“Nothing yet?” he enquired.
And that’s when I knew I was in trouble. The
“he” in question was an audiologist and I was his patient, sitting in a heavily-lined bunker, cushioned from sound, much like (it turns out) my ears.
“I’m afraid your hearing loss IS moderate
and that IS significant” breaks the casually brusque Doogie Howser with a
preference for upsizing his ISes. I am busy guessing our age difference as he points at the damning evidence before me. There it is, a downward-sloping graph, which
he is helpfully deciphering with all the jolly detachedness of an Akela
reading a map. (I’m guessing sixteen years.) But this is no map, it IS the
inner life of my ears. And they are f*cked.
Wow, I thought, I could be his mother.
“I think you should consider a hearing aid
at this stage and do everything you can to avoid further exposure to loud noise”
“Define loud…”
He smiles “Been to a lot of gigs, have we?”
“Yes, Father, for I have”
No nonsense, he talks on: anomalies..blah…in my results…blah blah….indicating
loss…blah..might be not be environmental..possibly hereditary…blah…recommending an MRI
scan…
Ironically, I was only half-listening because
my inner Edinburgh monologue had kicked in:
“A hearing aid? A Hear-ing?
AID?? But that’s only a short skip to mechanical hearts! Next stop: walk-in baths! Free bus passes! Whay-hey! I was always advanced for my age!”
I was sent back outside to wait for my
fitting. And whilst I sat on the plastic chair, balancing my belongings, I
reeled. I sat and I reeled because that day, I had gone in for a check-up and
was leaving with an actual disability. Like the man who walked down a mountain
and came up a...creek of shit.
“Look on the bright side, you’d qualify for
the Paralympics”
My boyfriend, a man with a profoundly-deaf
sister and a practical way of seeing things…
But its not like I suddenly
discovered last Wednesday my hearing was a bit..faulty. For years I thought I wasn’t concentrating enough or was being a
bit dim - really. That’s the thing about gradual deterioration. It’s
deterioration. And it’s gradual. Whether it's your hearing or your eyesight, you
compensate for the loss, and keep compensating and then before you know it,
you’re doing a Helen Keller with the household furnishings.
I have a friend of mine whose Blackberry
typeface setting is so big it can be seen from space. She’ll squint at wine
bottles, menus, shaggy dog stories - but her glasses remain in the case. She
has a clear view of her place in the world, so what if it's a little hazy?
I don’t know when my hearing started to
diminish. I know I missed the odd word, then the odd sentence, then I realized
I was listening really, really hard
in any situation that involved atmospheric noise, or music, or more than one
person. I’d rewind TV shows because throwaway lines were lobbed right out of
the ballpark. I didn't hear my phone ring so often, it became a running joke
amongst friends. Ah, my friends! This news has been a bit of a eureka! moment
for them:
“So, I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve
met a divorced unicorn and we’re moving in together…”
Me: (blank face) “I’m thinking of having
the spaghetti, what about you?”
Under certain circumstance, trying to catch
the conversation is akin to trying to roll a jelly trifle across a cattle-grid.
It’s simply not going to get there in one piece.The pub chats I’ve missed; the tiny
panic during a “mumbled” shopping transaction; the inability to understand A. Single.
Word train station announcers say…oh wait, that’s everyone.
My soundscape has been unavoidably retracting,
the dull, sometimes shrill, thrum of tinnitus taking its place. This summer, in
Italy, I couldn’t hear the crickets chirrup. I don’t always hear birdsong. I
can’t remember the last time the lazy hum of a bumble bee registered in my head.
My heart breaks a little bit. It feels like part of reality is loosening from my
grasp. I’m DiCaprio, slipping from the floating wood, sinking…
My childhood jumps out at me via albums:
Drama (Yes); Two Days Away (Elkie Brooks); Elton John and his Yellowbrick Road;
Rod Stewart with Atlantic Crossing; The Police, The Stones, The Who, everything
by The Beatles ever; Sweet Charity and West Side Story; Modern Lovers and Kate
Bush. I was chained to the stereo, I worshipped at her altar as my nimble hands
reverentially slid crisp paper sleeves from cardboard jackets. That exquisite
pleasure from feeling the weight of the needle balanced upon my finger, the
sheer thrill of being completely absorbed.
By Christmas 1981 I had my first Sony
Walkman. Life finally had its own score. I was hooked - and I cranked it up to
eleven.
The technology attached to my ears has changed: cassettes became CDs became mini-disks became MP3 players...but the isolated
joy has always been the same. Pure and unadulterated.
I don’t know how to end this post. I don’t
know how this story will end. I hope to preserve the rest of my hearing. If I’m
DiCaprio, I want to be saved by the Carpathia, accept losing a foot to frostbite, maybe, put daft Rose behind me as the holiday romance she clearly was. I don’t want to
disappear from this beautiful, audibly-nuanced world.
I continue to listen to music – but I
keep an eye on the volume and I carry earplugs (just in case). But mostly, I’m
no longer ashamed of not “keeping up” with what’s being said – there’s a reason, and it’s been a blessed relief to finally admit it.
