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*

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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 passed unanimously.

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.)
     

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.