I Wish You Deafness

My wish for you is deafness if only for a day. Hard-of-hearing, impaired, disabled, whatever it's called. Then maybe you'd understand.

I wish for you a deafness. Silence or muffled. It really doesn't matter. I wish for you the struggle I face every single day.

I wish for you a hearing aid. A cochlear implant. A bone-anchored hearing device. I wish for you the tinny, squeaky amplification of I-can-almost-hear-it-but-I've-no-idea-what-it-is. I wish for you technology that's imperfect at its best. I wish for you the scars and pain of things inside your head.

I wish for you the squealing feedback when people give you a hug. I wish for you the dying batteries in the middle of a conversation or a movie or lecture. I wish for you the continual adjustments to make your aids "just right" and the feelings of disappointment when they most often fall short.

I wish for you the extra packs of batteries. The chargers and the cords. The handheld devices that fill your pockets and purse. I wish for you the streamers and mics and FM devices and remotes. I wish for you a theater that actually has been looped so the telecoil in your aids might actually be put to use. I wish for you closed captioning that actually reads like the script. No misspellings, no missed words, and synchs with the actors' lips.

I wish for you the cost of buying and maintaining and repairing and upgrading your devices, and the insurance to cover the bulk. The audiology and surgeon appointments. The dreadful sound booth and beeps you may or may not hear. I wish for you those days you hate when you're told you're doing well. But deep inside you know it's fake. So you smile and walk away.

I wish for you the scaly ear canals from wearing a mold all day. I wish for you the floppy ear and little red sores behind you ear where your processor rubs away. I wish for you the wig tape to hold little things in place. The retainers, the ear hooks, the mic locks. I wish for you the ear wax that clogs your mold and mics. The wax guards and mic protectors and ear gear to keep the gunk at bay. I wish for you the magnet that often leaps away - to the umbrella, the car door, the costume jewelry of your friend while giving a hug, or simply falls to the ground.

I wish for you the exhaustion of trying so hard to hear. The missed conversations when your brain is too tired. I wish for you to ask others to repeat again and again, knowing you may never understand. I wish for you tenacity so that you may never give up.

I wish for you the noisy restaurants, the too-loud background music, the loud conversations at the table across for you. The laughing, the crunching, the dishes clanking, the order taking, the babies crying. I wish for you that earnest desire to decipher the words and understand your dinner companion among the clamorous noise.

I wish for you the rolled eyes and sighs and oh-my-goshes. The it's not that important or forget it when you struggle to hear. The you never listen and pay attention and are you wearing your hearing aid today? You're being ridiculous. You're stronger than that. Quit moping. Get up and join the game. I wish for you that last nevermind that always makes you cry.

I wish for you the chuckles of friends who laugh at your expense. Time and again you ask, "Did you say Amanda or banana or sandwich?" I wish for you those who answer questions directed at you before you get the chance. I wish for you those people who think that you are being rude. Who think that if you'd just paid attention, you'd know just what to do.

I wish for you the mumblers and those who don't speak up. I wish for you the accents and poor enunciation and those who chew gum and eat while talking to you. I wish for you the shaggy beards that hide the lips you read. I wish for you the ones who shout from other rooms or talk as they walk away. I wish for you those who bemoan why you didn't hear. If only you'd been a better listener, you'd know what they had said.

I wish for you understanding. To know how hard it can be. I wish for you patience when I'm slower to respond, or answer, or contribute. I wish you just knew it takes time to hear and understand you.

There's so much more I could wish for you if you were deaf for a day. But most of all, I'd wish for you a world that is kinder than the one that we have now. I'd wish for a place where empathy and lenience and compassion for others' differences were not only evident, but demonstrated without thought, even for those like me. Deaf, hearing, or somewhere in between.

That is my wish for you.