My Hearing Journey #4
The first three weeks with hearing aids were a tremendous challenge! Everything was new, everything was different. I’ve lived in this town for 20 years, worked in the same place for three years — but the places that should have felt familiar and comfortable, felt foreign and strange.
Even my apartment, my sanctuary and my refuge, was invaded. My air conditioner made a banging noise as it turned off and on. The refrigerator buzzed during the defrost cycle. The rhythmic whooshing of the ceiling fan, the sound of water in the sink, the high-pitched click of aspirin in plastic bottles; my brain didn’t know how to move those noises into the background, so they were all front and center, and it felt like an assault.
My cat Jasmine has been my constant companion for over ten years — and she snores — all the time! When I turned on the TV, I cringed because it was so loud. I scrambled for the remote control, and then stood there like an idiot: I’d owned that TV and remote control for over five years, but I had no idea where the volume button was. Never in my life had I turned the TV volume down.
Work was no better; the atmosphere had changed. The normal rhythm and flow of work was invaded and interrupted with new sounds. The sound of my fingers on the keyboard was an assault — how was it that my co-workers hadn’t complained at some point? Paper clips rattled in boxes, drawers and cabinets opened and closed, copy machines sounded like spaceships launching every time they regurgitated a copy….it was distracting and made it difficult to focus.
But it was the small noises that caught my attention. In just a week’s time, I was hit with a strange, new reality; everything makes a noise! It was a revelation that rocked my world (and still continues to do so). All my life, some things made noise, but not everything. With the hearing aids in, I realized that everything makes a noise. When I set my watch on the dresser, there’s a noise. The tires of my car make a noise across the concrete. When I turn a door handle, turn the page of a book, set a pan on the stove, opened my desk drawer, when I stirred the dressing for my chicken salad — it all makes a noise. I could even hear toilet paper in my hand! I was on the commode and would gather the paper in my hand, driven to madness at the sound. Why does that make a noise? Who needs to hear that?
My Audiologist had encouraged me to keep the hearing aids in — and on — as much as possible, but most days I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t wait to take them out in the evening. Removing the hearing aids felt like a gift, to go back to “normal” — to tuck myself away in my safe, familiar — and noiseless — world.
And I was so ashamed of those hearing aids; I worked very hard not to let anyone see them.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of the hearing aids,” a friend said to me, “You’re not ashamed of your glasses, are you?” Well, no, I responded, but had I been blind and spent 50 years bumping into walls I would be ashamed!
Perhaps my embarrassment stemmed from the fact that I always knew there was something wrong with me. I never imagined it was a hearing problem, but I’ve always known I was different from other people, set apart, the other, the odd-guy-out. I thought my white-trash upbringing and abusive childhood was the cause, or the depression and anxiety that came later. My whole life I’d felt like a freak; there were normal people and then there was me, and the goal had always been to act, and look, and behave like a ‘normal’ person.
When I took out my hearing aids, everything felt far away. There was me — and at a great distance from me — there was the rest of the world; everything was muted and distant. When I put the hearing aids on, I feel like part of the world, a participant in what’s going on around me. Not a stranger sitting in the corner, but a present member of my life.
When I stopped denying that I had a hearing problem though, several things started to fall into place for me. When I was in Junior high school, there was a boy who teased me because I said, “What?” every time the teacher asked me a question. In the hall after class he walked behind me, doing a little mean-boy dance as he chanted, “What? What? What?” The other kids thought it was hysterical, and all these years later, I could still feel the hot burn of shame in my cheeks. Without realizing it, I gave up the question, “What?” if I didn’t hear something.
When I was 30 years old, and I worked for a multi-billion dollar corporation — I was in charge of the money. My boss was a wonderful woman who mentored and groomed me for the business world, and she advised me to stop saying, “Huh?” It was unprofessional and unseemly, she told me. Instead, I should just pay attention. And after that, I don’t ever remember asking for clarification if I didn’t hear something. I’d just berate myself for not paying attention and work harder to get it right.
In these early weeks, I also realized that I had interacted with people using a set of rules I hadn’t known existed. With the hearing aids in, I was able to break the rules, and in doing so was made aware of them. I had always gravitated towards people who were ‘good talkers.’ People who were loud or who enunciated their words well. All my life, I’d worked jobs that were predominantly male — because men are easier for me to hear than women. People who mumbled, or had quiet voices, or thick accents were people I avoided. I interacted with them politely, but as briefly as possible, before I moved on.
I’m a naturally friendly person, but I realized I have always chosen my moments to be friendly. I engaged people in conversations if the setting was right; if the surroundings were quiet and I could see them clearly. Loud locations, where many people interacted at once, were something I’d always avoided. I told myself it was because I was an introvert and didn’t like crowds, but in large groups of people who were talking over each other, it was too hard to keep up with the conversation. In those social settings I quickly began to feel like the odd-guy-out.
And it was easier to surround myself with people who were content to talk about themselves, with little or no concern about getting to know me (yes, the narcissists.) People who had a genuine interest in getting to know me were avoided — but not just because I was a ‘private’ person, but because they might ask a question that I didn’t hear. It was better to just avoid that situation all together. Small wonder that at the age of 50, I’m a friendly person who feels isolated and alone.
And I fake it a lot! I didn’t realize I was doing that, but apparently one of the unknown rules I was living by was to mimic the reaction of the crowd, whether I heard what was going on or not. I caught this behavior in myself at an Al-Anon meeting. I usually sat in the spot where I could see just about everyone when they talked, but I needed to practice taking in information with my ears, not my eyes, so I started sitting in the back of the room. The person who was speaking was a soft spoken woman and she was obscured from my vision. Even with my hearing aids turned up all the way, I only caught every third or fourth word. And she must have said something funny, because everyone in the room broke into laughter — and like a Pavlovian dog, I laughed too. Or at least I looked like I laughed. And I wondered Why did I do that? I have no idea what she said! But I’d done that all my life. I watched the crowd and took my cues from them; when they laughed, so did I. When they looked upset or wiped tears from the corner of their eyes, I looked solemn. It never occurred to me to wonder why I didn’t hear what was going on — I was more concerned with watching for cues from the crowd.
