Here We Come A-wassailing...

Tonight, the elementary school where I teach had a Christmas caroling event that I was planning to attend. It would have been the first time for me to carol since I lost my hearing suddenly three years ago. 

I didn’t go. Seriously, I could come up with a million reasons why I didn’t go, but the only excuse I have is that I chickened out.

I’m afraid of music. It’s true. It terrifies me. If this had been a dinner or a play or a discussion of the complexities of the Pythagorean theorem, it would have been much easier. But it was music and singing. And that is much, much scarier.

Oh no! It's MUSIC!

I’m considered a high-functioning cochlear implant recipient. I hear and comprehend speech and conversation very well in most settings. But music eludes me. It’s my bête noire – the beast I have yet to conquer. I have focused on music rehabilitation for the last year, attempting to make my cochlear implant work for hearing music. I haven’t been able to find a way past the distorted static of noise to find a melody or harmony or instrumentals -- or much of anything musical at all. I complain to my audiologist and she patiently adjusts my programming in ways I cannot comprehend – little tweaks that might help. But she tells me that many of her patients complain that music is elusive to them as well.

We’re limited by the technology. And by our hearing loss.

When a person loses their hearing, many other things are lost along the way. It’s difficult to describe the impact that hearing loss has on our lives to those who’ve never experienced it. One of the things I was warned to watch for is the withdrawal from things I once enjoyed. That didn’t happen for me as suddenly as I lost my hearing, but I slowly became aware that I turned down invitations to events I once participated in gladly, preferring instead the quiet and solitude of activities I could do without the necessity of a working ear.

There was a day when I would have loved caroling with friends and colleagues. But not today.

So I sit here on my living room sofa trying to rationalize my guilt away. I know I succumbed to my fear of music and pitchy melodies and harmonies too far out of my decibel range to hear. And I stayed home. My self-speak chastises me with “should haves” and “could haves.” I should have shrugged off my fears and insecurities and gone caroling anyway. I could have tried. I should have endured. I could have taken my cochlear implant off, shutting off the “noise” of the songs, and smiled my way through the silence. But I didn’t. I'm a coward.

Music is a very, very, scary thing.

Silent Mornings

I often find myself awake before my family on weekend mornings. It's a time for me to enjoy the peace and quiet before the hustle and bustle of the day begins.

Leaving my hearing aid and cochlear implant processor behind in my trusty Dry and Store, I relish these silent mornings -- these times of muted quietness. It's a good time to reflect and ponder the world's problems and mine, as well. Uninterrupted by the noise pollution that plagues our cities and neighborhoods and homes. I can find my balance in my quiet ruminations. Sometimes, I catch up on world and local news online, or with friends and family on Facebook.  I brush the dog and love on her a little bit. I drink my coffee leisurely and indulge in a bagel with cream cheese. I work a crossword. I ponder my week's lesson plans and browse education blogs for ideas. When weather permits, I sit on the patio and soak in the sunshine and the cool breeze against my face. And I write.

I've made peace with the silence.

It wasn't always so.

When I lost my hearing three years ago, I was abruptly thrust into perpetual silence. It was scary, to say the least. In a world that is inundated with noise, silence is a formidable presence. It was the elephant on my back. I could no longer fill that silence with music or television or conversation, as others do. It was a lingering and unrelenting presence that followed me wherever I went. I had to make peace with it, or I would go mad.

Hearing aids helped. But it's not the same. They are a necessary tool for communication with a world that requires --- sound.

But for now, I will be happy in this morning's silence. Soon my home will be filled with a mosaic of sound: voices and dishes clanking and water running and televised football games and music and laughter.

And I will retreat to my bedroom where I will don my hearing devices for this new day so I can join my family in this thing we call life.

Miracles, Part II

I have written before of the physical miracle of hearing -- how this intricate and minute mass of bones and tunnels and nerves and muscles and membranes and fluids and organs and sound waves work seamlessly together to produce this sense that we call hearing.

It's a freaking, awe-inspiring miracle from God. 

But it is perhaps the most fragile sense that we have. It's fragility is a reminder that it is a gift to us. Something we can lose through neglect or abuse or random and coincidental events in our environment. When a breakdown of any part of this delicate system occurs, our hearing is affected -- even when we don't perceive it ourselves; and when the fine parts of our hearing organs are damaged, they cannot regenerate themselves.


I was reminded of how fragile our hearing is today. The fluid that bathes the working parts of my ears backed up -- clogged from its natural release by an inflammation I cannot see. It was a process that probably began several days ago with an exposure to some virus or germ or allergen -- and it reared its ugly influence days later in the form of an earache -- and that dreadful feeling of more hearing loss.

A trip to the weekend Urgent Care reckoned me with a diagnosis of a conductive hearing loss and a migraine trigger that could be remedied with a steroid and pain relief injection. Lucky for me that this once, I would soon be back to my "normal" in a few days. A written prescription insured that the inevitable rebound headache could be self-treated at home with more pain relief medication.

The effects of an opioid narcotic is a mystifying sensation. Teetering on the brink of unconsciousness is both an unsettling and strangely satisfying experience. The line between asleep and awake are blurred.

You roll over in bed and catch a glimpse of the clock. It is 2:10. As you drift into your semi-conscious state, you are aware that you cannot trust your senses anymore, and you don't care. It is calming and pain-free and beautiful. Your night-dream and reality flow together. You know the difference, and the effect of the drug lulls you into its world effortlessly.

