Yesterday, my first graders worked on an art project that took much longer to complete than I'd anticipated. They colored a page of patterns, then cut the pieces out and glued them to a paper sack to make a gingerbread house gift sack. It took over an hour just to color the page!
They meticulously used colored pencils and crayons to color the gumdrops and peppermint sticks, sugar candy windows and doors, and icing rooftops. They used scissors to carefully cut out the gingerbread people and candy cane trees, and then they creatively arranged and glued their pieces to their sacks.
I watched their expressions of determination and pride while they worked independently to create masterpieces that would delight themselves -- their smiles and nods and sweet expressions told me they enjoyed the task.
What I didn't anticipate was the quiet. The peaceful quiet that engulfed my room on a day when most classrooms are filled with the giddy anticipation of holiday parties and Winter Break. A day teachers have come to dread: classrooms filled with children overstimulated from holiday activities and sweets and the inevitable rowdy behavior that accompanies this day.
Instead, my classroom was filled with tranquil silence, only interrupted by an occasional cough or whisper of "Pass me the red". I relished that time. And I reflected.
My principal came by briefly, and after his initial surprise and raised eyebrows at finding a classroom where children were intently on task, he proceeded to "stir the pot" by exciting my students to tell him if they'd been naughty or nice. The silence was broken.
I thought it strange that he felt it necessary to distract my students and break the beautiful silence that we'd experienced for nearly an hour with what I thought was unnecessary silliness. But it reminded me that most people are uncomfortable with silence and think that it is merely a void that needs to be filled. We're accustomed to filling silence with idle chatter, music, TV, and other background noise. We somehow equate fun with noise and boredom with silence. Those perceptions are neither true nor appropriate.
I never realized how nice silence can be until I was forced to endure it when I lost my hearing. Being unable to hear made me come to peace with the quiet -- uneasy at first, but now I know how necessary it is. Not just for me. It is necessary for everyone. It brings calm and peace and important health benefits, as well. I admit that I look forward to taking my hearing devices off at night so I can turn the noisy world off.
In the silence of my classroom yesterday, my students experienced engagement, creativity, accomplishment, and pride. They didn't need conversation, background music, or other noisy-ness to fill a void because there was nothing to fill. Silence is not a void. It is not awkward. It is not weird. It is not uncomfortable.
It is beautiful, friends. Make peace with it.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Monday, November 21, 2016
Squirrels and Tails
Today I found a squirrel tail on the walking path at my school during my first graders' recess. It was just lying there in the middle of the path. The wind blowing through the fur made it look as though it was breathing. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd mistaken it for a muskrat or other small animal. So I kicked it with the toe of my shoe. Yep. A tail. A squirrel tail.
I used the walkie talkie teachers use when on the playground in case of an emergency to call the office. "Office?" I said. "This is Mrs. Stone on the playground. We need a clean-up on the playground. There's a squirrel tail on the walking path."
"A WHAT?" our office clerk inquired.
"A squirrel tail. On the path."
"Is it dead?!
"I'm assuming. It's just a tail," I answered. "I don't think a tail is living."
Several giggles ensued before the custodian was dispatched. I wouldn't want her job.
After it was disposed of, I circled the big toy and the monkey bars to make sure the rest of the poor creature's carcass wasn't lying within reach of my students. (Envisioning brave souls terrorizing fearful souls with it...) I assume the squirrel probably scampered away into a tree where it safely watched us scoop up its tail and throw it away.
The questions ensuing this unusual find included whether a squirrel could even live without it's tail (Yes, it can) or could it regrow another one (No, it can't). A simple Google search.
You see, there's a certain amount of resilience that living things possess in order to survive. Apparently, a squirrel may lose its tail as it escapes from a predator or gets caught in a trap and still survive. Though it has to adapt to life without a tail, like a chipmunk, per se, it can continue to function fairly normally as a tail-less squirrel, even if not by choice.
Resilience. The ability to adapt to life's tasks and continue in the face of adversity. Like losing your hearing. Or your tail.
We can learn a lot from a squirrel.
I used the walkie talkie teachers use when on the playground in case of an emergency to call the office. "Office?" I said. "This is Mrs. Stone on the playground. We need a clean-up on the playground. There's a squirrel tail on the walking path."
"A WHAT?" our office clerk inquired."A squirrel tail. On the path."
"Is it dead?!
"I'm assuming. It's just a tail," I answered. "I don't think a tail is living."
Several giggles ensued before the custodian was dispatched. I wouldn't want her job.
After it was disposed of, I circled the big toy and the monkey bars to make sure the rest of the poor creature's carcass wasn't lying within reach of my students. (Envisioning brave souls terrorizing fearful souls with it...) I assume the squirrel probably scampered away into a tree where it safely watched us scoop up its tail and throw it away.
The questions ensuing this unusual find included whether a squirrel could even live without it's tail (Yes, it can) or could it regrow another one (No, it can't). A simple Google search.
You see, there's a certain amount of resilience that living things possess in order to survive. Apparently, a squirrel may lose its tail as it escapes from a predator or gets caught in a trap and still survive. Though it has to adapt to life without a tail, like a chipmunk, per se, it can continue to function fairly normally as a tail-less squirrel, even if not by choice.
Resilience. The ability to adapt to life's tasks and continue in the face of adversity. Like losing your hearing. Or your tail.
We can learn a lot from a squirrel.
Friday, October 7, 2016
Revelation
There are so many things one never even thinks about until they are gone. Hearing loss seeps into every facet of your life. Places you didn't even know existed -- until your hearing loss reveals them.
A friend recently had her cochlear implant activated. She's in her 80's. Family and friends who encouraged her to get the implant worry that she will have a hard time adjusting to it. "She's 84, you know," they say. She lives alone and, like her family, she fears that being unable to hear has affected her independence, her safety, and her well-being.
I have written before of the irrational fear that creeps in when I am alone in my house. Being unable to hear a simple knock on the door or identify a strange, muffled sound can be unnerving --how opening a dishwasher while it is running or turning the key again when the car is already on or not knowing that your smoke alarm is chirping or that your alarm clock is buzzing or that you've accidentally left a radio on, answering questions wrongly, missing conversations, and telephone calls -- even walking "blissfully unaware" in a crowd of people who've repeatedly tried to excuse themselves to walk past you and consider you rude -- all of the things that have become embarrassingly routine for you because you cannot hear them anymore. I told her son-in-law to keep encouraging her as she enters this new phase of hearing -- mostly because I know how important hearing independence can be. And I know that even if she never perceives speech, she will most certainly perceive environmental sounds. And that alone will bring her relief.
"I never thought of it like that," a friend who was listening nearby remarked. "Like how just hearing all the things in your home can make you feel secure. But I can see that now. That's quite a revelation for me."
A revelation. Yes. Constant revelations -- constantly.
That's a perfect analogy of what living with hearing loss is like.
A friend recently had her cochlear implant activated. She's in her 80's. Family and friends who encouraged her to get the implant worry that she will have a hard time adjusting to it. "She's 84, you know," they say. She lives alone and, like her family, she fears that being unable to hear has affected her independence, her safety, and her well-being.
I have written before of the irrational fear that creeps in when I am alone in my house. Being unable to hear a simple knock on the door or identify a strange, muffled sound can be unnerving --how opening a dishwasher while it is running or turning the key again when the car is already on or not knowing that your smoke alarm is chirping or that your alarm clock is buzzing or that you've accidentally left a radio on, answering questions wrongly, missing conversations, and telephone calls -- even walking "blissfully unaware" in a crowd of people who've repeatedly tried to excuse themselves to walk past you and consider you rude -- all of the things that have become embarrassingly routine for you because you cannot hear them anymore. I told her son-in-law to keep encouraging her as she enters this new phase of hearing -- mostly because I know how important hearing independence can be. And I know that even if she never perceives speech, she will most certainly perceive environmental sounds. And that alone will bring her relief.
