Gonna Be Alright

 Don't worry 'bout a thing 'cause every little thing gonna be alright
don't worry about a thing, every little thing gonna be alright 

Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun
three little birds pitch by my door step
singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true
saying, this is my message to you:
don't worry 'bout a thing
cause every little thing gonna be alright
don't worry 'bout a thing
every little thing gonna be alright...  Bob Marley

I recently met a woman on social media via a cochlear implant group I am a member of. Her story mirrors mine in many ways. She is late deafened. She is a school teacher. She feels lost. And alone.

She posted a rather poignant message to her friends that described how devastated she is feeling at the moment. "Not much anyone can say to console me right now about any of that, which is why I have put off posting about it," she said after describing an unsuccessful BAHA evaluation for her hearing loss. Her last resort and hope for any normalcy now rests in a cochlear implant.

She's right. About the part where no one can console her. Hearing loss and deafness is a solitary event. It restricts your access to many things in this world. It's that isolation that hurts the most, I think, as you draw back from things you once loved, and others begin to withdraw, too. Consciously or not, it doesn't matter. You find yourself alone in your silence, even when you are with others. 

In the end, it is you who has to live with your hearing loss. And it is you who has to learn to deal with it. Others can offer up tidbits and advice and comforting words, but they can return to their respective lives where they soon forget about hearing loss and what you are dealing with, even those closest to you. You are strapped with a burden you didn't choose to bear. Hearing loss is yours, and yours alone. You can't leave it on the shelf while you go to work. You can't put it in your pocket while you watch TV. You can't forget about it while you tend to routine tasks. It's there from morning to morning. Every day. Every hour. Every second.

To be suddenly cut off from a hearing world you've known since birth is shocking. And overwhelming. And frightening. It's when that fear creeps in that common sense sulks away to hide in a corner, and you are left to dwell on and deal with the "what-ifs" and "why-mes."

I can't tell her that a cochlear implant will make things better. It's such an individual process. But I can tell her that she is not alone. Others have walked her path before, just as others will walk it in the future. I can tell her that she will make it -- somehow, some way. It's not always easy. But I can tell her that she will find resiliency and faith and perseverance and hope on her way. And she will make do with what she has and count her blessings for things good and bad and find silver linings for her hearing loss.

I know this --because she is me.  
And I know every thing gonna be alright.

Monday

On Monday, my deaf student will board a school bus as he has done every school day this year. Only this time, the bus won't take him to the school he has attended for all of his educational life. It will take him to his new school. It is a new school where he will attend our school district's hearing-impaired class.

I can only imagine how confused he will be. And how fearful. Since he lacks receptive language, and has limited expressive language, I can only imagine what he will feel when he arrives at his new school. I am not sure my attempts to explain it to him were understood. I can only gesture so much. And there really is no gesture for "you will not be in my class anymore."

He will step off the bus on Monday and enter a new world. Hopefully, he will recognize the smiling face of his new teacher. He met her once in my classroom, and again when he visited his new school with his mother. But did he understand that he would be entering a new world in this new place?

No one can know for sure what Monday will be like for him. But I know that he will adjust to the new routine in a few days. Perhaps sooner; maybe a little longer. And that confusion will be replaced with understanding...and relief.

What I know, for certain, is that he is about to have his world rocked. He will learn sign language and continue his oral speech therapy in the skilled care of our hearing-impaired/deaf education specialists. He will learn to communicate with his friends and teachers and parents.

Knowing that I was instrumental in making this happen for him is more than satisfying. His mother's tears and words of gratitude permeated deep. And her hug will last me a lifetime. The interpreter was moved to tears as she told me the mother couldn't even find the words to thank me for what I had done for her son.

"I was doing what teachers are supposed to do," I thought. "Know their students."

My only regret is for my profession -- for the teachers and specialists who worked with this little boy for two and a half years before me -- those who didn't know this student as they should have. They didn't recognize his difficulties or they rationalized them away by saying, "He doesn't understand English" or "He passed his hearing screening".  Were they too busy? Were they too complacent? Were they overwhelmed with over-sized classes? Were they burdened with discipline matters or mandates or paperwork? It really doesn't matter. A little boy was lost for two and a half years in a system rigged against him. And no one had stepped up to help him. Until he found me.

How could they not know? I ask myself often when thinking about what seemed so obvious to me. That will bother me for the rest of my life.