You are acutely aware of your breathing. It slows. And the rise and fall of your breathes are refreshing and rhythmic. You are gently transported into a surreal world somewhere between consciousness and sleep. You lay in a field of grass and see the bright blue of the sky. You feel the softness of the wind against your face and you savor the coolness of the air in your lungs. in. out. in...out. Your aren't asleep or awake anymore.

You feel the waning beat of your heart. And you know that you are slipping into unconsciousness, but you are completely knowing that it is happening. You realize your heart isn't beating anymore, and you call to your husband, "Can you feel my heart?" But you see that he no longer sleeps by your side. He has drifted across the ocean on a raft -- and just as the tide wafts him over the edge of the horizon, you catch a glimpse of the air in his sails. in. out. in. out. And you know that you are breathing.

Then you feel the gentle pop in your ear. You know the steroids are working their purpose. And through your semi-sleep, you repeat its name in your mind: dexamethasone. You know its name. And a little prick in your gluteus maximus jolts you enough that you turn over in your bed. You got a shot earlier. Dexamethasone. You are awake. You catch a glimpse of the clock. It is 2:15. But the effect of the narcotic still lurks in your body. You close your eyes and you begin your awake-dream again. It's something you've done several times tonight.

It is when you wake in the morning, that you know the medications have calmed your body's defense mechanisms and allowed the miracle of healing to occur. Your headache is nearly gone and your ears are easily releasing the pressure that has held them captive for the last few days. You can hear better. And you become aware that all that is lost is not gone forever. There are still miracles for you.

Miracles. And this is the only thing I need -- and want -- to be thankful for right now.

God Bless the Audiologists

An audiologist is on the front line with those of us who've sustained hearing loss. And they work to make our lives easier and more productive, in spite of our audiogram levels. They tell us the naked truth about our hearing tests and then hand us tissues when we cry out our frustrations. They are masters of hearing devices and use their skills to program each one to our unique needs. Sometimes it's not enough. Like us, they are limited by our individual capacity to hear (or not hear) and the technology they have available. God bless the audiologists.

I've been asked to speak next week to a college class of audiology students. My school district's audiologist teaches the class and said my story was inspirational.

I've been trying to think of something to say about my hearing loss and how much my life has changed that's worthy of the word inspirational.

I haven't come up with much.

The truth is-- I don't see that I'm much different than anyone else who's faced adversity in their life. I cope and adapt and keep plodding on. And like so many others, I cry and whine and complain a lot, too. It's just the way it is.

I think the message I want to purvey to these future audiologists is how unfriendly the world is to anyone with any health conditions that make them "needy".  And the deaf and hard of hearing are a fairly needy group. It's that "neediness" that's so unfortunate to me. Really. I hate it.

I need people to be patient and understanding. I need them to speak up. I need them to articulate and speak clearly. I need people to face me when they are speaking.  I need people to take turns when having a conversation instead of jumping in while others are speaking. I need them to understand that even in the best conditions, I still miss about a fourth of the conversation and information that is spoken. I need closed captioning on TV and often in movies, too, and I can't talk to people while I'm trying to listen and read captions. I need special accommodations to continue working my job, and those accommodations are just as much a nuisance to me as they are to others. I need people to understand how utterly exhausting hearing and listening has become, so when I take my hearing aids out at night for a break, I need them to stop telling me to put my hearing aids on.  I need them to know that hearing aids and a cochlear implant don't "fix" my hearing, and I am still hard-of-hearing with them.

It can be maddening, at times.

Enter the audiologist. Mine has saved my sanity -- more than once. She assures me often that I am not crazy or needy or demanding or whiny. I'm deaf, that's all. She's my lifeline. I couldn't have made it without her.

And I want these audiology students to know how important they will be to their patients, too.

Know Your Medical History

I need to complain.

Sudden sensorineural hearing loss deafened my left ear three years ago. Because I've also had bouts of sudden sensorineural hearing loss in my right ear, I've earned regular checkups with my otologist twice a year even though the ear has remained stable for over two years.

I had one of those checkups last week.

I had complained previously that I'd had a couple of dizziness episodes after flying, and asked if it could be related to the cochlear implant surgery. I am a frequent flyer, and I'd never had any problems before with changing pressure or dizziness. My doctor explained that my sinus disease was the more likely culprit, and suggested I use decongestants and nasal spray prior to flights to keep them open. So I did. And I added a Dramamine tab, too. Since then, I haven't had any other problems when flying.

So his casual statement last week that he wanted to see me THREE times a year to monitor my Meniere's came as an outright shock. "I don't have Meniere's," I protested -- probably a little too loudly.

He stumbled and stuttered in his response, and tried to tell me that I had the disorder in my right ear. And the irregular hearing loss and occasional dizziness were symptoms. I felt like he knew he'd been caught off-guard and was covering his tracks rather than admitting he'd made a mistake.

I argued, of course. I pointed out that I had none of the symptoms of Meniere's and that he had told me on more than one office visit that my dizziness after flying and the continuing irregular hearing loss were related to sinus disease and Eustachian tube dysfunction, not Meniere's. I even told him he probably should check my chart again. I protested that the increase in checkups to every four months instead of six months wasn't necessary since my audiogram showed my ear to be stable.

