Another Milestone to Mark

I see that while I have been away, my little blog has reached a milestone: over 10,000 views. I began this blog mostly for myself -- a way of "thinking out loud" as I dealt with my sudden deafness and severe hearing loss. It's been insightful. And cathartic. And enlightening. It helps me remember how devastating it was to me, and how oddly resilient life is.

We learn. We adapt. We change. We compromise. We survive. We live.

Tomorrow, I will mark another milestone -- it's the one year anniversary of my new hearing life. It's the day my cochlear implant was activated. I had waited for the day with bated breath and great anticipation of a hearing miracle that would give me my life back. It was a miracle; it didn't really give me anything back. It was always within me -- that resiliency to make do and move on. My mother would call it stubbornness.

Instead, activation day simply thrust me forward into a different way of living -- much the same in many ways, yet surrealistically different than before. It's not always a smooth road. But that's what makes it incredible.

It's my life. My crazy, curiously odd, hearing-loss/cochlear implant life.

Thanks for being a part of it.

What's That Whistling Noise?

It only takes a minute to remind myself that there are still many sounds that I hear with my cochlear implant that bear little likeness to the "real" sounds they make.

Take, for instance, this morning. A sound unbeknownst to me occurred repeatedly as my husband and I were watching the morning news. As the news anchors were talking, I was inundated by the most annoying, noisy whistle. I couldn't tell if it was coming from the TV, from outside, or from my husband. And I couldn't even listen to the news anymore because I became so obsessed with that damn whistle! Curiosity not only killed the cat; it got the best of me.

"What's that whistling noise?" I finally asked. (And not so calmly at this point.)

The conversation that ensued is one that is all too familiar to me since my hearing loss.

"What noise?" my husband asked innocently.
"That whistling," I said again. "What's whistling?"
"I don't hear a whistle," he said.
"There! There it is again!" I said. "What is it?"
"Oh. That's the jingle bells on TV. Santa has bells on," he explained.
"Well, isn't that irritating," I commented. "Sounds like whistling." And we laughed.

Hearing is good, but it isn't perfect. This first Christmas with a cochlear implant is interesting and new.

There are no bells - or whistles - in my house this Christmas season. That's probably a good thing.

Merry Christmas, ya'll!

Be Patient and Gentle

I've read many humorous accounts of what NOT to say to deaf people on social media lately. They are rather funny in ways that those of us with hearing loss can chuckle at because it's a part of our daily experience. Some of the things people have said to me since I lost my hearing leave me scratching my head. A lot of people just don't understand. It doesn't bother me much. Most of them have no experience with hearing loss in their own circle of family and friends. I used to be one of those people.

These reads usually leave me musing about the times I've had similar situations, but I read a rather bitter (and angry) post this morning on one of the blogs I frequent. It set me back a bit, and I restrained from commenting, though my head was swimming with things I wanted to say to the author. There are so many myths and misconceptions that surround hearing loss that it's a bit difficult to navigate through them to find the truths. Even among the hard-of-hearing "long-timers",  facts are often blurred by personal experiences, and opinions differ from one person to the next. There is also a proud and strongly assertive culture in the Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing community ready to assert those thoughts and opinions. They take their identity very seriously. And sometimes they take offense when others ask those "annoying" questions.

I straddle the fence between the worlds of hearing and hard-of-hearing. Being late-deafened at the age of 51, I clearly identify more with the hearing world than not. Even now -- two years after losing my hearing and one year after receiving my cochlear implant -- I feel little likeness with online cochlear implant friends. Most have been hard-of-hearing for the larger part of their lives, so unlike me, navigating the hearing world is second nature to them. I still feel awkward and lost much of the time. But even with my hearing aid and cochlear implant, I'm not really a "hearing" person either. So I feel a growing distance from that world, as well.

Maybe it's because I haven't lived a lifetime of hearing the same comments or answering the same questions repeatedly that keeps me more lighthearted at others' curiosity. I'm not really offended by your questions or comments when asked innocently, but know that when your curiosity gets the better of you, and you do ask me those questions I deem silly because they are blurred by myth or misconception, I am secretly giggling and adding sarcastic addenda in my head:

1. You can still drive? Yes. I know you are concerned about horns and sirens, but my car is well equipped with mirrors, and emergency vehicles have lights. I can SEE the emergency vehicles before most people can hear them over their radios and iPods. And I don't give a rat's ass about the honkers. Blind people can't drive. Deaf people can drive. It's amazing, I know. Right?!
2. You don't sound deaf. No. And I don't sound German or French or Canadian either. The speech patterns I formed and practiced for a half-century did not disappear because I cannot hear you anymore.
3. My grandpa has hearing aids! Well, isn't that special?! Are you implying that I am old?!
4. Can you hear me now? Haha! That is just too funny for me to even reply...(sigh)
5. CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? Yeah, because screaming at me always makes it better...(another sigh)
6. Are you lip-reading me? Yes. And I'm reading your mind, too... (eye roll)
7. So you know sign language now? Yes. Because when my ears stopped working, my hands automatically kicked in. Here's one I think you'll know... (hee hee hee)

Kidding aside, there is one thing I do take great offense to -- when people assume I am rude because I don't answer their question or respond back with a return "fine, and you?"

Remember that for those of us with hearing loss, seemingly simple things, like exchanging greetings, answering questions, or even conversing in noisy environments, are extremely difficult, and often impossible. We're doing the best we can.

