Copyright Inked Water Lilies 2021. Published 05/21/2021
One of the questions people ask when I tell them of my partial deafness is: “Were you born with it?”
I was not born with something in my genetic makeup that made me half deaf. Rather, my birth was a complicated one. Think of it this way: anything that could go wrong, did go wrong. When I was born, I wasn’t breathing. I was rushed from one hospital to another in a STARS helicopter; once I arrived, I was hooked up to various machines––the only things keeping me alive.
My death was a very real possibility. There are no happy pictures following the first month of my birth. Not even when Santa Clause visited me in the hospital.
As a result of all these complications, I am now half deaf and will be for the rest of my life.
The interesting thing is, for the first eighteen to nineteen years of my life, I never really thought of my hearing loss as a disability. Of course, I was well aware that the vast majority of my fellow students didn’t need small devices to help them hear on a more normal level. How could I not, when young children asked what those things in my ears were?
Even still, it was not until recently that I’ve started to say that something might be difficult for me because I have a hearing disability. My hearing loss is something I’ve always lived with. Yes, it is frustrating, having to ask someone to repeat themselves five times. It is annoying when I go to the movie theater and, without the help of closed captioning, I only have a general idea of what the plot of the movie is. Thankfully, we live in a time that is more accessible for people––even in the movie theater. As a result, that particular problem has lessened.
I will admit that my loss of hearing causes frustration in my life. But it took me some time before I began to casually throw the word “disability” around. For me, it is a simple fact of life. The sky is blue, water is wet, I am half deaf. I have never truly viewed it as something that makes me less of a person or something that makes me extraordinary. But some people seem to disagree.
There have been some instances in my life that stand out––ones that told me that not everyone views me as “normal.” My memory is vague, but I do remember encountering a few girls in the girls’ washroom, sometime between grade two and grade five. I think one of them asked me a question, and when I answered, they looked at each other as if it was some amazing feat that I was able to understand enough to answer them at all.
And then there was the incident in high school, wherein a girl in my grade struck up a conversation with me in the hallway. She told me she was going to graduate early; I can remember being bewildered by that, and a bit jealous. The girl asked me something then––I can’t remember what––but I do remember her reaction. She said, “Yeah?” in a high-pitched voice that reminded me of the way people talk to babies. Or dogs. Suffice to say, I didn’t appreciate it then; I appreciate it even less now.
It’s moments like these that influenced my severe lack of self-esteem.
I understand why some people treated me that way. My hearing loss has certainly made a number of things difficult for me. There were times during my schooling when someone would talk to me, or tell me to do something. Confused and unable to understand, I would give them a wide, doe-eyed look. It must have been frustrating for them. Still, I didn’t appreciate it when people would physically move me to wherever I was supposed to be standing during drama class, or would feel the constant need to instruct me and tell me what to do. I am not stupid now and I was not stupid then. Some things are simply more difficult for me.
Make no mistake: I am not saying that I have a horrible life. Nor am I saying I have a harder life than others. As the saying goes, I am telling it like it is.
Despite these occurrences in my earlier life, not everyone is unkind about my hearing loss. I remember being surprised during my first year of college, when, no matter how many times I had to ask my roommates to repeat something, they never showed any outward frustration. I appreciated this; most people tend to lose patience after being asked to repeat something several times. They never did.
It is true that I have hearing aids. Even still, there are times when I still have difficulty. It can be hard enough in a calm room. A loud room, such as a party, is nearly impossible for me. This is why I learned the “nod and smile” technique. If I pretend I know what someone is saying, then they won’t have to repeat themselves, resulting in less frustration for both of us.
This doesn’t work all the time, of course––especially when the speaker is expecting a response to a question they asked. But it is a tactic I’ve used for some time and likely will continue to use.
There was yet another time during my first year of college wherein someone was kind about my disability. Our professor asked my class to arrange ourselves into pairs or groups so that we could discuss the topic on hand. The man next to me became my partner for this discussion. He started to say something about the topic and then cut himself off and asked, “Can you hear me?” It’s the way he said it that stuck with me. Not with any hint of annoyance or derision; not over the top. He asked in a simple, matter-of-fact voice. He was not trying to make me feel bad; he was making sure I could hear so that we could have our discussion. I have little doubt that if I’d answered “no,” he would have spoken louder, or done something else to make sure I could hear him properly.
It’s the little things like that that I’ve come to appreciate.
In truth, I have many things to be thankful for. I live in a time that is much more accessible for people like me. Twenty or thirty years ago, I would not have the accommodations I do now. In fact, thirty years ago I might have been rejected by institutions, simply for having a disability.
I have met plenty of kind people as a result of my partial deafness. I even formed friendships that, while temporary, were meaningful to me. Like my childhood friend who also had hearing loss. After meeting him in elementary school, suddenly I wasn’t the only kid who wore hearing aids. For once in my life, I didn’t feel like the odd one out. I had an ally. Someone who was like me.
Of course, I know I am not the only one who’s experienced hearing loss. I’m far from the only person my age group who uses hearing aids. But when I was a young kid in elementary school receiving different treatment than the other kids, it could feel like I was the only one in the world who was like me. And though that friendship didn’t last, that does not diminish that, for my time in elementary and some in middle school, I was not alone.
Being fifty percent deaf may not be many people’s ideal of living their life, but in truth, it is far from the worst thing that could have happened to me.
So, if I could change that, would I? If one day there was a magical, relatively inexpensive cure that could give me perfect hearing, or I was granted a chance to wish it for myself, would I wish myself more “normal”? Would I go through with it?
To be honest, if I were given such an opportunity, wishing away my deafness is unlikely to be the first thing that crosses my mind. It is a part of my overall identity and it is something I am used to. I have accepted the fact that I will always be part deaf. It is not a fact that devastates me.
Except in moments of frustration, I have given little serious thought to how my life would be if I had more normal hearing. I cannot pin down an exact moment wherein I wished my life, in this respect, was different.
True, my life is made more difficult at times, but I’ve learned to adapt. In a way, my deafness has taught me to speak up for myself. Because if I don’t, then all I’m doing is making my life harder than it needs to be. It’s also true that I’ve been yelled at when I didn’t deserve it; I’ve been talked down to (even by members of my own family), but even then, my self-esteem has improved over the years. It’s not perfect. I acknowledge that my lack of self-esteem is due, in part, to how I’ve been treated, but it’s better than it used to be. It’s a lifelong process, just like my deafness is something I will always live with.
And you know what? I’m okay with that.