"I never thought of it like that," a friend who was listening nearby remarked. "Like how just hearing all the things in your home can make you feel secure. But I can see that now. That's quite a revelation for me."
A revelation. Yes. Constant revelations -- constantly.
That's a perfect analogy of what living with hearing loss is like.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Number Six
This week, I sat with my team and "rebalanced" our first grade classrooms from three to four. We have too many children in our three classrooms and a new teacher will be added next week. We were tasked with choosing six students from each of our classrooms to move to the new classroom.
I'm not going to lie. My hearing loss influenced my choices.
I immediately chose a boy whose "normal" volume is a scream. My hearing aids actually whistled every time he spoke. After countless shushes, he either isn't able or isn't willing to adjust his volume. That's one.
My second choice was a proverbial "low talker". No amount of prompting could get her to raise her volume. Even if I increased my hearing aid volume, her little voice escaped my perception. The frustration was great. For both of us. She had to go. Two.
My third and fourth choices included a heavy accent and baby-speech. Hearing loss affects one's comprehension. Poor articulation and accents diminish my understanding of speech even more... Three and four.
Number five is the student who interrupts every other student every single time. Repeated requests for him to stop blurting over other students have been ignored. I need to be able to hear the students I call on -- one at a time. Five.
Six... number six is just a kid. A regular first grader. One I just had to choose to balance the other class.
I wish all of my choices could've been like six.
I'm not going to lie. My hearing loss influenced my choices.
I immediately chose a boy whose "normal" volume is a scream. My hearing aids actually whistled every time he spoke. After countless shushes, he either isn't able or isn't willing to adjust his volume. That's one.
My second choice was a proverbial "low talker". No amount of prompting could get her to raise her volume. Even if I increased my hearing aid volume, her little voice escaped my perception. The frustration was great. For both of us. She had to go. Two.
My third and fourth choices included a heavy accent and baby-speech. Hearing loss affects one's comprehension. Poor articulation and accents diminish my understanding of speech even more... Three and four.
Number five is the student who interrupts every other student every single time. Repeated requests for him to stop blurting over other students have been ignored. I need to be able to hear the students I call on -- one at a time. Five.
Six... number six is just a kid. A regular first grader. One I just had to choose to balance the other class.
I wish all of my choices could've been like six.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
I Just Couldn't Listen Anymore
Recently, I attended a two-day teacher institute put on by my school district. It was a huge affair for all of the teachers and staff in our large district -- about 3000+ participants strong. It was held in our city's convention center -- large rooms and partitioned off exhibition halls with high ceilings, concrete floors, lots of hard, bare surfaces, and crowded with participants.
On the first day, we were divided into large groups of several hundred and placed in these makeshift meeting rooms where a speaker stood at the front of the room with a wireless microphone that fed his voice into two free-standing speakers on either side of a curtained-off stage that cut an even larger room in half. Participants sat around tables. The tables were large and round, seating 10. There were 25 to 30 tables in our room. My school was placed near the back of the room where open doors and foot traffic to the bathrooms (and concession stand) offered up continual distraction. The day's agenda consisted of a lecture followed by table discussions.
The first thing I noticed about the meeting room arrangement was the noise. The rooms were loud, cold, and uncomfortable. The reverberating echo of the speaker's voice against the hard surfaces of the room was distracting and difficult to understand, and the side conversations of the participants flowed into my hearing devices as readily as his. I fidgeted with many setting combinations of both my CI and hearing aid to see if I could reduce the reverberation and concentrate better on what the speaker was saying. It was impossible. My hearing colleagues were also complaining of the garbled reverberation, so I knew the problem didn't lie in my own deficient hearing.
The sound challenges went from bad to worse when all 300+ participants were instructed to discuss something from the material - en masse. And then, the speaker played music while we talked so we would know to stop our discussion when the music stopped! WHAAAAAAT?!!!! I couldn't even hear the person beside me, let alone the person across the table from me. I had a massive headache before lunch even began.
Day 2 wasn't much better. Though the venue had changed, I was still sorted into a large auditorium, seated at a large round table along with 200 or so of my colleagues, and forced to endure a 2nd day of inadequate amplification and hearing hell.
I confess, that after working hard to hear and understand for the first hour or two of each day, I succumbed to disinterest and inattention, as did many of my hearing colleagues. It was simply too hard to hear, let alone comprehend. There was too much sound and too much distraction.
I complained to a district administrator, who seemed genuinely concerned about the sound problem. "We didn't even think about how it would sound in here," she said, and she promised that "next year" it would be better. But there was nothing she could do to help this year.
I suppose what we should consider here comes from within our own human nature. When our efforts aren't rewarded with success, we have a tendency to give up. We stop trying when the situation seems useless and our efforts are futile. Listening conditions are important in any meeting, and in our classrooms. Being aware of how sound affects learning is paramount. And we must be conscientious of how that sound affects what we hear, comprehend, and learn. When one has to work too hard at hearing, then listening becomes a problem.
No matter how hard I tried to attend to the meetings, the conditions I was forced to listen in made my efforts worthless. Listening became so hard and so exhausting that I simply quit trying to hear. I just couldn't listen anymore.
There are so many things about hearing that I took for granted before I lost mine. The ability to filter noise and focus on hearing what I want to hear is one of them. I do miss those days. *Sigh*
On the first day, we were divided into large groups of several hundred and placed in these makeshift meeting rooms where a speaker stood at the front of the room with a wireless microphone that fed his voice into two free-standing speakers on either side of a curtained-off stage that cut an even larger room in half. Participants sat around tables. The tables were large and round, seating 10. There were 25 to 30 tables in our room. My school was placed near the back of the room where open doors and foot traffic to the bathrooms (and concession stand) offered up continual distraction. The day's agenda consisted of a lecture followed by table discussions.
The first thing I noticed about the meeting room arrangement was the noise. The rooms were loud, cold, and uncomfortable. The reverberating echo of the speaker's voice against the hard surfaces of the room was distracting and difficult to understand, and the side conversations of the participants flowed into my hearing devices as readily as his. I fidgeted with many setting combinations of both my CI and hearing aid to see if I could reduce the reverberation and concentrate better on what the speaker was saying. It was impossible. My hearing colleagues were also complaining of the garbled reverberation, so I knew the problem didn't lie in my own deficient hearing.
The sound challenges went from bad to worse when all 300+ participants were instructed to discuss something from the material - en masse. And then, the speaker played music while we talked so we would know to stop our discussion when the music stopped! WHAAAAAAT?!!!! I couldn't even hear the person beside me, let alone the person across the table from me. I had a massive headache before lunch even began.
Day 2 wasn't much better. Though the venue had changed, I was still sorted into a large auditorium, seated at a large round table along with 200 or so of my colleagues, and forced to endure a 2nd day of inadequate amplification and hearing hell.
I confess, that after working hard to hear and understand for the first hour or two of each day, I succumbed to disinterest and inattention, as did many of my hearing colleagues. It was simply too hard to hear, let alone comprehend. There was too much sound and too much distraction.
I complained to a district administrator, who seemed genuinely concerned about the sound problem. "We didn't even think about how it would sound in here," she said, and she promised that "next year" it would be better. But there was nothing she could do to help this year.
I suppose what we should consider here comes from within our own human nature. When our efforts aren't rewarded with success, we have a tendency to give up. We stop trying when the situation seems useless and our efforts are futile. Listening conditions are important in any meeting, and in our classrooms. Being aware of how sound affects learning is paramount. And we must be conscientious of how that sound affects what we hear, comprehend, and learn. When one has to work too hard at hearing, then listening becomes a problem.
No matter how hard I tried to attend to the meetings, the conditions I was forced to listen in made my efforts worthless. Listening became so hard and so exhausting that I simply quit trying to hear. I just couldn't listen anymore.