He disagreed, and marked my discharge paper for 4 months. Then he smiled as he walked me out. The appointment desk wouldn't budge on the date either. I tried.

Checking my online health report at home, I noticed he'd coded my chart with a diagnosis of idiopathic acquired sensorineural hearing loss, just as he's done for the three years since this all began. Not Meniere's. I guess he looked back at my chart.

I am still flabbergasted that he would toss out a misdiagnosis so easily. I believe he may have confused me with other patients or he didn't review my chart before he came in to see me. But I was diligent.

There's no excuse for any doctor to enter an established patient's room and make such a mistake, in my opinion. I pay him to be better than that. And he is making decisions about me that could affect my health for many years to come. He is a highly skilled surgeon, and he is very knowledgeable about hearing loss and diseases of the ear. But I am more than a little ticked at this misstep. I'm not fooled easily. I am fully aware of my medical history and diagnoses. You should be, too.

I have not decided if I will keep the appointment in four months. Or if I will keep this doctor.

Of Diseases and Disablitites and Silly Games

Several years ago, the "bra color" statuses on Facebook made national headlines. Ever since that time, it's been a nonstop whirlwind of copycat games whose intentions are meant to raise awareness for breast cancer or any number of other afflictions. It began a pathetic trend that has no end, it appears.

This morning I received private messages from a couple of friends asking me to join yet another game for breast cancer awareness. It seems I commented on a silly status they'd posted and got "caught" in the game.

The statuses, however, are cloaked in secrecy and have little to do with raising awareness as much as it just makes me want to stop commenting on other people's posts. No one knows there's an underlying message, or that it is meant to raise awareness, unless they comment on the post and get trapped caught in the game, too. The first line in these messages was "You shouldn't have commented." That's for sure, I thought. And I immediately clicked the "leave the conversation" button.

My honest opinion is that these diseases, ailments, disabilities, and afflictions shouldn't be relegated to impudent Facebook statuses. Real people suffer and are disfigured for life because of cancer, and many lose their lives. There are few of us who haven't been affected by cancer in some way. I have several friends who are both survivors or were casualties of this horrible disease. They are the human souls in this struggle, and their memories should not be consigned to some frivolous status that claims you've won $900 in the lottery.

If you want to raise awareness, stop posting statuses with such disrespectful levity and post your outright support on your status instead. Donate to organizations that research and treat the disease. Volunteer at the chemotherapy center. Drive patients to and from their treatment. Hold their hand. And lend a real hand of friendship. But stop the games.

I am posting this for those I've known who've lost their battle: Carla, Kelly, Amy, Allison, Edna, Janice, Cyndi, Addie, Cathy, Ron, and Barb. I am writing this post for those who are fighting their battles now: Barri, Helen, and Kay. I write for those who've conquered once, but live in dread that it will return: Suzette and Marta and Cindy and Nance. And I write for those who struggle with diseases and conditions known and unknown, visible and invisible, shared and private. Each one.

It's not a game.

I just gotta say it...

There are many groups on social media for innumerable medical ailments and afflictions. I admit -- I'm a member of some of them. Each group touts the members availability to offer "support" and advice to people with similar conditions. Sometimes these groups can be very good. They offer immediate feedback or relieve anxiety about concerns.

But lately, I've noticed an abundance of misinformation being shared. Things like whose doctor said what and whose did not, and you should do this or not do that. People come to the groups seeking advice for things they should be asking their doctor, and I can only assume that many of them are following the advice of people they don't know and who don't know them. It seems everyone has an opinion, and apparently, doctors' advice varies widely with every individual case.

It's a regular National Enquirer.

You'd think I'd know better, but I continue to visit these groups and read the posts and comments. And then I find I'm sitting on my hands resisting the urge to counter the foolish advice that is given by well-intentioned, but misinformed or ignorant members. It's hard. Some people take a little bit of information, combine it with their personal experience, and add a whole lot of stuff from God knows where. They get people upset and worried over half-truths. I've even seen comments advising people to go against their doctors' advice. Some people think that adding the catch phrase, "my doctor told me" somehow legitimizes their advice. I've read things I'd consider not just foolish, but dangerous, as well. I wonder how many people have been injured or worsened by heeding advice to "do this" instead of what their doctor said.

At times, I've questioned my medical team about some of the things I've read. It's usually met with a polite smile and information that corrects or refutes the misinformation, and then they tell me to stay away from "those" sites.

We are not doctors.

We don't know the individual medical histories of the people who are posting. Nor do we have years of medical school education or medical practice to support our beliefs on a medical topic. People have a tendency to grandiose the details of their conditions, as well. They weave tall tales of long-suffering. It seems like everyone is trying to "one-up" everyone else, and those "pearls of wisdom" that are shared were earned through personal suffering.

Sometimes, I just can't stand it, and I have to post a comment that reminds people not to seek or give medical advice on the social forum, but to contact their doctor or other members of their medical team.

It's usually met with disdain. People don't like to be called out.

Here is the truth: Having a cochlear implant or sudden sensorineural hearing loss or any other condition does not qualify me or anyone else to give medical advice to another person any more than having had surgery qualifies us to perform surgery.

We should be more cautious about what we post and things we advise. And we should listen to our doctors over social media.

Now there's some advice I will heed.

I'm Wired.

I confess.

I'm wired. I have a dependence on electricity.

