Little Baby Cries

Hearing loss can be a good thing at times. I've reached the point in my life where I can actually find the benefits of it sometimes. Like now. 

At this very moment, my 11-day old grandson has decided that he needs to exercise his stunning vocal cords instead of napping. The new parents are upstairs in their bedroom doing what they can to console him to no avail. Through the closed door, they are little more than vibrations in my hearing devices. I'm resisting the urge to go up and offer my help, knowing that new parents and their infants learn to live together in those struggles.

"Did you hear him last night?" my daughter asks each morning. "He was really fussy."

Honestly, I have to answer no. With my hearing aids out, I am blissfully unaware of virtually everything that happens in the house, especially behind our closed doors. Unless a light is turned on. Lights do wake me.

But little baby cries in the night are not a problem for me. Nor are they at this very moment, as I can simply slip the magnetic coil from its place on my scalp and adjust my hearing aid volume until his cries are nearly negligible. It's rather nice at times that I can disconnect from the noisiness of the day (and night) so that I can attend to other things. Like sleep.

As for my daughter and her husband, they're still in that bleary-eyed, half-exhausted-half-elated new parent stage that many of us have experienced. Tending their baby's cries with love and impatience when they'd rather be napping themselves.

Little baby cries are the blessing and the bane of new parenthood. How wonderful to hear them -- even now.

Uncovered

This week, I am reminded of the time when a man attempted to grope me. I was a young college student. He was a well-respected deacon in my church. That he had been a mentor and helped me acquire funding into my university multiplied my shock and surprise exponentially. I quickly distanced myself from him by removing myself from his presence and by leaving my church, too. I never told anyone out of respect for his daughters, who were my peers and friends. I could never look at them the same way without wondering if they were sexually abused by him, as well. That moment in time is burned into my memory and has shaped my distrust of men in "perceived power" over me. He was not who he pretended to be. And neither was I anymore. The political events of this past week have bared those wounds of shame and disgust that I carefully covered and kept hidden under my veil. The storm inside me was raging.

Amidst our country's political chaos, I came across a few simple words that calmed the storm: "Things are not getting worse; they are getting uncovered."

We live in a world of human fallibility. Our history ebbs and flows as quickly as the tides -- from time to time, periods of perceived goodness rise above the weaknesses and some enjoy prosperity, though others' oppression silently festers under our veils of apathy, blindness, and deafness. We justify our beliefs with feeble words and actions. We seem unable to see the world for what it is like through others' eyes, especially when we are prospering.  It's a song sung throughout our ages.

Today, those tidewaters seem stormy and dark. And the desires of some are washing over us in a tidal wave of discord. Veils are being pulled back and the ugliness of man's moral weakness has been revealed again. Some becry "the good ol' days". While others charge forward. In truth, there never really was such a thing as "the good ol' days." It's only our perception of what was or was not.

In her dystopian novel, The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood expresses that mindset perfectly as Commander Waterford explains his rationale behind the oppression in his government - "Better never means better for everyone. It always means worse for some." Those "good ol' days" may have been awesome for some, but it wasn't so great for many others. We pulled back that veil.

When we live our lives under veils, real and perceived, we limit ourselves. We limit our potential. We limit our kindness and generosity. We limit our humanity. We live in guarded awareness that a better world for ourselves and our loved ones often means a world that is worse for others. And we accept that truth for many different reasons as long as it does not upset our own status quo. Some are fighting to maintain that status quo with everything that is in them.

But it has been unveiled. It is revealed, and it cannot be pushed back under the covers. And if we are to survive these dark days, we cannot ignore it and hope it goes away. We must hold each other tight while we continue to pull the veil back and back and back. We must heal our wounds. We must become better people.

It is our deepest apologetic.

Oh, the Chaos

I retired from teaching over a year ago. It's been wonderful for my health. My blood pressure is lower. My weight is steady. My feet and ankles stopped swelling. My legs stopped cramping. I became more relaxed. And busy with the things that interested and engaged me.

I'd been warned to avoid subbing in my district by several friends who'd also retired. But when I read a frantic Facebook post from a friend that her maternity leave sub had canceled at the last moment, I was lulled by my emotional, maternal gut to offer my services. She delivered two days before the start of the school year, and I stepped in before my substitute application was completed to cover her class for the first 6 weeks.

It only took me a few days to regret that decision.