There are so many things about hearing that I took for granted before I lost mine. The ability to filter noise and focus on hearing what I want to hear is one of them. I do miss those days. *Sigh*
Sunday, August 14, 2016
There Are Grapes
Here it is again. August 14th. A day that will live in infamy. At least for me. The day I lost my hearing. The day that set my life course towards hearing aids, audiograms, batteries, and cochlear implants...
I spent the better part of this dreaded day in my nightgown watching TV. "Buying Hawaii" to be exact, with a bit of Olympic volleyball in between, wondering and speculating how I might be able to afford retirement in the isles, but knowing I'll probably opt for something much more affordable on my teacher's retirement. I only showered to relieve the stiffness in my side and shoulder from a random fall in a parking lot yesterday. And once I was dressed, I talked my hearing husband into accompanying me to the grocery store.
I bought grapes.
I don't know when or how grapes became a comfort food. Maybe it's my unhealthy subconscious yearning for a few glasses of Sangria, but opting for grapes instead. I don't know, but I've come close to finishing the whole bunch today.
It's been four years. I wonder if there will come a time when this day will arrive unnoticed. Unmarked. Just another day on the calendar. Maybe. Someday.
Until then, though, there are grapes.
I spent the better part of this dreaded day in my nightgown watching TV. "Buying Hawaii" to be exact, with a bit of Olympic volleyball in between, wondering and speculating how I might be able to afford retirement in the isles, but knowing I'll probably opt for something much more affordable on my teacher's retirement. I only showered to relieve the stiffness in my side and shoulder from a random fall in a parking lot yesterday. And once I was dressed, I talked my hearing husband into accompanying me to the grocery store.
I bought grapes.
I don't know when or how grapes became a comfort food. Maybe it's my unhealthy subconscious yearning for a few glasses of Sangria, but opting for grapes instead. I don't know, but I've come close to finishing the whole bunch today.
It's been four years. I wonder if there will come a time when this day will arrive unnoticed. Unmarked. Just another day on the calendar. Maybe. Someday.
Until then, though, there are grapes.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
On Being Deaf and Dependent
I've been very busy this summer traveling here and there. It's not always a smooth road -- being deaf and hard of hearing (HOH) and dependent on other people for help. There are challenges you don't even think of.
Airport terminals and airplanes, loudspeakers and intercoms, piped-in music, restaurants and coffee shops, passengers talking, babies crying, bags a-rollin' -- all coupled with an unfamiliar environment. Its a veritable orgy of noise. And every single part of that revelry inundates my hearing devices with a garbled cacophony of mangled sound that nearly works me into a confusing state of anxiety. Turning my hearing aids off isn't an option. I need to hear what's going on.
As the spouse of an airline employee, I fly on the standby list, and I must listen for announcements of gate or departure changes amid the noise. And I must be able to hear when my name is called to pick up my boarding pass. As a standby passenger, I am not supposed to ask for special accommodations or services reserved for paying passengers. So I must fend for myself when I travel alone. It's no easy task. I worry that I'll miss my open flight and that catching another may be impossible. My husband keeps a close eye on my travel progress from his computer at work and texts me information, usually before I know myself. It alleviates a lot of the stress.
And boarding the plane doesn't mean the challenges end. After boarding, I am frequently engaged in conversation by the person seated next to me. Most of the time, I just nod and smile. The roar of the engines and the popping of my ears make listening and understanding my chatty neighbor very difficult. I've resorted to carrying my newest novel in my hands and sticking my nose in it as soon as I can to discourage conversation. Some of the time, the safety announcements are captioned videos. That's always good. But more often than not, I only hear them over the speaker, and they're not very clear. Luckily, I've flown enough that I could probably recite the safety announcements myself, but I've yet to understand what the captain says in his announcements.
On a recent trip, I think the flight attendant attentively noticed my CI processor and, without asking or drawing attention to it, made certain that she was bent towards me before asking if I'd like pretzels or cookies. I appreciated her effort. I wondered if she'd received a special training on speaking to HOHs or if I reminded her of her dear old granny. It doesn't matter. She was wonderful.
In truth, I can't really do it by myself. I'm pretty dependent on the actions and habits of other people to hear and understand what is happening around me. Like the flight attendant who took an extra minute to bend forward and speak directly to me. Maybe it was because she knew intuitively that I needed a little extra help. Because treating me with dignity and respect was important to her -- and to me.
Airport terminals and airplanes, loudspeakers and intercoms, piped-in music, restaurants and coffee shops, passengers talking, babies crying, bags a-rollin' -- all coupled with an unfamiliar environment. Its a veritable orgy of noise. And every single part of that revelry inundates my hearing devices with a garbled cacophony of mangled sound that nearly works me into a confusing state of anxiety. Turning my hearing aids off isn't an option. I need to hear what's going on.
As the spouse of an airline employee, I fly on the standby list, and I must listen for announcements of gate or departure changes amid the noise. And I must be able to hear when my name is called to pick up my boarding pass. As a standby passenger, I am not supposed to ask for special accommodations or services reserved for paying passengers. So I must fend for myself when I travel alone. It's no easy task. I worry that I'll miss my open flight and that catching another may be impossible. My husband keeps a close eye on my travel progress from his computer at work and texts me information, usually before I know myself. It alleviates a lot of the stress.
And boarding the plane doesn't mean the challenges end. After boarding, I am frequently engaged in conversation by the person seated next to me. Most of the time, I just nod and smile. The roar of the engines and the popping of my ears make listening and understanding my chatty neighbor very difficult. I've resorted to carrying my newest novel in my hands and sticking my nose in it as soon as I can to discourage conversation. Some of the time, the safety announcements are captioned videos. That's always good. But more often than not, I only hear them over the speaker, and they're not very clear. Luckily, I've flown enough that I could probably recite the safety announcements myself, but I've yet to understand what the captain says in his announcements.
On a recent trip, I think the flight attendant attentively noticed my CI processor and, without asking or drawing attention to it, made certain that she was bent towards me before asking if I'd like pretzels or cookies. I appreciated her effort. I wondered if she'd received a special training on speaking to HOHs or if I reminded her of her dear old granny. It doesn't matter. She was wonderful.
In truth, I can't really do it by myself. I'm pretty dependent on the actions and habits of other people to hear and understand what is happening around me. Like the flight attendant who took an extra minute to bend forward and speak directly to me. Maybe it was because she knew intuitively that I needed a little extra help. Because treating me with dignity and respect was important to her -- and to me.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Rainy Days and Mondays...
There's something about the quietness of a spring rain shower that moves one to introspect. The steady pittering of raindrops through the trees, dropping solemnly from the patio eaves --and the morning stillness of nature and mankind sheltering and awaiting the passing of the rain. It is a respite from the busyness of the world we've created for ourselves and lends us a a time of peaceful reflection and appreciation for things we love.
There are baby robins in my crape myrtle trees this year. Two nests full, to be exact. Even in the rain, the mama robins are chittering about from tree to grass to snatch the worms and bugs seeking refuge from their flooded dens in the ground. This morning is a treat for her, as well as me. A mourning dove croons from somewhere high above in the cover of my towering oak trees --waiting for the rain to stop. She has no chicks to feed. Rain is for rejuvenating.
I am a gardener by nature. I love the feel and the smell of the earth - especially on days like this. There are still flowers to be planted, but they will wait this morning. The fruits of my labor revel in this day. My garden is lush and fragrant. It beckons me to stroll through it. Rain is for refreshing.
My two German Shepherds have joined me on the patio, lazily watching over their domain. They like when I sit here with them -- lying near my feet and enjoying a scratch or two. When the coolness chases me inside for a sweater and a blanket, they hardly move. An occasional cottontail peeks its nose from under the shed, wondering if the dogs will make chase. They are safe this morning, I am sure. Rain is for resting.