When I got my cochlear implant, I had no idea how much electric this little device and all of its accessories could consume. From the hundreds of disposable batteries to the dozens of recharging cords, my world has become a messy tangle of wires, and cords, and recyclable batteries.

The problem is in finding a way to recharge all of the necessaries each night in a convenient, safe, and neat way. Each device has its own cord and connector. The cord for the Zephyr dryer doesn't fit the battery charger. And the connector for the phone clip doesn't adapt to the remote assistant. Throw in my cell phone, Nook, alarm clock with a bed shaker, iPod, bedside fan, lamp, and iPad, and I have an immense maze of cords and wires -- each vying for space on my nightstand and tripping me up in the dark of night.

Adding power strips, outlet adapters, and extension cords only seemed to compound the spider web of cords beside my bed. I experimented with plugging in my various devices all over the house instead -- the remote assistant on the window sill of the dining room; the dryer on the table in the TV room, the battery charger on my husband's night stand -- but making nightly rounds to plug everything in and then reversing the order each morning to gather my things again was becoming a problem. I sometimes left for work without important accessories. I had to find a better solution.

I searched the online world and local electronics stores for charging stations that could end my wired chaos and relieve my OCD, only to come up empty-handed.

I know I'm not alone in my suffering. My Cochlear Facebook group has frequent posts from members seeking the same solution to the "electrical dilemma."

So I got crafty this weekend. And came up with this. It's not perfect. But I feel a lot better now. 

1. A box to hold a power strip and cords.

2. A hole for the power strip cord.

 3. Two holes to thread the charger cords
through the back of the box.

4. An organizer to hold extra accessories.

5. My devices are on top of the box for easy access.

6. The finished project.

Three Years

three years
three years deaf
coping

three years
three years muffled
adapting

three years
three years silent
accepting

three years
three years unflinching quiet
transforming

three years
it seems much longer

Change is Hard

Our ears and brains have worked together for so many years that we're able to do a multitude of things simultaneously. Multitasking while watching a TV show, listening to an iPod, reading a magazine, and engaging in casual conversation -- things an ordinary person can do without thought. Things I used to do, too. It's easy to take hearing and listening for granted.

But I'm not exactly ordinary anymore. Even with a cochlear implant, my listening comprehension is pretty bad by "normal hearing" standards. Hearing is a passive activity for most people. It seamlessly and effortlessly blends in with all the other things that busy our lives. They don't even know they're doing it. It's that automatic. But my hearing isn't so passive anymore. I have to focus and actively attend to the listening task.

Hearing is the easy part. With my CI and hearing aid, I can hear quite a lot of things. It's the understanding that takes so much effort now. Having been an accomplished multitasker before I lost my hearing, I am continually frustrated now by how hard it has become to hold a simple conversation in my house. It takes a lot of brain power just to hear, let alone understand.

Distractions abound. Not just for me, but for others, as well. Trying to talk to me while you're washing dishes, sifting through mail, shuffling through the room, flipping through the TV channels, eating a sandwich, even interrupting me while I'm engaged in other activities to ask or tell me something is pretty much a recipe for a comprehension disaster. Ambient noise is a huge problem, and deciphering voices and words from that noise can be arduous. My attention to a task-at-hand has become incredibly focused since my hearing loss -- and I'm not so good at multitasking anymore. I need people to give me some wait-time, so I can switch my attention from one task to their conversation. No one can assume I've heard or understood any part of the conversation without that wait-time. Not even me.

I'm not the only one who gets frustrated.

"It's not like we mind repeating ourselves," my daughter explains. "But after the third or fourth time, it's just not worth it, especially when it really isn't important." That's why I get the dreaded "nevermind" so often, she tells me.

There are things all of us could do to make it better. I don't know why we don't. Change is hard.
 

Of Curve Balls and Such

Curve ball: (n) slang. Something that is unexpected or designed to trick or deceive, usually unpleasant.

I have long thought that my history of deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolism were to blame for my hearing loss. Even though my otologist deemed my case idiopathic, I've never been fully satisfied with that explanation.

I lost my hearing suddenly one week, and the following week, I was diagnosed with a fully obstructive pelvic blood clot. I don't consider it to be random or circumstantial, in spite of what my doctors have told me. Hearing loss has been attributed to a loss of blood flow to the inner ear. And the loss of blood flow created by the obstructive thrombus was silently working in my body well before I knew of its presence in my leg the following week. It's too coincidental for me to think they are not related.

What I didn't expect was that the chronic deep vein thrombosis I have dealt with for many years was exacting an irreversible toll on other parts of my body, as well.

Summers are for resting. Swimming, vacations, sports, and play. Sitting in the office of a cardiologist wasn't exactly on my list of things to do this summer, but I found myself there several times as he searched for answers to a heart issue that arose almost as suddenly as my hearing loss. The sudden symptoms mimicked a pulmonary embolism -- the racing palpitations and breathlessness and tightness across my sternum -- and in spite of the filter deep inside my inferior vena cava, I am acutely aware that blood clots can still slip past this protective barrier and enter my heart and lungs.

But the CT scan of my lungs revealed no clots. It's another curve ball.

The cardiologist immediately focused on my heart problem as a symptom rather than a condition. Atrial flutter, enlarged atria, and premature ventricular contraction (PVC) are symptomatic of a greater health issue, he told me. Blood studies, ultrasounds, echograms, a Holter monitor, and a DNA test were ordered and medications prescribed to relieve the symptoms. He firmly believed my heart had been damaged by my DVTs -- those silent, invisible killers that form in the deep veins of both of my legs.

