Uh-Oh!

     

It's the most wonderful time of the year.
     We have family visiting, presents to open, memories to share, and a sweet dog to torture.  (I had a little too much fun making my dog miserable by putting a Santa Claus hat on him.  Poor li'l fella!)  This holiday season has been great to say the least; my uncle is staying with us, I received a pair of orange boots, and we all went skiing in Taos.  Needless to say, it has been a blast!
     Just the other night, we were all having pizza made by my fabulous dad, and the dinner conversation somehow worked its way to my birth and the discovery of my hearing loss.  Now, I was already familiar with the story of how my parents learned about my hearing loss - I wasn't meeting the normal milestones for regular babies, and they took me to the doctor at 15 months and confirmed my hearing problems - but, I once again realized, there was more to the story than simply a failed audiogram.
     I was born the perfect little baby girl in Virginia, before they had newborn screenings.  I can honestly say that I don't really care about how early they caught my hearing loss or how if they caught it earlier, I would have "more perfect speech."  I don't care about my early baby development not meeting all milestones; I don't remember the panic my parents were going through.  I was a baby; ignorance was bliss.  I'm here; I'm doing well in school; I have a wonderful dog (thanks to my hearing loss) that I occasionally torture with bath-times and Santa hats (I should also mention that he is very forgiving).
     As a passing thought, my parents might have wished that the newborn screening caught my hearing loss earlier.  My mom was freaking out that I wasn't speaking at the normal age or responding to my name.  They recounted over dinner conversation how, unbeknownst to them, I was showing all the sign of a high-frequency hearing loss.  I ran around with my arms up to help balance myself.  Inner ears are a key component of balance, and since mine are whack, I used my arms to help balance.  (Luckily, I don't run around like that anymore!)  When I went to my grandparents' house, I would play their piano, but only on the left side, where the low notes are.  Now they realize I was trying to say "Hey! Something's wrong!  I can only hear these notes."
     So when I was 15 months, they took me to the doctor who did some testing and then broke the news to them that I was hard of hearing.  To my mind, they were more than a bit melodramatic about the news.  It was the worst thing in the world, a real tragedy.  What put this situation in perspective for them, and saved me from certain misery about my "tragic" situation, was that this testing was done in a children's hospital.  If you go into the ICU ward of a children's hospital (as I did one unlucky winter when I had pneumonia), you see bald babies with IVs, and children who should be out playing, but are tethered to bunches of medical equipment.  That's more or less what they saw in that hospital, children battling cancer or some other life-threatening problem.  That's when they realized that I'm lucky.  A hearing loss is a boo-boo compared to a tumor.
     After that hospital visit, they developed that "can-do" attitude.  Their exact words at the dinner table were "This [hearing loss] is nothing.  We can do this."  Both parents being over-educated, they did lots of research into the deaf world, assistive technology, and took me to see audiologists and other specialists.  And they decided that I would go to a mainstream school with speech therapy and the oh-so-wonderful (not) hearing aids.
     The hearing aid decision brings me to my favorite story of my early years.  My parents were discussing hearing aids with my aunt when my older cousin Ian overheard them and said "uh-oh."  I repeated after him.  And then I was running around my aunt's house with my hands in the air saying "uh-oh."  That was my first word, and it has since become my favorite word due to the many applications of "uh-oh" in my life.
     So, that brings me to the conclusion of this reflection.  This holiday season is very fun, but it is full of uh-ohs.  On top of the elaborate food preparation, I have college essays to write!

Happy Holidays!

Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving! A Blessing from a Curse...
Over the years, I have gained a better understanding of how much being deaf hurts me.  For starters, I cannot hear birds chirping, friends calling, high harmonics playing, etc...  There are so many bad things and faults which I can pin on my hearing loss and hearing aids.  I can blame my paranoia around water on them; I can blame my social awkwardness on them; I can blame lack of money in my college fund on them; I can blame all sort of things on deafness and hearing aids.  But there is one thing that I could blame them for but I won't blame them - instead I want to thank them.  I could blame my dog on my deafness.
Before I continue, with how deafness rose from being a curse to a blessing, let me introduce you to my dog, Oreo. You may be familiar with him from “The Talk” already.  He’s one big bundle of love and trouble.  He’s both mischievous and sweet.  He loves eating kleenex and food, along with sharing the loving and taking naps.  He’s part of our family, and nothing can ever change that now; however, if I was born hearing, he would have never been part of our family.
Here’s what would have happened if I was born hearing.  My parents would rejoice at having a healthy little baby girl.  I would grow up normal-ish, maybe my speech would be perfect and I would be the popular girl at high school (wishful thinking here).  I’m sure at some point I would have asked for a dog, or a cat, or a pony; I may even have begged to have a four-legged creature to become part of the family.  But the answer would always be the same, no.
My mom grew up having zero pets.  Animals were intimidating to take care of; a horse was too big; my mom was allergic to cats; and dogs were too mischievous.

Now when my parents got married, my dad had to agree to three things - no trucks, no moving to New Mexico, and absolutely no dogs!  Well, I already told you I’m a New Mexican, and we have a dog, and there’s a truck in the driveway of my house.

When my parents learned I was deaf, they did all the research to find the right audiologist, the support groups, and the accommodations needed for deaf children, including, possibly, a hearing dog.  By the time we moved to New Mexico and I was in grade school, I really wanted a dog.  I was too young to meet the criteria for an official hearing dog, so my parents decided to get a dog to be a hearing buddy for me.  Oreo was a sweet puppy, fitting easily in my dad’s hand and my arms.  We potty trained him and took him to puppy kindergarten.  When he was ready to begin training as a hearing dog, we discovered that the hearing dog trainer in New Mexico had left the state!  Now what should we do with a dog who barks at mailman and get into trash cans?  Our answer, turn him into a family member.

He never turned into a hearing dog, but he’s a lap dog, a loving dog, a bio-vacuum, a dog to cry on, a party entertainer, and a great quasi-brother.  I can not imagine my family without him, but we would never have gotten him, if it was not for my deafness.  So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my deafness and most especially, Oreo.  Thank you Oreo!

The Talk

     Hi there!  Approaching the end of school.... finals this week.  Yipes! 
     This month's blog post is an assignment from my honors language art class.  We were to write a memoir in second person about a conversation that was memorable.  We were not to include the actual conversation, but to describe our thoughts and observations before, during and after.  I bet this story sounds familiar to some of you!  This happened to me in third grade, and, needless to say, I get along with my hearing aids much better now.

The Talk

     You are a carefree child reading a book while sitting on a chair.  The hearing aids you are wearing are heavy, so you take them off.  You put the hearing aids onto the table next to the chair.  Eventually you lose interest in the book and wander off.  The hearing aids lay forgotten on the table.  Your parents have told you multiple times not to leave the hearing aids lying around.

     There is a dog with a nose for trouble and a taste for earwax.  He is only a year old but has yet to learn not to chew on furniture.  It also happens that he likes to sit on the chair that is next to the table with the hearing aids.

     Your parents discover the chewed-up hearing aids, and they ask you to talk to them.  You’re frightened.  What could you have done now?  It is evening– the sky is a purple hue.  Your parents try to make you understand the significance of the hearing aids and the responsibility that comes with them.  They are also disappointed that the hearing aids were left unattended.  You are sad at first, disappointed that your parents are disappointed.  But then …

     Hearing aids are heavy, lousy, obnoxious, hateful, hurtful, the microphone is unruly, everyone gives you strange looks, you get blamed for everything that you feel is the hearing aids’ fault, and now your parents are disappointed that you left the hearing aids on the table.  The hearing aids are an unwarranted evil, you are glad the dog chewed them, and you should never have gotten them in the first place, it doesn’t matter now that your parents are disappointed.

     But your parents are not happy with this turn of conversation.  You hate the hearing aids, but they want you to wear them.  It goes back and forth - hate the hearing aids, wear the hearing aids, hate the hearing aids, wear the hearing aids.  Your parents’ decision is firm, as is your resolution to hate the hearing aids.  Finally, you end up in tears and run to your room, your safe haven.  

The photo on the left is a picture of me now with Oreo, (the dog who chewed my hearing aids!), and the photo on the right is a picture of me and Oreo in third grade which is around the time "The Talk" happened, both pictures are taken in New Mexico.