This being the first Monday of a teacher's summer vacation, I'd planned nothing for the day, aside from the piles of laundry, dishes, dust, and clutter accumulated through the school year when a tired spirit and body kept me from attending to them. It's akin to treading water. Teachers understand. Others can't really know how necessary these long breaks are to us. Rain is for renewing. Spirit and body and soul.
There are baby robins in my crape myrtle trees this year. Two nests full, to be exact. Even in the rain, the mama robins are chittering about from tree to grass to snatch the worms and bugs seeking refuge from their flooded dens in the ground. This morning is a treat for her, as well as me. A mourning dove croons from somewhere high above in the cover of my towering oak trees --waiting for the rain to stop. She has no chicks to feed. Rain is for rejuvenating.
I am a gardener by nature. I love the feel and the smell of the earth - especially on days like this. There are still flowers to be planted, but they will wait this morning. The fruits of my labor revel in this day. My garden is lush and fragrant. It beckons me to stroll through it. Rain is for refreshing.
My two German Shepherds have joined me on the patio, lazily watching over their domain. They like when I sit here with them -- lying near my feet and enjoying a scratch or two. When the coolness chases me inside for a sweater and a blanket, they hardly move. An occasional cottontail peeks its nose from under the shed, wondering if the dogs will make chase. They are safe this morning, I am sure. Rain is for resting.
This being the first Monday of a teacher's summer vacation, I'd planned nothing for the day, aside from the piles of laundry, dishes, dust, and clutter accumulated through the school year when a tired spirit and body kept me from attending to them. It's akin to treading water. Teachers understand. Others can't really know how necessary these long breaks are to us. Rain is for renewing. Spirit and body and soul.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Batteries, Part (I Lost Count)
My name is Bonnie, and I am battery operated.
I confess. I obsess about batteries. From the button batteries that power my digital hearing aid to the rechargeable batteries in my cochlear implant processor and accessories -- I have a lot of batteries.
Anyone visiting my home or classroom will find batteries in abundance. Full and partially used packs stashed in drawers, in my coin purse and glove compartment, on end tables, coffee tables, bedside tables, kitchen cabinets... Used batteries in mason jars awaiting a trip to the recycling center, and one little, used button lying on the bathroom cabinet -- changed quickly before I headed off to school one morning with full intentions of putting it in the recycling jar later that evening, only to push it aside from place to place as I readied myself the next day. And week. I think it's still there.
My fear of running out of them in the event of a natural disaster or zombie apocalypse precludes my attempts to pass the battery section of my local supermarket without stopping to pick up another pack just in case. I once gathered the partial packs and consolidated them into one. When I found that I had less than a half dozen, I immediately went to purchase another 3-pack of 18 batteries. Never mind that, with my new hearing aid, one battery lasts a full week -- I can't fathom running out and being rendered hearingless!
And it's not just those little button batteries that drive my obsession. It's those rechargables, too. Though I can use button batteries for my cochlear implant processor if necessary, the rechargeables are far more convenient because their life span is more predictable than the disposables. I have 2 rechargeable batteries, and one is always charging while the other is being used. I typically get 14-16 hours of use on a single charge.
My accessories -- the handy-dandy remote and mini-mic -- require a recharge at least once a week. Sometimes I forget to charge them can-you-believe-it?. I've found myself in need of adjusting my cochlear implant settings and finding the "low battery" warning flashing on my remote. The buttons on the processor are limited -- changing programs and turning it on and off only -- so I rely on the remote to change volume. Once, I'd turned my volume down to 3 during an especially loud school assembly and wasn't able to turn it back up because the remote battery was drained. I had to spend the remainder of the day at the lower volume until I could recharge it that night at home. (I didn't typically take the power cord to school. Now I keep an extra charging cord in my car!)
I am sorely dependent on batteries. They're my lifeline to hearing and communication normalcy in my deaf life. I've joked with my husband that in the event of a societal failure in this world, our first order of business would be to loot as many batteries from stores as possible. While everyone else was grabbing digital TVs and electronics, we would be grabbing batteries! In this order: hearing aid batteries, bottled water, food, medication, and gasoline. That's the plan.
I'm not kidding.
I confess. I obsess about batteries. From the button batteries that power my digital hearing aid to the rechargeable batteries in my cochlear implant processor and accessories -- I have a lot of batteries.
Anyone visiting my home or classroom will find batteries in abundance. Full and partially used packs stashed in drawers, in my coin purse and glove compartment, on end tables, coffee tables, bedside tables, kitchen cabinets... Used batteries in mason jars awaiting a trip to the recycling center, and one little, used button lying on the bathroom cabinet -- changed quickly before I headed off to school one morning with full intentions of putting it in the recycling jar later that evening, only to push it aside from place to place as I readied myself the next day. And week. I think it's still there.
My fear of running out of them in the event of a natural disaster or zombie apocalypse precludes my attempts to pass the battery section of my local supermarket without stopping to pick up another pack just in case. I once gathered the partial packs and consolidated them into one. When I found that I had less than a half dozen, I immediately went to purchase another 3-pack of 18 batteries. Never mind that, with my new hearing aid, one battery lasts a full week -- I can't fathom running out and being rendered hearingless!
And it's not just those little button batteries that drive my obsession. It's those rechargables, too. Though I can use button batteries for my cochlear implant processor if necessary, the rechargeables are far more convenient because their life span is more predictable than the disposables. I have 2 rechargeable batteries, and one is always charging while the other is being used. I typically get 14-16 hours of use on a single charge.
My accessories -- the handy-dandy remote and mini-mic -- require a recharge at least once a week. Sometimes I forget to charge them can-you-believe-it?. I've found myself in need of adjusting my cochlear implant settings and finding the "low battery" warning flashing on my remote. The buttons on the processor are limited -- changing programs and turning it on and off only -- so I rely on the remote to change volume. Once, I'd turned my volume down to 3 during an especially loud school assembly and wasn't able to turn it back up because the remote battery was drained. I had to spend the remainder of the day at the lower volume until I could recharge it that night at home. (I didn't typically take the power cord to school. Now I keep an extra charging cord in my car!)
I am sorely dependent on batteries. They're my lifeline to hearing and communication normalcy in my deaf life. I've joked with my husband that in the event of a societal failure in this world, our first order of business would be to loot as many batteries from stores as possible. While everyone else was grabbing digital TVs and electronics, we would be grabbing batteries! In this order: hearing aid batteries, bottled water, food, medication, and gasoline. That's the plan.
I'm not kidding.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Once Upon a Time...
I recently returned from the Oklahoma Education Association Delegate Assembly. It's an annual meeting where delegates chosen from local associations meet to conduct business and decide the direction of the association for the following year.
I submitted 2 new business items to the delegates for consideration:
Both are subjects I have grown passionate about since losing my own hearing. My advocacy for students with hearing loss has now grown beyond my own little school into the greater realm of my association. At the very least, 261 delegates have heard my story about the little boy with profound hearing loss who'd been misdiagnosed with a learning disability until he became my student...and they will carry those words -- consciously or subconsciously -- with them forever. They will affect changes in their teaching. And they will affect changes in their schools and in their profession.
The glorious and storybook ending to the day is that our association's vice president wants to take my 2nd motion to the National Education Association as a new business item when the national delegation convenes in July of this year.
Maybe it's not a storybook ending, after all. Maybe it's just the beginning ---
Once upon a time, there was a teacher with hearing loss who met a little boy...
(You can read more about my student in this blog under the October, 2014 posts "Seeing" https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2014/10/seeing.html and "Seeing: An Addendum". https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2014/10/seeing-addendum.html A follow up post, "Monday" https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2015/02/monday.html is found in February, 2015.)