Though my teaching skills had not diminished and I was able to step in as if I'd not even been gone a year, I found myself teaching a grade level I'd not cared much for the last time I'd taught it. I also found myself in an environment that I can only describe as hearing hell.

The school hangs onto that failed 70's experiment called "open concept", which eliminates the walls in traditional classrooms and opens the learning and teaching environment to the noise of all the other classrooms and hallways. Research has proven that the distractions in open concept outweigh any benefits of such an environment. I'm surprised it is still in use.

While I've found that the teaching styles, curriculum, and classroom organization in the school is pretty much exactly like any other school I have taught in, the distractions and the noise are not. Not only are the students highly distracted by what they see and hear in the other classrooms and the hallway, the environment seems to encourage them to add their own noise to the cacophony, which include an excessive amount of chatting and talking, drumming, clicking, and chirping. Yes, chirping. The feeble attempts of teachers to lessen distractions by defining their teaching space with bookcases, marker boards, and other partitions testifies that the open concept is still a problem for learning and teaching, just as it had been when schools began abandoning it in the mid 80's.

What has ensued each day is a chaotic mangling of noise that makes it difficult, and often impossible, to concentrate, listen, hear, and understand. And an increase in both my anxiety and my blood pressure. I am tired, grumpy, and head-achy at the end of each day.

It has set me to pondering again the plight of students who may have an especially hard time hearing or focusing attention in such an environment -- like the little girl I met in the hallway who is deaf in one ear and has a bone-anchored hearing aid. If I have trouble comprehending speech in this school as an adult, what struggles must this child endure each day as well?

I feel like I am the lucky one, though. I will be gone in 2 more weeks.
I am counting the days.

It's a Good Thing

I didn't start this blog because I thought I'd gather a lot of readers. It was mostly a way for me to cope with my sudden hearing loss and find my way in this almost deaf life I've found myself in. Today is the 6th anniversary of that dreadful day canyoubelieveit? Some friends have read my posts from time to time and left kind and supportive comments here and on my Facebook page. Occasionally a stranger makes a comment that lets me know that it is read at times beyond my little place in this world.

Recently, such a person contacted me to let me know that she herself has had hearing loss. She is a teacher and will begin teaching this year. Understandably, she is nervous about what to anticipate as she begins this step in her own almost deaf life. Finding someone who has walked that path before her, she wanted advice on things she could do to make the transition easier and less stressful.

Honestly, it's going to give her a lot of stress, I know. It's not easy. And she will find herself in many situations that she couldn't possibly anticipate. And she will have to find her way. Like I did. Like I still do today.

The thing is, hearing loss is tough. And many of the things one encounters day to day cannot be anticipated until they happen and you find yourself side-stepping, shuffling, fumbling, and adapting. And you do so because you really don't have any other choice if you want to continue living in this world. A sense of humor helps. So does honesty -- and a bit of frankness. If you're having trouble hearing or understanding, you have to speak up and let people know. Or you'll find yourself nodding and smiling that doofus smile. You have to be your own advocate.

I'm better about that now than I used to be. I still get a lot of "never mind" and "it's not that important" and those dismissals still hurt my feelings. But I confess that I've ignored people on occasion and blamed it on my hearing loss. No one is a saint.

I've committed to a long term sub position for several weeks. I'm a little nervous about returning to the classroom. And this one is an open classroom, so the fear of extraneous environmental noise is giving me a little anxiety. But I've learned the fear in the anticipation is usually greater than the reality. So I'll enter this assignment prepared to side-step, shuffle, fumble, and adapt as I have before. I've become resilient that way.

And it's a good thing.

Life

This world is an amazing place. No matter how sorrowful the living may become, life can be found pretty much everywhere we look. One only has to look. It's there. In the cracks of the sidewalk. Buried in the soil. Nesting in a tree. Carried in a womb. The sunrise. A tide. Large and minute. Life pervades. Permeating the darkness and grief with aspiration. Light. And peace.

It's a boy. A son. A grandson. The present. The future. News of hope and anticipation of new life. Parents' pride. Grandparents' joy. A family's progeny.

Life and death. Death, then life. It's a miraculous circle. 

Death

My husband and I made the difficult decision to have our German Shepherd euthanized yesterday. Though we felt a great amount of turmoil about doing it, we knew in our hearts that it was the best thing for him. He had been diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy last October, an insidious disease that slowly left his hind quarters paralyzed. While his mind was alert, his body had failed. And as the paralysis gripped him, we knew the decision to have him humanely euthanized loomed every day. In his final days, he relied on us to help lift his back and help him move from place to place. We could see his frustration when he wanted to play, but chose to lay instead. It had become too hard.