Be patient and gentle with others this holiday season. The Muzak, cash registers, talking customers, babies crying, children whining, squeaky shopping cart wheels, snack bar blenders, demo TVs and stereos, loud phone talkers, PA announcements, appliance fans, automatic doors, security beeps, cell phone rings, cell phone talkers, text alert signals, Salvation Army bell ringers --- they are all terribly distracting and overwhelming to our senses. Please don't judge, and don't overreact too quickly. Realize that maybe there are a lot more people out there with hearing loss than you could even know.

Now there's a misconception I hope you'll avoid.

My Cochlear Implantiversary

I cannot let this day end without taking a moment to mark this milestone date.

At this moment, one year ago, I was sleeping off the effects of four hours of anesthesia from my cochlear implant surgery. The surgery took a bit longer than expected, but otherwise, it was a mostly routine operation, according to my surgeon.

I awoke from the surgery groggy and nauseated, but the pain and dizziness were minimal. Nothing a few hours (or days) of sleep wouldn't resolve. I nuzzled up with my comfy chenille-covered travel pillow, fuzzy blankets, and pain medications in the upstairs recliner and slept in a semi-upright position until I felt well enough to move about more.

One year later, it's still quite vivid in my mind. It was that impressive. And it's been a year of pretty impressive events as I've learned to adjust and hear with my cochlear implant. It's not perfect, by any standard. But I continue to be amazed at the little and the big hearing accomplishments I have worked so hard to achieve. And I know there are many more milestones to come.

I can hear. Happy Cochlear Implantiversary to me.

People Who Whisper

There is a colleague in my school who is always bending my ear. He has so much to say. I don't know if he talks to everyone like he does to me. But he never misses the opportunity to tell me some pressing news.

The problem isn't so much that he wants to tell me things. The problem lies in the way he tells me.

He whispers in my ear.

Whispers are one of the sounds that evade my cochlear implant. It just sounds like noise in my ear. I don't know the science of whispering, or why I can't perceive them. I'm sure the answer lies somewhere in the frequencies or decibels of speech. It doesn't really matter. I just know that whispered words aren't comprehensible to me. It's that proverbial mosquito buzzing in my ear.

"I'm deaf, you know," I remind him often. But it doesn't make much difference. He continues to pull me aside and speak imperceptible words to me.

I've learned to smile and nod. Mostly out of kindness. And a little sympathy. It's not so much that he needs me to respond back, I suppose, as it is his need to just say what is on his mind. And he has found a safe venue in me for sharing his secrets.

I mean, who better to vent to than a person who is guaranteed not to share and spread those secrets beyond those whispered words? The deaf lady, of course. She never heard a word.

Alliteration

I have noticed that there is a preponderance of bloggers and writers and storytellers today. There's a plethora of blogs available online for our perusal. And for each one, there are as many reasons and purposes for why they write and for whom they write. The sheer volume of self-publishing sites and the progeny of self-proclaimed authors is a bit pretentious to this pragmatic mind of mine.

As a teacher and specialist of reading and language arts, I have learned to be proficient in and perceptive of our written language. I am practiced in reading and writing prose and poetry, essays that teach and inform, stories that entertain, and even the pith of self-reflection.  I dare not pretend that my writing is perfect, nor am I presumptuous that what I write is profound and proper -- or even paramount for most people.

But it is practical for my purpose. 

I am pleased that some follow my story and participate in my professed self-indulgence. I possess a bit of pride for my prowess with the written word -- my love affair with the sounds and words that make our language rich and profound.

I write for myself. I write to purge. I write to practice. I write for pretense. And patience and perseverance and peace. It is my panacea.

I write because it doesn't matter that I am deaf when the words pour from my thoughts. For the written word isn't heard in my ears. It is heard in the promise of my heart.

"STOP HUMMING!!!"

I'd had quite enough of the near constant drone of student voices while trying to finish individual sight word assessments. The noisy buzz of my busy classroom was wreaking havoc on my already frazzled patience as I had continually quieted the children over and over.

It spilled into the very important assessment time. Students were supposed to be writing "My Yesterday Story" in their journals. It wasn't to be. Several students couldn't even remain in their seats for a full minute. And the talking was both excessive and loud.

I couldn't hear the student I was testing. I 'd been interrupted too often, and I was still on the first student!

"Stop talking," I said in a loud voice. (I'm certain I'd said that at least a million times that day.)

But the utterances continued. I could see the culprit, and I stopped the assessment yet again to redirect the student, this time by name.

"Stop talking now, David!"

I continued with the assessment for less than a minute when the monotonous drone resumed.

"I don't know who's humming, but it better stop NOW!" (I think my own voice was at glass-shattering decibels.) "STOP HUMMING!"

It wasn't exactly pin-drop quiet, but it was remarkably improved. Yet the hummer continued to hum  -- softly and steadily.

It was only after I'd dismissed my students and safely put them into their parents' cars or hands that I returned to the room.  I proceeded to the table where I'd left the microphone transmitter of the FM system that I'd used while assessing students today. The district audiologist had only delivered this new FM system for me to try out the day before. The telecoil in my cochlear implant processor activated automatically when the neckloop I was wearing came back into range of the transmitter.

And there it was. The hum. And not a student to be found.

Apparently, the telecoil picks up the hum of the overhead fluorescent lighting. I didn't know.

I owe my students a big apology tomorrow.