I submitted 2 new business items to the delegates for consideration:
Both passed unanimously.Motion:
I move that OEA, through existing publications, share current information and research about hearing health with members to raise awareness about noise decibels in the classroom and ways to make classrooms and schools more hearing friendly.
Rationale: Current research has shown that due to the immature neurological development of children, the level of ambient noise, and reverberated sound in the classroom, children only hear about 70 – 75% of all that the teacher says. By raising awareness about how noise decibels affect student learning and hearing health, teachers can make their classrooms more hearing friendly – raising student achievement and protecting the hearing of children and adults in schools.
Maker: Bonnie Stone, Tulsa Metro A/B
Second: Suzette Hightower, Tulsa Metro A/B
Motion:
I move that OEA, through existing publications, share current information and research about how to recognize symptoms of hearing loss in students.
Rationale: In Oklahoma public schools, students only receive a hearing assessment if the parent grants permission. Unlike vision difficulties, hearing loss manifests itself in ways that are not easily visible or recognized by educators. Hearing loss is often misinterpreted as loss of focus, ADD, poor listening, and/or learning disability. By raising awareness of the symptoms of hearing loss in our students, teachers can more readily be able to advocate for student needs.
Maker: Bonnie Stone, Tulsa Metro A/B
Second: Suzette Hightower, Tulsa Metro A/B
Both are subjects I have grown passionate about since losing my own hearing. My advocacy for students with hearing loss has now grown beyond my own little school into the greater realm of my association. At the very least, 261 delegates have heard my story about the little boy with profound hearing loss who'd been misdiagnosed with a learning disability until he became my student...and they will carry those words -- consciously or subconsciously -- with them forever. They will affect changes in their teaching. And they will affect changes in their schools and in their profession.
The glorious and storybook ending to the day is that our association's vice president wants to take my 2nd motion to the National Education Association as a new business item when the national delegation convenes in July of this year.
Maybe it's not a storybook ending, after all. Maybe it's just the beginning ---
Once upon a time, there was a teacher with hearing loss who met a little boy...
(You can read more about my student in this blog under the October, 2014 posts "Seeing" https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2014/10/seeing.html and "Seeing: An Addendum". https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2014/10/seeing-addendum.html A follow up post, "Monday" https://bonniestone.blogspot.com/2015/02/monday.html is found in February, 2015.)
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Dangerous Decibels
This afternoon, one of my first grade students returned to my room after running an errand to another classroom in my school. She innocently replied, "That room was so loud, Mrs. Stone. It hurt my ears." She punctuated her story by covering her ears with her hands.
Since losing my hearing three and a half years ago, I've become acutely aware of how important it is to reduce the noise decibels in my classroom, not only to reduce the noise that interferes with my hearing devices, but also to protect the hearing of the students who spend 5 hours a day in close quarters while I teach them.
If only this were true of all teachers.
The reality is that classrooms are dangerously loud places for children to spend so much time. Research has shown that typical classroom noise levels exceed 70 dB. To put that into perspective, your vacuum cleaner is about 70 dB, as is city traffic. Studies have also shown that children, because of their neurological immaturity, are inefficient listeners, and thus need optimal sound conditions to listen and understand. Ambient noise is detrimental to listening and learning. According to School Planning and Management, students in today’s classrooms are unable to understand approximately 25 to 30 percent of what their teacher says because of excessive noise and sound reverberation in the classroom.
There are many problems that work against ideal listening conditions in our classrooms. Schools buildings are old. Acoustics are poor. Classrooms are crowded. Many teachers use voice amplification systems. Students spend increasing amounts of times in front of computer screens with headphones that pummel their ears with concentrated sound. Teachers are unaware of decibel levels in their classroom. Children aren't taught to use appropriate voice volume -- often even encouraged by the adults around them to yell at deafening levels -- "I think you can do better than that! Let me heeeeeaaaaarrrr you!" And the ensuing screams leave children grimacing in pain and covering their ears.
Unfortunately, when children and the adults who teach them are repeatedly exposed to these levels of sound, they are subjecting the delicate hearing cells in the inner ear to irreparable damage, usually unaware that they are doing so. It isn't known at what point that hearing loss may actually occur in the damaged cells. It could be a cumulative effect of repeated exposure to excessive decibels. It could be instantaneous.
The point is -- as caretakers of children, shouldn't we be caring more for their hearing health than we are? We certainly take many precautions to keep them safe and healthy throughout the day, yet we continue to expose them to dangerous hearing decibels.
As one who has lost her hearing, I realize how precious it is. And I am committed to protecting and teaching my students about dangerous decibels. And if you read this blog, you know, too.
We should be doing better.
Since losing my hearing three and a half years ago, I've become acutely aware of how important it is to reduce the noise decibels in my classroom, not only to reduce the noise that interferes with my hearing devices, but also to protect the hearing of the students who spend 5 hours a day in close quarters while I teach them.
If only this were true of all teachers.
The reality is that classrooms are dangerously loud places for children to spend so much time. Research has shown that typical classroom noise levels exceed 70 dB. To put that into perspective, your vacuum cleaner is about 70 dB, as is city traffic. Studies have also shown that children, because of their neurological immaturity, are inefficient listeners, and thus need optimal sound conditions to listen and understand. Ambient noise is detrimental to listening and learning. According to School Planning and Management, students in today’s classrooms are unable to understand approximately 25 to 30 percent of what their teacher says because of excessive noise and sound reverberation in the classroom.
There are many problems that work against ideal listening conditions in our classrooms. Schools buildings are old. Acoustics are poor. Classrooms are crowded. Many teachers use voice amplification systems. Students spend increasing amounts of times in front of computer screens with headphones that pummel their ears with concentrated sound. Teachers are unaware of decibel levels in their classroom. Children aren't taught to use appropriate voice volume -- often even encouraged by the adults around them to yell at deafening levels -- "I think you can do better than that! Let me heeeeeaaaaarrrr you!" And the ensuing screams leave children grimacing in pain and covering their ears.
Unfortunately, when children and the adults who teach them are repeatedly exposed to these levels of sound, they are subjecting the delicate hearing cells in the inner ear to irreparable damage, usually unaware that they are doing so. It isn't known at what point that hearing loss may actually occur in the damaged cells. It could be a cumulative effect of repeated exposure to excessive decibels. It could be instantaneous.
The point is -- as caretakers of children, shouldn't we be caring more for their hearing health than we are? We certainly take many precautions to keep them safe and healthy throughout the day, yet we continue to expose them to dangerous hearing decibels.
As one who has lost her hearing, I realize how precious it is. And I am committed to protecting and teaching my students about dangerous decibels. And if you read this blog, you know, too.
We should be doing better.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Discreet
Discreet: (adjective) not likely to be seen or noticed by others; careful not to cause embarrassment or attract attention to.
This morning I read several blogs on hearing loss sites. The articles were a fair and basic overview of hearing loss and its impact on individuals who've experienced hearing loss, both the physical and emotional problems that may ensue when one loses their hearing.
The problem I had with all of the articles was the reference to the newer hearing aids that provide users with a "discreet" solution for their hearing loss -- as if they should be something that is kept hidden and, God forbid, discussed openly with others.
My problem is with the continual use of the word discreet.
In a society where hearing loss is reaching epidemic proportions, why should we be concerned with being discreet about our hearing losses and the devices that make it possible for us to hear again -- as if our hearing loss and our hearing aids should be regarded as an embarrassment, a personal failure, a family secret?
According to the National Institute on Deafness, a whopping 15% of Americans aged 18 or older have a hearing loss and approximately 9% of adults between the ages of 55 and 64 have a disabling hearing loss. That's about 1 in every 10 adults -- and the numbers continue to grow each year! It's time we bring it out into the open.