My diagnosis of chronic deep vein insufficiency was no surprise. When my doctor explained that the condition is linked to a recessive, genetic factor that causes DVT, it wasn't an earth-shattering revelation. I'd long suspected it. The surprise was how dramatic its effect on my body has been. I wasn't prepared for the words, "It's a progressive disorder." It can be managed and slowed, but ultimately, it will progress and worsen, he told me.

I'd heard those words before. "It's a progressive disorder." They'd been used to describe my Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss almost three years ago. It was a curve ball that altered my life considerably.

And now I'm thrown another. We caught this one fairly early -- before significant damage to my heart had occurred. But it's left me questioning and contemplating those awful "what-ifs" again. And it's left me a little sad. My new medications line my counter top and my online searches now include fashionable compression stocking wear. This is not the future I had predicted for myself. Not at all.

Life throws us curve balls. I seem to have my share of them. It's not, so much, the curve ball itself that surprises us, but the disappointment that our expectations have not been fulfilled. Curve balls force us to duck or dodge, and alter our game plan yet again. Maybe there's a greater plan in play. I don't know. 

But I'm still in the batters' box. And I'm swinging away. Who knows where the ball will land.

And then there are glaciers...

There aren't many things that move me emotionally. Emotional tears just aren't my thing. I seldom cry at movies, over books, or stories meant to tug the heart strings.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not unemotional or cold-hearted. I just don't let my emotions fly from either end of the spectrum. When they do fly, it's usually on the side of anger. Honestly, I find the touchy-feely side of human emotion to be discordant with my pragmatist ways.

But then, there are glaciers. And glaciers can change everything.

During a recent trip to Alaska (my dream vacation), I visited the Hubbard Glacier, North America's largest tidewater glacier. As our cruise ship approached the gigantic glacier, naturalists on board shared facts and encouraged passengers to get outside to experience the full sights and sounds of the glacier.

The Hubbard Glacier

They speak, you know. Glaciers speak. Termed "white thunder", the movement of the ice rivers and the colliding ice crevasses creates loud and sudden booms that sound much like thunder, even though the sky is clear. On the crowded deck -- hundreds of people stood hauntingly still and quiet -- awestruck at this amazing ice river. Watching and waiting to hear. And then it happens. The thunder. White thunder. And the breathy gasps of onlookers.


But it wasn't the thunder that moved me to tears. It was something much, much smaller.

As our ship drifted in the milky, silt-laden water beside the glacier, the naturalist pointed out the small trails of ice floating from the glacier. "Listen closely," he said, "as the ice speaks to you -- weaving it's tales of life."

These aren't just rivers of ice. They are rivers of life -- flowing from the four hundred year old ice fields where they were born -- making its way from soaring mountains to water's edge. It's here to tell you its story. The story of how it has traveled far from its icy home to bring sediment and soil and nutrients to the fjord that sustains an amazing variety of life.

"Listen as the ice speaks to you."

And it did. Crinkling, crackling, crunching, snapping, and popping, like Rice Krispies in a bowl of milk. Softly, but just loud enough to perceive it -- if you listened intently.


As I so often do, I slipped the coil magnet of my CI from my head to compare my CI hearing against my hearing-aided ear.. The sound was lost. But with the CI, the ice streams spoke to me. It was a moment I found because of this marvelous piece of technology I love to hate. I can hear.

And then I cried.

Awareness

When people ask, I love to tell them about my cochlear implant. It's an interesting piece of technology, and it works small miracles for those who've lost their hearing.

Success with a cochlear implant is as unique and varied as the lives and circumstances of those who wear them. Much of the literature I've read about them concludes that those who experience the greatest success with word discrimination and understanding are the very young, who are implanted before and/or during language acquisition, or those who've lost their hearing after language acquisition. People like me, who've suffered sudden deafness, have remarkable success, especially if implanted sooner than later. It seems the longer the auditory system goes without sound stimulation, the greater the atrophy of the auditory nerve and receptors, and the harder it is to rehabilitate the hearing system, if it's possible at all.

Some people are just curious about that "thing" behind my ear. I realize I am rather unique. The National Institute of Health reports that only about 58,000 adults and 38,000 children in America have been implanted with cochlear devices. There are a lot of people who've never seen a cochlear implant, or even heard of one. Some celebrities on television and the news have made cochlear implants more widely known in recent years, but cochlear implants are still far and few in the general population. It's often mistaken for a Bluetooth device, though there aren't many similarities in its appearance other than it's worn on the ear.

As a teacher, I attend frequent professional development workshops, and I'm occasionally approached with questions about my cochlear implant.  This week, I was involved in a week-long training, and had several questions, not only about what a cochlear implant is and how it works, but also about hearing loss in general. Ask me a question and I'll probably tell you more than you wanted to know.


It's no surprise that I am adamant about hearing loss awareness and education. Being uneducated about its impact on the quality of life and on student learning is not okay. I have written in this blog about children in my class with hearing loss, and how it remained unnoticed by either parent or teacher until they entered my classroom. We must be more diligent in recognizing and treating hearing loss. It's a serious health epidemic that cannot be ignored simply because it's perceived as an inconvenience or an inevitable nuisance of growing older. Truth be told, wearing my cochlear implant proudly in plain sight has raised awareness that hearing loss is not just something your grandma has.

