transcend.

It's my life. It's my cochlear implant life.

It's a Very Good Thing

This is the Phonak Inspiro
that I use in my classroom.

It isn't the first time my students have seen my little FM mic. I use it every day while teaching reading groups. I am trying out a new FM system before I will decide which one my school district will purchase for me as part of my hearing accommodations. I am lucky my district has the resources to help me in this way. I don't think I could continue teaching very much longer if I didn't have this help. The FM delivers my students' tiny voices directly into my cochlear implant and makes it possible for me to hear them reading to me even while the rest of the class is busily engaged in reading and learning activities in my classroom.

But the simple action of pulling the mic out of it's storage bag and clipping it to my make-shift microphone holder in the center of my teaching table brings out an excitement for reading that I don't often see in school anymore. My eager readers were practically giddy -- waiting for their turn to read into the mic. And when I asked my first comprehension question, every hand went up.

And then the thought occurred to me: this little FM mic is not only good for me, it is very good for my students, too.

Denial

There's a little thing called denial that keeps people from confronting real problems. Denial is a psychological defense mechanism that keeps unwanted and oppressing issues at bay.

Denial prevents us from dealing with reality. In our human psyche, we somehow believe that if we deny it, it doesn't exist. If we refuse to acknowledge or believe in something, then it can't possibly hurt us or affect us. We all live with a certain amount of denial. Some more than others.

Denial just postpones the inevitable, I think. Denial is easy. Reality is sobering.

The reality is this: I am losing my hearing. The cochlear implant in my ear is adequate to hear. But it is not adequate for me to continue doing many things I have done before. With my better ear failing, I am faced with obstacles I cannot overcome, even with the best of technology. Adapting and changing the way I do things can only take me so far. And too many times, that is not enough.

Hearing loss is pernicious.

There are those around me who deny the extent of my hearing loss, especially those closest to me. When I speak frankly about my fears and worries and the continuing slide of my natural hearing, they tell me not to worry -- that I am strong and "it's not so bad." You're doing great. You can overcome this. You will do better than you think. You can do this. It'll be all right.

I know the words are meant to encourage me. But they don't really help. They only seem to magnify my daily struggle to "overcome." And when I face disappointment where I wanted success, denial steps in to dissuade me from accepting the truth. Truth is, I'm tired of constantly having to work so hard to be all right. And I know those near me are tired, too.

I'm not all right. And I want others to stop denying how terrible my hearing loss is for me and for them. It sucks. And it's okay to just say so.

Listen to the Quiet

There is a light rain falling on this late summer Saturday. Refreshingly cool, damp, and quiet. I strolled through my garden path, stooping to lift a pepper plant that had fallen to the ground. Laden with jalapenos and rain -- it was too much for the stake to hold. As I gently pulled the stem upright and repositioned the stake into the wet earth, I could faintly hear the chattering of raindrops on the leaves of my oak trees above me. Soft. Unpolluted. And quiet.

It is good to listen to the quiet, I think to myself.

It seems to me that people have forgotten what quiet is. Our world is a world of noise. And when it is quiet, we have conditioned ourselves to fill the quiet with sound. We are uncomfortable with quiet. 

I believe my deafness has restored my friendship with the quiet. It has made me appreciate the smallest sounds that I overlooked before -- or took for granted -- in my attempts to fill the void of quiet with sound. And this bionic ear inside my head is an amazing tool for hearing the quiet.

If you haven't listened to the quiet in a while, maybe you should. There is so much to hear there.