I am not sure why hearing loss and hearing aid use has been relegated to the quiet whispers of the back room with other health afflictions like bladder control, erectile dysfunction, or sexually-transmitted diseases. No one seems dissuaded to hide their failing eyesight by wearing discreet eyeglasses. Nor are they inundated with a barrage of insensitive or uneducated remarks about their eyesight. "Oh, I see you have eyeglasses! They're so big. Couldn't you have gotten more discreet ones? Can you still work? Can you still drive? Can you see me now?"
Indeed, it is ridiculous to think that our eyeglasses should be unnoticeable or inconspicuous -- as is our preoccupation with keeping hearing loss discreet.
Hearing loss is no joke. Nor is it an embarrassment. I hope that those who read this blog will know and understand and spread awareness about something that should not be discreet.
My name is Bonnie. I have profound hearing loss. And I wear hearing aids. Proudly.
This morning I read several blogs on hearing loss sites. The articles were a fair and basic overview of hearing loss and its impact on individuals who've experienced hearing loss, both the physical and emotional problems that may ensue when one loses their hearing.
The problem I had with all of the articles was the reference to the newer hearing aids that provide users with a "discreet" solution for their hearing loss -- as if they should be something that is kept hidden and, God forbid, discussed openly with others.
My problem is with the continual use of the word discreet.
In a society where hearing loss is reaching epidemic proportions, why should we be concerned with being discreet about our hearing losses and the devices that make it possible for us to hear again -- as if our hearing loss and our hearing aids should be regarded as an embarrassment, a personal failure, a family secret?
According to the National Institute on Deafness, a whopping 15% of Americans aged 18 or older have a hearing loss and approximately 9% of adults between the ages of 55 and 64 have a disabling hearing loss. That's about 1 in every 10 adults -- and the numbers continue to grow each year! It's time we bring it out into the open.
I am not sure why hearing loss and hearing aid use has been relegated to the quiet whispers of the back room with other health afflictions like bladder control, erectile dysfunction, or sexually-transmitted diseases. No one seems dissuaded to hide their failing eyesight by wearing discreet eyeglasses. Nor are they inundated with a barrage of insensitive or uneducated remarks about their eyesight. "Oh, I see you have eyeglasses! They're so big. Couldn't you have gotten more discreet ones? Can you still work? Can you still drive? Can you see me now?"
Indeed, it is ridiculous to think that our eyeglasses should be unnoticeable or inconspicuous -- as is our preoccupation with keeping hearing loss discreet.
Hearing loss is no joke. Nor is it an embarrassment. I hope that those who read this blog will know and understand and spread awareness about something that should not be discreet.
My name is Bonnie. I have profound hearing loss. And I wear hearing aids. Proudly.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Vacation Packing
There was a time in my life when packing for a trip was easy. Toss a couple pair of jeans, tees, and skivvies into the carry-on and off I'd go.
Those were the days.
Now traveling brings about a whole new experience as I have to plan my packing well in advance of my trip. It also brings about a whole new list of things to forget. There are so many indispensable things one needs when traveling with hearing aids and cochlear implants. You can't leave home without them.
Batteries, of course are the most important. Face it, without those little things, I would be rendered pretty-near deaf and unable to function and enjoy my trip as intended. So I always carry a pack of disposable batteries with me. One each for my hearing aid and cochlear implant processor and spares for those "just-in-case" scenarios. I could easily pick up a pack of batteries for my hearing aid at the local Walgreen's if I needed to, but the cochlear implant takes a special battery that's not as easily found. I have panic attacks if my battery supply drops below a two-pack backup, so I always carry lots of batteries with me. It's an obsession, I know.
The spare parts kit --because even though I have never had anything break, Murphy's Law predicts that if anything were to break down, it would most certainly be when I am nowhere near my audiologist's office. Extra coil, coil cable, ear hook, battery holder, battery holder cover, magnet, even more spare batteries, cleaning tool, cleaning cloth, spare wax guards, backup processor -- all packed neatly in my hard-sided Cochlear brand carrying case.
And the accessories kit -- the portable Dry-n-Store for drying my processor each night, my Sonic Boom travel alarm clock with bed shaker, my battery charger, mini mic, phone clip, remote control, accessory cords, charging cords, and power cords. I finally broke down and purchased a make-up bag to carry these items.
And I must remember to tuck my cochlear implant identification card inside my travel papers with my driver's license or passport for the rare times my implant may set off the airport security alarms. I've had my head patted down several times since I got my CI.
Once these things are checked, rechecked, and triple checked, I can pack the rest of my things in the small space left in my carry-on bag... things that will never fit now.
...I need another bag.
Those were the days.
Now traveling brings about a whole new experience as I have to plan my packing well in advance of my trip. It also brings about a whole new list of things to forget. There are so many indispensable things one needs when traveling with hearing aids and cochlear implants. You can't leave home without them.
Batteries, of course are the most important. Face it, without those little things, I would be rendered pretty-near deaf and unable to function and enjoy my trip as intended. So I always carry a pack of disposable batteries with me. One each for my hearing aid and cochlear implant processor and spares for those "just-in-case" scenarios. I could easily pick up a pack of batteries for my hearing aid at the local Walgreen's if I needed to, but the cochlear implant takes a special battery that's not as easily found. I have panic attacks if my battery supply drops below a two-pack backup, so I always carry lots of batteries with me. It's an obsession, I know.The spare parts kit --because even though I have never had anything break, Murphy's Law predicts that if anything were to break down, it would most certainly be when I am nowhere near my audiologist's office. Extra coil, coil cable, ear hook, battery holder, battery holder cover, magnet, even more spare batteries, cleaning tool, cleaning cloth, spare wax guards, backup processor -- all packed neatly in my hard-sided Cochlear brand carrying case.
And the accessories kit -- the portable Dry-n-Store for drying my processor each night, my Sonic Boom travel alarm clock with bed shaker, my battery charger, mini mic, phone clip, remote control, accessory cords, charging cords, and power cords. I finally broke down and purchased a make-up bag to carry these items.
And I must remember to tuck my cochlear implant identification card inside my travel papers with my driver's license or passport for the rare times my implant may set off the airport security alarms. I've had my head patted down several times since I got my CI.
Once these things are checked, rechecked, and triple checked, I can pack the rest of my things in the small space left in my carry-on bag... things that will never fit now.
...I need another bag.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Awareness
Today is International Cochlear Implant Awareness Day. It's an obscure little recognition of a very big thing for people who have a cochlear implant. Most people are only aware of it because they happen to know someone who has one, or they are deaf/hard of hearing.It's nice to try to spread the word about them. They can change lives, for sure.
So here are some facts for your awareness --
It's really pronounced "COCK-lee-er", not "COKE-lee-er" like most people have heard it pronounced. That was a surprise to me. Americans seem to be the only ones who mispronounce it. In the rest of the world, they say it right.
I found out that I was saying 'tinnitus' wrong, too. It's "TIN-it-us", not "tin-NIGHT-us" as I had thought. Though both pronunciations are acceptable by laymen, the first is considered "most correct" by medical professionals.
The idea of cochlear implants was first proposed by a man named Adam M. Kissiah in 1974. He was granted a patent on the first cochlear implant three years later in 1977. It basically delivered sound to a deaf person. A man named Graeme Clark is credited with the development of the modern multi-channel electrode and speech processor -- which turns those sounds into speech.
The first cochlear implants had body-worn processors. The familiar behind-the-ear processor came later as technology miniaturized. My processor is considered the smallest and lightest one on the market today. I'm interested in seeing where this technology will lead us in the future. I expect that, like hearing aids, the cochlear implant speech processor will continue to get smaller and less visible as the technology advances.
As of 2012, approximately 324,000 people have been implanted with a cochlear implant worldwide. I'd suspect that number is much higher now that the FDA criteria has been expanded to include those who are one-sided deaf, like me. The numbers can be expected to increase even more as the impact of hearing loss rises in our modern society. Hearing loss is reaching epidemic proportions.