The facts are staggering. According to the National Institute of Health, 2 to 3 out of every 1,000 children born in the United States today are born with a detectible level of hearing loss in both ears. 90% of those are born to hearing parents. Approximately 15% (37.5 million) of American adults over the age of 18 have hearing loss, and 1 in 8 over the age of 12 have hearing loss in both ears. 15% of Americans have high frequency hearing loss from exposure to noise at work and leisure activities. About 2% of adults between the ages of 25 to 54 have a disabling hearing loss. It increases to 8.5% in adults aged 55 to 64, 25% of adults aged 65 to 74, and a whopping 50% for adults over 74!

Not just a little hearing loss. Disabling.

And of those who are aware of their hearing loss, fewer than 16% of people under age 69 who could benefit from hearing aids have ever used them. Our national travesty is that many people who want hearing aids aren't able to access them because of their cost -- often running in the thousands of dollars -- and usually not covered by insurance.

I have a friend whose teenaged son suffered sudden deafness about the same time that I did. Because her insurance did not cover hearing aids, her son continued to suffer communication impossibilities until they were able to cover the cost of BiCROS hearing aids by themselves. He was finally fitted in a pair a few weeks ago. MORE THAN TWO YEARS AFTER LOSING HIS HEARING. And his hearing aids aren't even new. They were refurbished from a local hearing association. TWO YEARS!

This is simply unacceptable. As individuals and as a country, we should be doing better to address the issues surrounding hearing loss better than we are. Awareness is just the beginning.

It's time to bring hearing loss to the forefront.

*Stepping down from my soapbox*

For more information, about hearing loss, follow this link to the National Institute of Health.
http://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/statistics/pages/quick.aspx

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.

Nightmare

I have a student who has a hearing aid. He was recently diagnosed with a hearing loss and sported a new hearing aid a few weeks ago. Since he also has Down's Syndrome, he relies on the adults in his life to help him be responsible for it.

I was called away from my classroom last week for a family emergency, and a temporary substitute was moved into my classroom until I could return. It's unfortunate that recess and lunch fell within that time. The substitute wasn't aware that I check this student's hearing aid and mold to make sure it's securely in his ear before recess.

He lost it. Sometime between the time he walked from his special education class, into my room, played on the playground, ate lunch, took a bathroom break, went back to his special ed class, returned to my room where I helped him get his backpack, and walked him to his waiting mom -- he lost his hearing aid.

It wasn't to be found in the classroom or in his special ed room. We didn't find it in the bathroom or the lost and found. No one had turned it in to the office. We could've searched the playground and pea-gravely surface under the big toys, but we knew it would've been futile. Mowers had been dispatched from our maintenance department to mow and eat the weeds on our playground the very day the hearing aid managed its escape.

The hearing aid was insured. Good move for a parent with a young child. It'll be replaced soon. And I'll try to make a concerted effort to mention the hearing aid security check the next time a sub covers my class.

I've dreamed of hearing aids the last few nights. Little blue hearing aids with red and blue ear molds and Spiderman stickers on the side. Little hearing aids lost under big toys on children's playgrounds. Or swings and slides. Lying in the grass waiting to be found. Whistling feedback at passersby. "Look at me! Here I am!" Quivering on the ground, but overlooked. Unnoticed, except by the whirring, swirling metal blades that gobbled it up and spit it out -- unrecognizable.

I awake in a sweat and realize it's only a dream. No. It's a nightmare.

It's not real. But I still take a reassuring peep inside my Dry and Store. Resting safely inside -- my little hearing aid and my N6 processor. Whew.

Miracles

Today is Easter. It is the day that Christians across the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ -- celebrations of worship, family, food, Spring, renewal, and the Easter Bunny. Somewhere in time, the commercialism overpowered the religious tone of this holiday.

This morning, I arose early, and thanked my Lord for another day on this earth. I thanked Him for His sacrifice and His grace, and I asked for His forgiveness of sins past and future and His blessing on my family, my friends, and myself.

I did not get dressed in Easter finery and attend worship in a church. I left the church I loved several years ago when the politicalization of the church colored the words and message of Christians with things neither of God nor reflective of the Christ I had read about in my Bible and learned about in my Sunday School -- a decision that once filled me with guilt, but now makes my heart sad. My religion was hijacked by Pharisees.

Instead, I perused my Facebook news feed, as I often do on Sunday mornings. Just as I expected, it was filled with Easter memes and Biblical verses about the resurrection and pictures of children hunting eggs. Easter wishes from people I've come to expect them from -- on this day anyway. One day of peace and love and civility. It's a miracle.

Miracles are a part of our lives, both big and small. We often pray for and expect the big ones. We've been conditioned by our faith in God and things greater than us, to believe that if we just pray earnestly enough and live a life deemed worthy of God, then those miracles will come. And we believe falsely that we are blessed by God because of the things we have or can get.

But in our desire to have answers to our prayers, I believe we ignore or fail to notice the multitude of miracles that are a part of our everyday existence. So we often suffer blindly and miss out on blessings because we are waiting for something we deem better and more suitable than what we have now.

