Trees and Birds and Songs

Twenty-one years ago, my husband and I planted three pin oaks, a red maple, four crape myrtles, and a red bud on our property. It was an enviable task for a property our size. Trees that would grow and fill our empty yard with tranquil beauty. Today, they stand as lonely, rustling giants in a neighborhood planted mostly with small ornamental trees. They provide cooling shade for our family and dogs on hot summer days and a sheltered break from the fierce winds that sweep across the southern Great Plains.

There were a few times we thought we were going to lose them due to infestations and drought and brutal storms that lopped branches and partially pulled their roots from the ground. Gentle nurturing and training of primary limbs helped them grow sturdy and tall. Be strong, we whispered.

I love trees.

They are sanctuary to a number of native birds -- starlings and sparrows, flycatchers and mourning doves, and an occasional cedar waxwing. Our trees are a nesting and shelter oasis for them. This morning I counted three nests in the lower branches, curious about how many babies our trees have born and fed. Empty now of those who left their nests many weeks ago; resting silent and sturdy and patient for next year's inhabitants. I could just make out tufts of Penny fluff I'd brushed from my dog and let float away on the breeze -- confident they would find their way into a nest or two. Here you go, I whispered.

I love birds.

Sometimes they are bold, risking an occasional chase by our dogs. They come to the covered patio to sneak a little kibble or a sip from the burbling fountain. They sit on the patio fence and trill their bird-song, thanking me for the trees and food and drink and gentle dogs who share their bounty with them. But other times, they sit in the trees and call to one another instead of to me. Fluttering from branch to branch, waiting for the dogs to lazily nod off for a late morning nap so they can glide onto the lawn and feast on the insects that live there.

Who could've known, so long ago, when the trees were young and the birds were not there, that one who would lose her hearing would love these bird-songs so? The trees knew, I think. And so did the birds. They were waiting to bless me on this cool, cloudy day. Waiting for me to sit quietly on the patio and hear them sing to me songs I can hear when I cannot hear any other.

We're here for you, they whispered. Hear us sing.

I Miss the Music

I can't hear music very well with my cochlear implant. Though I can hear parts of simple melodies, a few lyrics, and a hint of rhythm, the sound of music through my CI is sorely deficient -- lacking the rich fullness and subtle nuances of sound that make music what it is. Through the CI, music is rendered to a mere mechanical shadow of what it's supposed to be. It's much like the proverbial mosquito buzzing in my ear. It's not pleasant. Not in the least.

Focused listening has helped to some degree, but I haven't reached that magical place where listening to music is enjoyable, no matter how much I practice. It's so bad that when my audiologist deleted the "Music" setting from my programming to make way for the new SCAN program, I didn't even bat an eye. Most of the time, I don't pay much attention to how bad it is, as I still have a useable ear opposite my cochlear implant that compensates in most situations. I was never much for listening to the radio or an iPod, and having a CI has made that even less desirable. But lately, I find myself enduring bad music in movies and such, and with increasing regularity, I slip the coil from my magnet and just let my better ear take over, even as poor as that is.

It's a glaring reminder that no matter how good I get at hearing with my cochlear implant, it will never be as good as I wish it would be. I have little hope that I will hear music well again. No more concerts. No more operas. No more symphonies. It would only make me cry.

I'm not going to lie. It's a sore spot for me. Especially when I hear someone brag about how much they love listening to music with their CI. Their well-meaning advice for improving music enjoyment is a bitter pill. Simplistic techniques that only give me what I already have, but nothing more.

I try not to compare my CI success against what others have achieved, but when others talk about how good music sounds through their CI, I find myself slipping into that pattern of envy and disbelief. I walk a fine line between silently wishing I could love it too and wanting to say Hogwash!

Truth be told, I just don't believe it's that good -- even for them. (I know they will argue that with me.) Maybe I want too much. And maybe the limitations of my cochlear implant just can't give me what I want. I want more.

There are many things I've lost since losing my hearing. I miss the music more than anything else.