Until I lost my hearing, I was completely unaware of cochlear implants. When I was diagnosed, my ENT said I would need a cochlear implant. I had to go home and Google it. I cried when I looked at the images of people wearing their processors. I didn't want to wear that monstrosity on the side of my head.
I changed my mind. Being able to hear was more important than my vanity.
Happy International Cochlear Implant Awareness Day.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Wireless Technolgy...Just WOW
Wow. Just wow.
I can stream sound from my TV directly to both ears. It is pretty amazing. To be able to hear again in what can only be described as "almost normal" is so wonderful that I sat up way too late the first night I used them -- basking in the awe and glory of sound. It brought tears to my eyes.
Then I used the mini mic at school. Wow. Again. It brought voices amazingly clear and close. It was a bit disturbing at first to hear my own voice so clearly too, but I got over it quickly as I relished being able to understand my students with ease I'd forgotten was possible.
Over the weekend, my hearing daughter helped me test the mini mic out in a restaurant, too. She walked across the floor, asking, "Can you hear me now?" until she reached the transmitter's limit. No one seemed to notice, or at least we didn't care if they did. We were having too much fun. The only thing we lacked was my ability to answer her beyond a shake of my head. It's not a walkie-talkie.
Hearing loss sucks. It really does. But technology helps to fill the gap. And that is pretty grand.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
It's a Beautiful Thing
 |
| It's a beautiful thing. |
It's a ReSound Linx2 7 RIE Model 62.
It has more power than the remains of my Phonak Audeo BiCROS aid I'd been wearing for the past three and a half years. It also has more bells and whistles.
I opted for the "mid-range" model rather than the premium model. It has everything I need, and lots of things I'll probably never need. And it was about $500 less than the 9 series. I'm a "put-it-on-and-leave-it" kind of hearing aid user, so I figured the 9 wouldn't be worth the extra cost for me.
I didn't expect to hear THAT much better than I did with my old hearing aid. But the newer features are definitely a welcome addition. I can choose from 4 specific programs that adjust to my environment: Everyday, Restaurant, Performance, and Outdoors. Each one changes the directionality of my microphones and optimizes listening settings.
I had reached the point that hearing on the telephone was getting pretty hard. I cut phone calls short and preferred texting to voice calls. With the Linx2, I can stream phone calls directly to my hearing aid from my iPhone. I can ditch the phone clip now, and I can multitask while taking calls again. And I can listen to videos unaware during faculty meetings!
I can adjust volume and settings from my iPhone -- eliminating the need for another remote control. It also makes it unnecessary for me to memorize how many "soft taps" are needed on which button to change programs or volume. Or was that volume and programs?
I can stream TV directly to my hearing aid. I've had the capacity to stream TV to my cochlear implant for several months. To be able to listen to TV bilaterally is pretty fabulous, I must say. But don't try to talk to me while it's on because I won't be able to hear you!
I ordered a mini-mic with my hearing aid. It is supposed to bring voices nearer and clearer than ever. It, too, will pair with both my new hearing aid and my CI. Unfortunately, the mini-mic wasn't holding a charge and my audi wasn't able to get it to pair to my hearing aid. We had to order a new one. She's not charging me for the mini-mic. I love my audi.
I'm still getting used to the custom mold. I'd only worn dome tips before. The dome tips irritated my ears to no end, and I'd tried a number of versions in an attempt to find one that worked for me. The mold is more difficult to insert and it makes me feel like my ear is plugged (which it is because the mold fills it up!), but it fits like a glove and is very comfortable. It's made of clear material, so when it is inserted, it's virtually invisible -- fitting deep inside my ear canal. My audi assures me that I will get used to it, and it will keep more of the sound in so I don't whistle at people so much.
My first experiences with my Linx2 in the real world have been mostly successful, though I've adjusted the volume down quite a bit. Knowing I'm one who likes a lot of volume, my audi skipped the "new patient" settings and gave me a full setting from the beginning. I know from experience that I will adjust to the volume, so I won't ask her to change the volume when I see her for an adjustment in 2 weeks.
Hearing aids and cochlear implants can be an encumbrance -- remote controls and gadgets and batteries and spare parts and power cords and settings and wireless devices and mappings -- and the technology that comes with them can be overwhelming and distracting. People who use them understand how wonderful these new hearing aid features are. I'm still learning to navigate the technology so I can appreciate them more.
They're a necessary, important, and even wonderful encumbrance for those of us who need them. I can hear. For that, I am eternally grateful.
It's a beautiful thing.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Guest Blogging...
I recently wrote two articles for Gael Hannan's "The Better Hearing Consumer" and "Hearing Views" for Hearing Health & Technology Matters, a web-based site for anyone seeking information on hearing health.
One of my articles tells about my experience of teaching with a hearing loss. It was met with accolades and lots of positive comments. People love to hear CI success stories.
The other wasn't received as readily.
I wrote about the CI community's position of advising recipients to "Keep your expectations low and your hopes high". I disagree with that philosophy. My experience as an educator bristles when I hear a person telling another to have low expectations, and in my piece I addressed a well-documented and researched phenomenon called the Pygmalion Effect, whereby high expectations yield high results.
Immediately upon posting my article on her Facebook page, several members of the CI community responded in less favorable reviews. It was exactly what I'd expected from them. Comments of how my experience wasn't representative of the greater community and how there are a lot of variables that affect success and that having high expectations isn't realistic, yada yada yada. They missed the message. My article wasn't about achieving success or not. It was about raising expectations.
What they failed to understand is that achievement, realistic or grandiose, is greatly influenced by expectations. I am fully aware that each person brings their own unique set of circumstances and conditions to their CI experience. Being realistic doesn't mean lowering your expectations. It means understanding them. What I question is the continued discouragement of new CI recipients. It is proven that if one has high expectations for success, then you will most certainly achieve higher results than if you had expected less. So why not encourage high expectations along with those high hopes?
In a Facebook group, I once asked why everyone kept saying that. The community responded in like-mindedness that low expectations kept you from feeling "disappointed." It seems the CI community is ingrained in their low expectations -- as if it is some rite of passage or badge of honor when the CI doesn't deliver the results they had wanted.
The process of implantation and rehabilitation were fully explained by my medical team prior to surgery. I was told by my otologist and my audiologist that I was a prime candidate for success -- above so many others -- because I had only been deaf for a relatively short time. The neural pathways to hearing with a CI were healthy and easily "awakened". I had the potential to be "fully hearing" with the CI. Many recipients, however, have been deaf for a very long time or face hearing disorders that I do not have. Their pathways are weak and may never fully awaken. They may never achieve what I have.
They shouldn't compare themselves to me.
But the expectation should remain the same -- that they will be able to hear when they could not hear before. Expecting the very best results for their unique conditions is paramount. Otherwise, why even venture down this road?
The cochlear implant isn't a miracle fix for hearing loss. And it isn't for everyone with hearing loss. But for those whose medical conditions warrant it, the CI can lead to better hearing. You have to expect success.
Read my article at the link below.
http://hearinghealthmatters.org/hearingviews/2016/pygmalion-golem-little-engines/
One of my articles tells about my experience of teaching with a hearing loss. It was met with accolades and lots of positive comments. People love to hear CI success stories.
The other wasn't received as readily.
I wrote about the CI community's position of advising recipients to "Keep your expectations low and your hopes high". I disagree with that philosophy. My experience as an educator bristles when I hear a person telling another to have low expectations, and in my piece I addressed a well-documented and researched phenomenon called the Pygmalion Effect, whereby high expectations yield high results.
Immediately upon posting my article on her Facebook page, several members of the CI community responded in less favorable reviews. It was exactly what I'd expected from them. Comments of how my experience wasn't representative of the greater community and how there are a lot of variables that affect success and that having high expectations isn't realistic, yada yada yada. They missed the message. My article wasn't about achieving success or not. It was about raising expectations.