There is a Facebook group that I belong to where several people suffer gladly with sudden deafness, refusing to accept the medical science and technology that IS a miracle -- suffering caused by an antiquated mindset that they will be healed miraculously if they just persist in their faith. Living miserably and inflicting their bodies with experimental treatments in the hope of getting their normal hearing back --all the while refusing to acknowledge the miracle right in front of their eyes -- the miracle of medical technology that makes hearing aids and cochlear implants possible. They reason this miracle away by saying that accepting these technological miracles for themselves will somehow limit God's ability to heal them in the future. "Getting a cochlear implant permanently damages your hearing," they contend. But if we believe that our God is all powerful, then how could we possibly believe a little thing like a cochlear implant will keep Him from healing us, if He so chooses. So why be miserable when I can hear now?

It's not the miracle they want. I understand. And it makes me wonder how many miracles I've not claimed because I was waiting for grander things...

Another Paradox

The sorting of human beings by similarities and differences is nothing new; it's been done throughout the history of man. But the "groups" feature of online chats and social clubs in our world today puts a new slant on classifying us by who we are or who we think we are. It fabricates and nurtures a familial brotherhood among those who have similar traits, thoughts, beliefs, and experiences; and it can lull us into a false security of pseudo-friendships and well-being by connecting us with people we've never seen -- real people and characters created solely for online interactions. These groups easily sort us into groups of like-mindedness and make us think -- even believe -- that we are not alone. That we aren't quite as unique or different as we may have thought before. It "normalizes" us into a comfortable status quo.

This can be good -- when one finds help and support for problems and difficulties, and confirms in our minds that because others have experienced similar problems and found their way through, we can too. It can be bad when the group enables less-desirable behaviors and thought patterns. Both are virtual worlds where truths and lies are hard to distinguish.

I have participated in both. And I have rued the positive and negative consequences of both.

Truth be told -- until I joined some Facebook groups, I didn't even know a single soul who had hearing loss, or even wore hearing aids. And since that time, I've only met two people outside of the Facebook connection who do -- both colleagues of mine. I thought there'd be more.

And outside of my Facebook groups, I haven't met anyone with a cochlear implant. Indeed, my school district's audiologist told me I'm the only teacher they've ever had in the district with one, and only a handful of students have had them.

According to the National Institutes of Health (NIH), approximately 35 million Americans have some degree of hearing loss. That's 1 in 8 people! But for reasons unknown, less than a third of those people seek help. Among adults aged 70 and older with hearing loss who could benefit from hearing aids, fewer than one in three (30 percent) has ever used them. Even fewer adults aged 20 to 69 (approximately 16 percent) who could benefit from wearing hearing aids have ever used them. The "ear-bud generation" is expected to increase those numbers exponentially, as the NIH estimates that approximately 15 percent of Americans (26 million people) between the ages of 20 and 69 have high frequency hearing loss due to exposure to noise at work or during leisure activities. (It's a freaking epidemic!)

What astonished me even more is that there are fewer than 325,000 cochlear implant recipients worldwide, with fewer than 100,000 of those living here in the United States.

I thought there'd be more.

It's that false world of Facebook-social-media-groups thing. Logging on to my Facebook account and perusing my cochlear implant and hearing loss groups changed my perception of reality. It only made me think there are a lot of us around. The truth is: we are few and far between. We've simply found our way to a social media group that has connected us with others who are like us: sorting us together by our unique experiences. And it makes us perceive that there are many more. Together we find comfort, encouragement, information, and comradery. And together, we don't feel so alone, even when we are.

It is a paradox.

http://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/statistics/Pages/quick.aspx

Laughing Out Loud

Hi. My name is Bonnie. And I have hearing loss.

The words that so easily roll off my fingertips and onto my computer screen aren't so easily said. At least not said without making an excuse or apologizing for an ineptness that I too often perceive in myself as a result of my hearing loss.

I have hearing loss. Not just a little bit, either. Without my hearing devices, I am virtually deaf. I can barely hear a thing. And with them, I am hard-of-hearing. As good as I think I am at context and filling-in-the-blanks of words I miss in an average conversation, I make a lot of mistakes:

"No, thank you," I say to the waiter who just asked me a question. I'm assuming he asked if I needed a refill. "Mom," my daughter says, "he asked if everything tastes ok." And we laugh out loud. But inside, I'm cringing.

It's been just over two years since I was thrust into an unfamiliar world of muffled voices and muted sound. Admitting that I am deaf is the easy part. Saying it to others -- not so much.

And when I finally do utter those words, it's often said with an apology for asking someone to repeat themselves for the umpteeth time or for a misunderstanding in a conversation or for asking for something I need to help me hear better.

Why is it such an embarrassment? I think about it a lot.

I think my hesitance comes from the stigma that hearing loss carries in our society. Hearing loss is often associated with old age. With helplessness. With ineptitude. Hearing loss jokes abound. Even greeting cards make light of old-timers who can't hear their friends and spouses. They evoke a lot of laughs. And the laughs are usually at the expense of those who, like me, cannot hear.

Truth is -- it's not funny at all. Hearing loss is an invisible disability that affects more people than admit it. If they would admit it, they would know how serious it is. And maybe the conversation about hearing loss can proceed without disparaging jokes, self-deprecating remarks, and age-old stereotypes that need disposed of.

Hearing loss isn't funny. Neither is asthma or diabetes or stroke. Where are the jokes about those?

Indeed.

(Thanks to Gael Hannan for the inspiration for this post.)