Having a beloved pet euthanized is traumatic for its humans. We personify our feelings of grief onto them. Our vet was kind and gentle in those last minutes, and Bear passed peacefully in our arms as if going to sleep. The hurt is deep and our love for him carries us through the days that follow.

I also lost my father five days ago. He had lived and suffered the effects of heart disease and failing health for much of my adult life. I watched him wither from vitality to weakness. Unlike our boy Bear, Dad's failing health took its toll on him for decades. We lived in the knowledge that one day the medical technology and medications would not be enough, and he would succumb to death. That time came in the form of hospice care and daily caregiving from my sister. He wanted to die at home with his wife and children surrounding him, and we honored his request by keeping our phones near and going each time we were called. The last time I saw him alive, I sang a special hymn in his ear, assuring him that all is well and the peace of the Holy Spirit is attending our souls. It was one of the few times I'd sung since losing my hearing. He died peacefully in his sleep a few days later.

A parent's death follows the natural order we anticipate. Grief is magnified when we see our parents' fear. But the sweetness of our memories balances the loss we feel. Our faith in God assures us that death is only the end of our time on Earth, and we will live again with those who've passed. The hurt is quiet, and we are calmed. He walks with Jesus.

I have noticed that death often visits us in clusters, as if it helps to grieve that way, too. But this I know: God is good. And in this time I will hold those I love and those I've lost near to my heart and mind.

#MillionEar Challenge

Hearing is something that most people take for granted. Humans are quite noisy. And much of the noise we've created can cause permanent damage to our ears and our hearing. According to the World Health Organization, 1.1 billion young people aged 12-35 are at risk for hearing loss due to recreational exposure to loud sounds. Blasting sounds into our ears for even a short amount of time can potentially lead to noise-induced hearing loss, the fastest growing cause of hearing loss and deafness. Rock musicians  and athletes are coming forward with news of their own hearing loss, and even deafness, caused by the volume of their own music and sports arenas, extolling the dangers of exposure to loud sounds. And once the damage is done, it is permanent. According to the WHO, hearing loss is one of the greatest health threats of our time. If left untreated, hearing loss can lead to mental illness, dementia, and other health problems.

Everywhere we go, we are exposed to sound, much of it at deafening levels. Jet engines. Motorcycles. Sirens. Traffic noise. Radio. TV. Video games. Restaurant chatter (and music). Concerts. Sporting Events. Movies. Ear buds. Headphones. Lawn mowers. Leaf blowers. School assemblies. Pep rallies. Trains. Subways, industrial work places..... And the time spent hearing these things before we damage our ears is surprisingly short. This video shows how much time exposure is allowable before hearing loss can occur with some of these everyday sounds. 

https://www.facebook.com/Cochlear/videos/10160180737795005/ 

My sudden sensorineural hearing loss is idiopathic, possibly caused by a virus or genetics. I will never know for sure. But after my hearing loss, my husband decided to have his own hearing checked and found that he is one of those billions whose hearing was affected by exposure to loud sound. Repeated exposure to jet engine noise at his workplace (even with ear plugs) has left him with tinnitus and moderate hearing loss in the middle decibel range.

On May 1, Better Speech and Hearing Month kicks off with “See Sound Differently" campaign. Please join me by taking the #MillionEar Challenge to raise awareness of the dangers of environmental sound and learn to "See Sound Differently". By sharing the news on social media, you will be helping to fund research by the Hearing Health Foundation that helps millions of ears every year.

Learn more about this year’s campaign: https://bit.ly/2KeZ8nF.

While and Work

This afternoon, I donned a hat and went outside to weed my garden beds. A much younger me had put in a too-big-for-me-now garden bed at the back side of the swimming pool. Weeding each spring is a monumental task.

On a normal year, I'd weed like a maniac. My goal was to get it done as fast as I could so I could get to other tasks that also needed done. But this year, I'm retired. And I'm learning that things that once were urgent are not so anymore. I can weed today and tomorrow and next week if I choose.