What they failed to understand is that achievement, realistic or grandiose, is greatly influenced by expectations. I am fully aware that each person brings their own unique set of circumstances and conditions to their CI experience. Being realistic doesn't mean lowering your expectations. It means understanding them. What I question is the continued discouragement of new CI recipients. It is proven that if one has high expectations for success, then you will most certainly achieve higher results than if you had expected less. So why not encourage high expectations along with those high hopes?
In a Facebook group, I once asked why everyone kept saying that. The community responded in like-mindedness that low expectations kept you from feeling "disappointed." It seems the CI community is ingrained in their low expectations -- as if it is some rite of passage or badge of honor when the CI doesn't deliver the results they had wanted.
The process of implantation and rehabilitation were fully explained by my medical team prior to surgery. I was told by my otologist and my audiologist that I was a prime candidate for success -- above so many others -- because I had only been deaf for a relatively short time. The neural pathways to hearing with a CI were healthy and easily "awakened". I had the potential to be "fully hearing" with the CI. Many recipients, however, have been deaf for a very long time or face hearing disorders that I do not have. Their pathways are weak and may never fully awaken. They may never achieve what I have.
They shouldn't compare themselves to me.
But the expectation should remain the same -- that they will be able to hear when they could not hear before. Expecting the very best results for their unique conditions is paramount. Otherwise, why even venture down this road?
The cochlear implant isn't a miracle fix for hearing loss. And it isn't for everyone with hearing loss. But for those whose medical conditions warrant it, the CI can lead to better hearing. You have to expect success.
Read my article at the link below.
http://hearinghealthmatters.org/hearingviews/2016/pygmalion-golem-little-engines/
Sunday, January 17, 2016
It's a Time Bomb
Living with idiopathic Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss is a bit like living with a time bomb wrapped around your cochlea. You never know when another attack will render you with more hearing loss, or leave you deaf. I am consciously aware of every little difference in my hearing. I go along for weeks and months with no problems. Then quick as a wink, the bomb goes off and I fire off panicked calls and visits to my doctor. Most of them end with a reassurance that everything is fine. Sometimes, it ends with steroids and treatment to stop the attack and salvage hearing. SSHL decimated the cochlea in my left ear and damaged my right -- interrupting the sound signals my brain received.
The fallacy that most people believe is that they hear with their ears. In truth, they hear exactly as I do -- the sound is received by their ears and interpreted by their brains. It is the method of delivery that differs. With a cochlear implant, the damaged cells of the cochlea are bypassed by a technological device, and the sound is delivered to the auditory nerve via a complex array of electrical signals which are interpreted by my brain as sound. My cochlear implant doesn't restore my hearing; it restores my perception of sound by replacing the lost signal with digital impulses from an electrode. Alone, my cochlear implant delivers mediocre hearing, at best. I still rely heavily on my hearing-aided ear to hear most things "normally". The fear I have of losing the hearing in that ear is immense. I know it's a time bomb.
When I noticed that the hearing in my better ear was suddenly diminished last Friday, I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. I was reading with a small group of children when it happened. My voice was suddenly all inside my head and my ear felt "stopped". I noticed that all the children's voices were coming from my implanted ear -- as if my battery had suddenly gone out in my hearing aid. A quick brush on the hearing aid microphone with my finger revealed that it was working, but I knew my hearing was significantly diminished. Luckily, my cochlear implant can suffice when my hearing aid fails, even if it isn't as good as both.
My ENT and otologist were both out-of-the-office on that day. I was able to see my primary care physician that afternoon to check for obstruction or infection. A quick examination revealed no physical causes for the sudden hearing loss. I'd already had that familiar sinking feeling... "Your ears look perfect," he said. I'd heard that before. Knowing the only known treatment is steroids, he gave me a shot, a scrip, and advice to see my otologist on Monday. I was able to schedule an appointment for an audiogram on Monday.
The weekend was long and fretful. Those awful "what-ifs" nagged me. What if I've lost more hearing? What if I can't work anymore? What if I have to have another cochlear implant? What if...what if...what if...
I obsessively pulled the hearing aid ear piece from my ear all weekend to self-check my hearing. In. Out. No difference. CI off. Ear piece in. Out. No difference. Fret. Fret. Fret.
Monday finally arrived, and the audiogram showed no change in my hearing. My hearing aid was thoroughly checked and microphones changed. The ear piece was changed and the wax guard was replaced. My ear was examined under microscope by my doctor. No perceivable difference in hearing with or without the hearing aid, but my ear was "normal". It's a mystery.
I was told to finish the course of steroids because it wouldn't hurt, and given an appointment with my audiologist to check and balance my hearing devices. I would have to wait two more weeks. Perhaps the new map on my CI was overpowering my hearing aid and was altering my perception of sound. Maybe my hearing aid was beginning to fail. "It has an average life span of 5 years. Yours has been running at full power for 3 1/2 years," the hearing aid tech told me.
And then...maybe the steroids had stopped another SSHL attack.
Damn that time bomb.
The fallacy that most people believe is that they hear with their ears. In truth, they hear exactly as I do -- the sound is received by their ears and interpreted by their brains. It is the method of delivery that differs. With a cochlear implant, the damaged cells of the cochlea are bypassed by a technological device, and the sound is delivered to the auditory nerve via a complex array of electrical signals which are interpreted by my brain as sound. My cochlear implant doesn't restore my hearing; it restores my perception of sound by replacing the lost signal with digital impulses from an electrode. Alone, my cochlear implant delivers mediocre hearing, at best. I still rely heavily on my hearing-aided ear to hear most things "normally". The fear I have of losing the hearing in that ear is immense. I know it's a time bomb.
When I noticed that the hearing in my better ear was suddenly diminished last Friday, I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. I was reading with a small group of children when it happened. My voice was suddenly all inside my head and my ear felt "stopped". I noticed that all the children's voices were coming from my implanted ear -- as if my battery had suddenly gone out in my hearing aid. A quick brush on the hearing aid microphone with my finger revealed that it was working, but I knew my hearing was significantly diminished. Luckily, my cochlear implant can suffice when my hearing aid fails, even if it isn't as good as both.
My ENT and otologist were both out-of-the-office on that day. I was able to see my primary care physician that afternoon to check for obstruction or infection. A quick examination revealed no physical causes for the sudden hearing loss. I'd already had that familiar sinking feeling... "Your ears look perfect," he said. I'd heard that before. Knowing the only known treatment is steroids, he gave me a shot, a scrip, and advice to see my otologist on Monday. I was able to schedule an appointment for an audiogram on Monday.
The weekend was long and fretful. Those awful "what-ifs" nagged me. What if I've lost more hearing? What if I can't work anymore? What if I have to have another cochlear implant? What if...what if...what if...
I obsessively pulled the hearing aid ear piece from my ear all weekend to self-check my hearing. In. Out. No difference. CI off. Ear piece in. Out. No difference. Fret. Fret. Fret.
Monday finally arrived, and the audiogram showed no change in my hearing. My hearing aid was thoroughly checked and microphones changed. The ear piece was changed and the wax guard was replaced. My ear was examined under microscope by my doctor. No perceivable difference in hearing with or without the hearing aid, but my ear was "normal". It's a mystery.
I was told to finish the course of steroids because it wouldn't hurt, and given an appointment with my audiologist to check and balance my hearing devices. I would have to wait two more weeks. Perhaps the new map on my CI was overpowering my hearing aid and was altering my perception of sound. Maybe my hearing aid was beginning to fail. "It has an average life span of 5 years. Yours has been running at full power for 3 1/2 years," the hearing aid tech told me.
And then...maybe the steroids had stopped another SSHL attack.
Damn that time bomb.
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