And Then You Are Summoned

Jury duty.

It's the bane of our American judicial system. That damned jury summons.
I know there are some people who actually love it. But I'm not one of those people. And the fact that my hearing is so pathetic causes that panicky taste of bile to rise in the back of my throat.

I can't even understand half of my husband's conversation across the room. How can I possibly understand the barrage of words and sounds in the courtroom?

I'm not even sure I can request an excuse from my doctor -- he believes the CI removes all communication barriers, silly hearing man who doesn't really know what it's like to hear with a CI...

So I call the number on the back of the summons to ask if hearing accommodations are available.

"Please enter (inaudible-inaudible-inaudible) now." What? I'm speaking to an autobot? Really?
"Please enter (inaudible-inaudible-inaudible) now." It repeats.
I take the chance that it is asking for my juror ID, and input the 12 digits carefully.

"You entered zero (inaudible-inaudible-inaudible). Is this right? Please enter (inaudible-inaudible) now." I press zero hoping to get an operator. It disconnects me. I redial the number and get the same response. Only this time, I don't press zero. I decide to wait. Surely the automated voice response system will transfer me to a real person if I don't respond. Waiting-waiting-waiting...
"I do not understand your response," it says. Welcome to my world, I muse. "This call will now be disconnected."

WHAT?!!!! I try the number again -- this time intent on listening as hard as I possibly can. Still no success. I just cannot understand the autobot. My only option is to call the courthouse directly and try to speak with a real person.

After being transferred to a number of departments, I finally arrive at my destination and speak with a clerk in the "juror department." She's just a clerk, and cannot answer any questions about hearing accommodations for the hearing impaired. "We can provide sign language interpreters for you," she says. "I don't know sign language," I explain. "I am hearing impaired. I have a cochlear implant and a hearing aid. I will need real-time captioning services or a telecoil neck loop system to use with my hearing devices."

She tells me she doesn't know what those things are and transfers me to someone else. It's another clerk. "We can provide a sign language interpreter for you," she says. Here we go again.

I am finally directed to a middle-manager. After telling her what I am requesting, she tells me that she doesn't know if those things are available. "We can give you a sign language interpreter," she says. Sigh. "I think you can be excused," she tells me, "but you'll need to call the number on the back of your summons to get that done."

Seriously. It's a vicious cycle.

Some days are almost normal...

...and then you have several days in a row where you just can't understand a damn thing.

I don't know why or how that happens. My doctor promised that the cochlear implant would be consistent and reliable for hearing. But I'm telling you: it just isn't so.

Some days, it's a wonder. Then out of the blue, I find myself once again looking blankly at the speaker, with those raised eyebrows and doofus expression and uttering the words I dread the most, "What? What did you say?"

First, at the store where the screaming children of the blissful mother stand behind me while I'm trying to answer all those stupid questions the store clerks ask before they ring your merchandise and tell you what your total is. Must they really have my phone number and zip code and email address and name of my first born for me to buy a bottle of shampoo? Can you not just tell me what I need to pay and let me leave before I turn around and use my teacher voice on those children!

Then at the drive-thru, where I'd just like to have a simple cheeseburger with all the fixings. "Would you blah, mumble-mumble, glick-blah?" What? "Would you blah, mumble-mumble, glick-blah?" (Yeah. That's what I thought you said.) Seriously, is it really necessary for them to ask if I want lettuce and mustard and ketchup and tomato and cheese on my cheeseburger? Did I not just order a cheeseburger? With all the fixings?

Retiring to my home and hoping for a quiet reprieve proves futile, too. TVs and dogs and daughters and phones and husbands and a multitude of noisy distractions ---

I've said, "What?" way too much today. I'm tired.

Is it any wonder that I find solace in the written world of blogging and chat rooms and Facebook? It's here that I don't have to rely on my poor, poor hearing to decipher and comprehend the intentions and conversations and questions of others. It's here that my hearing - or lack of - matters naught.

Good hearing days, or bad. It's a great equalizer, it is.