New and Improved

Today is my 4th day with the new SCAN (scene classifier function) software from Cochlear. The new program is adaptive, and it responds to my listening environment by scanning for voices and changing the program automatically for different environments, providing me with the best listening program instantly. Under the old program, I had to change to different settings myself. This meant having to carry my remote assistant with me everywhere I went. It was cumbersome, I thought. The SCAN does the work for me and faster than me.

I must say that it has made a remarkable difference in the quality of my hearing already. My audiologist downloaded the new software into my N6 processor on Thursday with a warning that it would probably take me a couple of weeks to get used to it. "Some of my patients who've had the old software really hate SCAN," she said, "so I'm going to leave your old map on the #2 setting of your remote in case you want to go back to it. But really try hard not to go back until you give it a couple of weeks."

It didn't take me long to realize the automatic scan program is exactly what I want in my CI. The most noticeable difference is the muting of background noise. My CI had a constant "gurgling" of background noises -- from my car engine, the motor on the refrigerator, the fan of the heater, or any other typical background noise that normal-hearing people can filter-- noises that inundated my ears with constant and often annoying sound that made it difficult for me to focus on things I really wanted to hear. In truth, it drove me nuts.

The new software also makes it possible for me to use wireless accessories to hear the phone and TV. I paired my CI with my husband's wireless accessories. His hearing aid company and Cochlear are partners, so the accessories he had are compatible with my CI. The phone clip was absolutely awful. I won't be using it again. But listening to TV is a little better now than before.

This new program is so quiet that I find myself touching the microphones to make sure the CI is still on. Yet voices come through with perfect volume. Out of curiosity, I switched to the old map for a few minutes to compare it with the new SCAN program. The gurgle was still there, and it was loud. I won't be going back to that program anymore. It didn't take me a couple of weeks to know that SCAN is going to be better.

I have to admit that I have found CI hearing to be less than stellar. I listen to the accolades of other recipients and wonder why I'm not as thrilled as they seem to be. Though I can hear a great deal more with the CI than without it, and I don't regret my decision to get one, I have never been truly appreciative of the quality of the sound that comes through. Practice and focused listening exercises have made little improvement in that quality. My audiologist says it's because I know what things are supposed to sound like because I can still hear with my hearing aid in my other ear. That constant comparison is a continual reminder of how different it is to hear through a CI. The CI is limited. And I'm a perfectionist.

I am new and improved. Like any piece of technology, updates and improvements to my CI are a part of my life now. I have hope that these improvements will make things better and easier for me to hear and function better. At the very least, maybe they will help me appreciate my CI more.

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.

Kismet

(Blogger's note: Please don't argue semantics with me -- I know that some people in the deaf and hard-of-hearing universe are offended by the terms "impaired" and "disability", but these terms are regularly used and acceptable in public schools to qualify students who do not hear normally and require assistive listening devices, such as hearing aids, to function in the regular education or special education classroom. So I will use those terms here in this post, as well. If you are one who is offended by the use of these terms, please don't read any further.)

During my first year of teaching, my school had a hearing-impaired, self-contained classroom with a few students whose residual hearing with a hearing aid enabled them to stay in a classroom that emphasized aural learning. I remember that the teacher of the HI room asked if two of her first grade girls could come to my classroom a few minutes each day to do enrichment activities with my first graders and practice their listening and speaking skills. They were delightful young ladies, and they told their teacher that they loved being in my room because I spoke so clearly and articulately. They could hear me, and they could lip-read me easily.

Other than that first year in my 24-year career, I haven't had any other students with any sort of hearing impairment or disability.

Then I lost my hearing.

Is it a random coincidence that this year I have a child with bilateral, severe-profound hearing loss with auditory neuropathy, a student with unilateral moderate hearing loss who will be getting a hearing aid next week, and a student with hyperacusis? All at once, and all in the same classroom?

Or is it a part of some strange, universal design that crossed these children's paths with mine?

I think I know.

Penny and Bear

Like most working Americans, this morning I woke early for work. My alarm sounded and I hit the snooze button, not once, but twice. I lumbered from my warm bed into the brisk coolness of my bedroom where I reached for the little Ziploc bag at my bedside and rewarded my morning wake-up alarm with a morsel of thanks. Not just one, but a second treat for the snooze. And then a third because I couldn't resist those four brown, begging eyes. Eyes that belong to my German Shepherds.

They wake me every workday. Without my hearing aids, I cannot hear my morning wake-up alarm.  So they hear for me. Their persistent howls are within hearing range of my better ear if I happen to be sleeping with that ear up. And their paws on the side of the bed wake me when it's not. (I also have a bed shaker as a back-up plan, but I seldom need it.)

They're not service dogs. But their service to me is invaluable.

Even with my hearing devices on, it can be very hard to hear. I am frequently startled by my husband and daughters when they come into the house. I can't hear the front door. And I can't hear the doorbell. Or knocks. Sometimes, there are sounds in the house that I can't identify.

Irrational fear creeps in. Especially when I'm alone.

Sudden deafness doesn't just affect what you hear -- or cannot hear. If rearranges your normal. What was becomes different. Confusing. Disorienting. And even frightening.

Having my dogs nearby relieves that anxiety. They're my security blanket, in a sense -- providing a quiet sense of security and wellness and comfort. And normalcy.


"Don't worry, human," they tell me with their eyes. "We've got your back."

They deserve another treat.

Time to get up, Human.