I took up my hand rake and garden gloves and trash bag and sat on the back of the retaining wall. The sun had warmed the blocks comfortably enough that I could have sat there all day just to warm my bum. I raked and dug and pulled the weeds that had grown nearly knee high after a week of rains. I'd learned long ago that the best time to weed is a few days after rains had loosened the soil, but the sun had dried it just enough to keep it from being muddy. Today, the soil was perfect. Damp and cool and easy to turn.

As I worked the soil gently in my fingers, kneading old mulch and dried leaves deep into the bed where nutrients of old can nurture new plants, my mind became engrossed in the wonders of our Earth -- the simple sights and gentle sounds of nature that soothe my soul. The robins twittering in the massive oak trees above me. The starlings drinking from the remnants of rain puddles in the pool cover. The katydid disturbed by my hand chittering as it flew to find new shelter in a shrub. The ants scurrying to hide their uncovered eggs. A lone earthworm reburied. The wind in the leaves. The sun on my skin. The dirt on my hands. And shirt. I could relish this task this year. And find joy in the things I see and the things I can hear because of my hearing instruments.

I'm not even close to being done. There's much left to finish, my older self sighs, knowing there's more to treasure in this calmer life I am making for myself.

I can work. I can while. The decision is mine.

Checkups and Ice Cream and Stuff

It's not that I've been neglecting this blog, but oftentimes life just plugs along in an uneventful litany of days and weeks and months. You sleep. You rise. You eat. You wash the laundry. You pet the dog. Notoriously boring stuff to blog about.

Then you visit your otologist for your yearly checkup.

Living with hearing loss, and the potential of future losses, the annual audiogram and doctor visit is the reminder of how easily something you have can be suddenly lost. Again.

"So, tell me how you're doing?" he begins.

"I'm good," I reply. "How 'bout that audiogram?"

"It's stable," he says. I already knew that. My audiologist already told me so. Then he goes on about missing the Meniere's conference this year as he checks my ears.

I inject that the coil on my CI has been giving me headaches and that the coil spacer the audiologist gave me has only made it slightly better. He checks my scalp for bumps and sores. He checks my mandibular joint for TMJ, and taps on the occipital nerve for soreness. Finding none, he tells me I should turn the coil magnet out as far as it will go.

"I've done that already," I tell him. He turns it anyway. Then he tells me a story about how watching my salt intake will reduce my risk of losing more hearing in my better ear and quotes some kind of research he learned about at the Meniere's conference last year. I think he's deflecting.

"I bought a cabin in Colorado and plan to move in a year or so. I'm looking for a CI clinic there," I tell him. He asks where and tells me I should go to a clinic in Denver where Cochlear has their headquarters. It's too far, so he recommends a CI doctor a few hours closer.

"You are doing really well with your CI," he says, inspecting my audiogram carefully. "One of my best successes."

"I complain a lot about the quality of the sound," I say, "but I know I'm really successful with it."

"I want to see you again in 6 months," he says.

"Not a year this time?" I ask.

"I want to see if turning the magnet out helps the headache," he says. I remind him that I've already tried that. "You could try a Tylenol," he advises.

Then I ask for a copy of my audiogram and leave.

I inspect my new audiogram and compare it with a past one from 4 years ago, after my sudden hearing loss episodes stabilized. I've saved photos of each report in my phone. I find that most of the levels are indeed stable, only moving down by 10dB in most of the frequencies, ranging from mild loss in the low frequencies to severe loss in the mid to high frequencies. What I didn't expect was the change in the presentation level of the word test. The previous audiogram presented words at 60dB. I scored 100% word recognition on the new audiogram but the volume now presented at 85dB. An indication that though my pure tones are somewhat stable, I now need much more volume to understand words.

It is the first time I have seen my CI results printed on the record sheet. My tones test was straight across at 30 dB, with the words "near full CI access" written across the grid. My words test was 88% at a presentation level of 65dB. I remember missing one word completely when I thought my audi said, "n'glif" and just shook my head. I don't know why missing words still embarrasses me. Understanding words without context is hard. I can clearly see from this audiogram how I can hear better with my CI than my other ear when unaided.

These visits always leave me a little depressed. This one was no different. Hearing loss really sucks.

But I heard a mother tell her young son at the appointment desk how proud she was of him for playing the games so well with the audiologist and she asked him if he wanted to get an ice cream on the way home. Yes. Ice cream. I would treat myself, too.

It was a cup of low-fat chocolate peanut butter cup yogurt with brownie sprinkles. And it made me feel a lot better emotionally. But my head still hurts.