My Cochlear Implantiversary

I cannot let this day end without taking a moment to mark this milestone date.

At this moment, one year ago, I was sleeping off the effects of four hours of anesthesia from my cochlear implant surgery. The surgery took a bit longer than expected, but otherwise, it was a mostly routine operation, according to my surgeon.

I awoke from the surgery groggy and nauseated, but the pain and dizziness were minimal. Nothing a few hours (or days) of sleep wouldn't resolve. I nuzzled up with my comfy chenille-covered travel pillow, fuzzy blankets, and pain medications in the upstairs recliner and slept in a semi-upright position until I felt well enough to move about more.

One year later, it's still quite vivid in my mind. It was that impressive. And it's been a year of pretty impressive events as I've learned to adjust and hear with my cochlear implant. It's not perfect, by any standard. But I continue to be amazed at the little and the big hearing accomplishments I have worked so hard to achieve. And I know there are many more milestones to come.

I can hear. Happy Cochlear Implantiversary to me.

People Who Whisper

There is a colleague in my school who is always bending my ear. He has so much to say. I don't know if he talks to everyone like he does to me. But he never misses the opportunity to tell me some pressing news.

The problem isn't so much that he wants to tell me things. The problem lies in the way he tells me.

He whispers in my ear.

Whispers are one of the sounds that evade my cochlear implant. It just sounds like noise in my ear. I don't know the science of whispering, or why I can't perceive them. I'm sure the answer lies somewhere in the frequencies or decibels of speech. It doesn't really matter. I just know that whispered words aren't comprehensible to me. It's that proverbial mosquito buzzing in my ear.

"I'm deaf, you know," I remind him often. But it doesn't make much difference. He continues to pull me aside and speak imperceptible words to me.

I've learned to smile and nod. Mostly out of kindness. And a little sympathy. It's not so much that he needs me to respond back, I suppose, as it is his need to just say what is on his mind. And he has found a safe venue in me for sharing his secrets.

I mean, who better to vent to than a person who is guaranteed not to share and spread those secrets beyond those whispered words? The deaf lady, of course. She never heard a word.

Alliteration

I have noticed that there is a preponderance of bloggers and writers and storytellers today. There's a plethora of blogs available online for our perusal. And for each one, there are as many reasons and purposes for why they write and for whom they write. The sheer volume of self-publishing sites and the progeny of self-proclaimed authors is a bit pretentious to this pragmatic mind of mine.

As a teacher and specialist of reading and language arts, I have learned to be proficient in and perceptive of our written language. I am practiced in reading and writing prose and poetry, essays that teach and inform, stories that entertain, and even the pith of self-reflection.  I dare not pretend that my writing is perfect, nor am I presumptuous that what I write is profound and proper -- or even paramount for most people.

But it is practical for my purpose. 

I am pleased that some follow my story and participate in my professed self-indulgence. I possess a bit of pride for my prowess with the written word -- my love affair with the sounds and words that make our language rich and profound.

I write for myself. I write to purge. I write to practice. I write for pretense. And patience and perseverance and peace. It is my panacea.

I write because it doesn't matter that I am deaf when the words pour from my thoughts. For the written word isn't heard in my ears. It is heard in the promise of my heart.

"STOP HUMMING!!!"

I'd had quite enough of the near constant drone of student voices while trying to finish individual sight word assessments. The noisy buzz of my busy classroom was wreaking havoc on my already frazzled patience as I had continually quieted the children over and over.

It spilled into the very important assessment time. Students were supposed to be writing "My Yesterday Story" in their journals. It wasn't to be. Several students couldn't even remain in their seats for a full minute. And the talking was both excessive and loud.

I couldn't hear the student I was testing. I 'd been interrupted too often, and I was still on the first student!

"Stop talking," I said in a loud voice. (I'm certain I'd said that at least a million times that day.)

But the utterances continued. I could see the culprit, and I stopped the assessment yet again to redirect the student, this time by name.

"Stop talking now, David!"

I continued with the assessment for less than a minute when the monotonous drone resumed.

"I don't know who's humming, but it better stop NOW!" (I think my own voice was at glass-shattering decibels.) "STOP HUMMING!"

It wasn't exactly pin-drop quiet, but it was remarkably improved. Yet the hummer continued to hum  -- softly and steadily.

It was only after I'd dismissed my students and safely put them into their parents' cars or hands that I returned to the room.  I proceeded to the table where I'd left the microphone transmitter of the FM system that I'd used while assessing students today. The district audiologist had only delivered this new FM system for me to try out the day before. The telecoil in my cochlear implant processor activated automatically when the neckloop I was wearing came back into range of the transmitter.

And there it was. The hum. And not a student to be found.

Apparently, the telecoil picks up the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting. I didn't know.

I owe my students a big apology tomorrow.