(Blogger's note: Please don't argue semantics with me -- I know that
some people in the deaf and hard-of-hearing universe are offended by the terms
"impaired" and "disability", but these terms are regularly used and
acceptable in public schools to qualify students who do not hear
normally and require assistive listening devices, such as hearing aids,
to function in the regular education or special education classroom. So I
will use those terms here in this post, as well. If you are one who is offended by the use of these terms, please don't read any further.)
During my first year of teaching, my school had a hearing-impaired, self-contained classroom with a few students whose residual hearing with a hearing aid enabled them to stay in a classroom that emphasized aural learning. I remember that the teacher of the HI room asked if two of her first grade girls could come to my classroom a few minutes each day to do enrichment activities with my first graders and practice their listening and speaking skills. They were delightful young ladies, and they told their teacher that they loved being in my room because I spoke so clearly and articulately. They could hear me, and they could lip-read me easily.
Other than that first year in my 24-year career, I haven't had any other students with any sort of hearing impairment or disability.
Then I lost my hearing.
Is it a random coincidence that this year I have a child with bilateral, severe-profound hearing loss with auditory neuropathy, a student with unilateral moderate hearing loss who will be getting a hearing aid next week, and a student with hyperacusis? All at once, and all in the same classroom?
Or is it a part of some strange, universal design that crossed these children's paths with mine?
I think I know.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Friday, January 9, 2015
Penny and Bear
Like most working Americans, this morning I woke early for work. My alarm sounded and I hit the snooze button, not once, but twice. I lumbered from my warm bed into the brisk coolness of my bedroom where I reached for the little Ziploc bag at my bedside and rewarded my morning wake-up alarm with a morsel of thanks. Not just one, but a second treat for the snooze. And then a third because I couldn't resist those four brown, begging eyes. Eyes that belong to my German Shepherds.
They wake me every workday. Without my hearing aids, I cannot hear my morning wake-up alarm. So they hear for me. Their persistent howls are within hearing range of my better ear if I happen to be sleeping with that ear up. And their paws on the side of the bed wake me when it's not. (I also have a bed shaker as a back-up plan, but I seldom need it.)
They're not service dogs. But their service to me is invaluable.
Even with my hearing devices on, it can be very hard to hear. I am frequently startled by my husband and daughters when they come into the house. I can't hear the front door. And I can't hear the doorbell. Or knocks. Sometimes, there are sounds in the house that I can't identify.
Irrational fear creeps in. Especially when I'm alone.
Sudden deafness doesn't just affect what you hear -- or cannot hear. If rearranges your normal. What was becomes different. Confusing. Disorienting. And even frightening.
Having my dogs nearby relieves that anxiety. They're my security blanket, in a sense -- providing a quiet sense of security and wellness and comfort. And normalcy.
"Don't worry, human," they tell me with their eyes. "We've got your back."
They deserve another treat.
They wake me every workday. Without my hearing aids, I cannot hear my morning wake-up alarm. So they hear for me. Their persistent howls are within hearing range of my better ear if I happen to be sleeping with that ear up. And their paws on the side of the bed wake me when it's not. (I also have a bed shaker as a back-up plan, but I seldom need it.)
They're not service dogs. But their service to me is invaluable.
Even with my hearing devices on, it can be very hard to hear. I am frequently startled by my husband and daughters when they come into the house. I can't hear the front door. And I can't hear the doorbell. Or knocks. Sometimes, there are sounds in the house that I can't identify.
Irrational fear creeps in. Especially when I'm alone.
Sudden deafness doesn't just affect what you hear -- or cannot hear. If rearranges your normal. What was becomes different. Confusing. Disorienting. And even frightening.
Having my dogs nearby relieves that anxiety. They're my security blanket, in a sense -- providing a quiet sense of security and wellness and comfort. And normalcy.
"Don't worry, human," they tell me with their eyes. "We've got your back."
They deserve another treat.
 |
| Time to get up, Human. |
Monday, December 29, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
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.
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.
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