My Memories
ABSTRACT
This piece is a collection of memories—memories related to my hearing loss that have shaped the course of my life. In many ways I think of it as somewhat of a “fictional autobiography,” one that is compiled from various personal experiences alongside the implementation of creative liberty.
Three units covered in class that are most relevant to this work include Disease and Illness, Narrative Medicine, and Disabilities. In these units, we explored various topics in the realm of medical care with relationship to patients. The work merges both in-class lectures and discussions with my own personal background.
Throughout this composition of “Parts”—in chronological order, a recount of some of the experiences that have defined me—the protagonist is showcased as a malleable character. Within this work, the transition from struggling with hearing loss to accepting it as an inherent part of me is especially underscored. Now, I treat my hearing loss as something that makes me who I am, and I can only hope that it will be the same in the future.
Prior to constructing this piece, I planned to include “Parts” of the later stages of my life, events have not happened yet. However, I now realize that I do not necessarily want to predict my future nor do I want to speculate much about it. I am scared for what the future will hold for me, but writing this story is definitive proof that I have overcome numerous hurdles and will continue to do so. As such, no matter the amount of revising or editing I do, this work will never be finished by December. I plan to add more “Parts” as I gain new experiences; thus, this writing will be a continual work-in-progress throughout (hopefully) the remainder of my lifetime.
PART I
Too much light.
PART II
My father gestures to the array of pictures on the wall.
“Which one is the airplane?”
I am only three years old and very short. My stubby little legs strain to lift myself up and see all the pictures. I reach out to him, my hands outstretched. He senses my predicament and gently lifts me up into his arms.
Almost immediately, my eyes lock on to the red-winged airplane. I smack it repeatedly and let out a slight giggle.
PART III
Every day at three o’clock after elementary school, I head to the YMCA with a few of my friends. Elizabeth, Brandon, Mitchell, and I decide to play one of our favorite games: ball tag. The premise is simple: whoever is “it” has a red, soft dodgeball that they throw at another person to tag them.
All four of us head to the field. I instantly feel the sun bearing down on me, sweat quickly beginning to trickle down my face. Of course, Mitchell—the fastest out of all of us—gladly volunteers to be “it” first. He begins the countdown.
“3, 2, 1…”
What a time to be alive.
“…GO!”
My legs carry me across the grass with sudden speed. I feel like I’m gliding, as if I’m one of those figure skaters I see so often on television. I run as fast as I can across the field, dodging and weaving through the interspersed shrubbery beneath me.
I twist my head over my shoulder and see Mitchell barreling his way towards me, ball in hand. I turn back around and sprint as fast as I can.
Faster! Faster! You’re almost—
THUD.
My body slams into the ground.
Wonderful.
I let out a soft whimper and groan miserably. I had tripped over my shoelace.
My friends are shocked and run over to me immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Do you need ice?”
I reassure them that everything is alright; there is nothing to worry about.
As Mitchell extends his arm to help me up, I see he notices something in his peripheral vision. He stares intently at the side of my face.
I already see it coming from miles away.
Please God, don’t let him ask—
“What’s that in your ear?”
Two years. Two years I have been dreading for someone to ask me that question. None of my fourth-grade teachers had asked me about it—to be honest, I am not even sure if they had even noticed.
I wear black-colored hearing aids on each of my ears, both of which blend in perfectly with my also black hair. “Severe hearing loss” are the words I remember the audiologist saying.
I had always hated everything about them—the squishy earmolds, the way they look, the endless audiologist appointments, the fact that I have to be careful when it rains, and countless other downsides. I knew that they made me different, but in a bad way.
Unfortunately, Mitchell must have caught a glimpse of them as he was pulling me up. In all my years of waiting for this day, I had never once thought about how I should respond.
Ignorance really is bliss.
“They help me to hear,” I say.
Mitchell first looks startled, then his face becomes bright red of embarrassment. I can tell he is still confused but to my surprise, does not push it any further.
That wasn’t so bad, right?
Right?
PART IV
I feel a slight prick on my arm.
Please don’t let that be—
I feel another one. Another one. Yet another one.
I scramble to take off my backpack, rummage around for the Hat, and immediately throw it on to my head, pulling it down as far as it can go.
Rain.
It is quite possibly my biggest fear. I curse myself internally.
This god-awful Florida weather.
Why now?
I stand outside of my middle school in the car circle, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain droplets hitting the Hat. I pray that my parents will come and pick me up soon.
The Hat is quite possibly my most hated item—it is a fishing/rain cap with an extremely wide brim, but a million times worse. It is tearing apart at the edges, has dozens of wrinkles from being shoved to the bottom of my backpack, and makes me look twenty years older.
I am forced to wear the Hat to protect my hearing aids from getting wet. I glance enviously at my other classmates, all pulling out mini umbrellas from their backpack.
Why not use an umbrella, you ask?
If it is both windy and raining, some water will still be able to reach my hearing aids.
I can already feel the stares of people around me, all of them likely wondering what I am doing wearing this damned Hat. I scrunch my fists together and stare down at the grass in between my shoes, the rain droplets continuing to fall.
Twenty minutes goes by and I stay in the same position, standing still.
Shortly thereafter, out of the corner of my eye, I see the silver body of my mother’s Mazda approaching me. I hurry into the backseat of the car and shut the car door as quickly as I can.
My mother looks at me sitting in the backseat in the rearview mirror and smiles.
“How was your day?”
While taking off the Hat, I respond, “Fine.”
I stare out the window, watching the rain continue to lay waste to the landscape.
PART V
My audiologist places the devices on the table in front of me.
So tiny, yet so intricate.
The new hearing aids lay next to one another. It is almost as if they are begging me to use them.
I gently pick the left hearing aid up, close the battery cage, and place it in my left ear. I do the same for the right ear. Almost immediately I hear the familiar five-second start-up tune jingling in my head. Suddenly, the hearing aids turn on and my hearing comes back.
I immediately notice the slight hum of the air conditioning and the background noises of other patients having conversations in their respective rooms.
“Hello. Testing, testing,” I say to myself.
I am instantly shocked. I can already tell a difference between these hearing aids and my old ones. The audio is so more crisper and it is much easier for me to understand what is being said.
“Well?” my audiologist says. “How does it feel?”
“Beautiful,” I respond, smiling.
“Are you ready for the fun part?” she asks.
I grin widely. “Of course.”
I take out my phone and give it to her.
The “exciting part” was that these hearing aids had Bluetooth connectivity.
This meant no more bulky headphones.
No more sacrificing music whenever I tried to go out to jog.
No more feeling like an outsider.
I can finally listen to music in Pre-Calculus without anyone knowing.
After downloading an application and connecting my hearing aids to the phone, she hands it back to me.
I instantly head to Spotify and play a song.
My eyes widen as I hear the familiar tune of the music, except inside my own ears.
Maybe these hearing aids aren’t so bad after all.
PART VI
My heart throbs painfully against my chest.
BA-BUMP…BA-BUMP…BA-BUMP.
I glance at my hands in distaste, which have become unusually clammy. The question flashes on the screen.
BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP.
I skim the first two lines as fast as I can: “What battle is widely regarded to have marked the start of the American Civil War—”
Wait, I know this!
BA-BUMP-BA-BUMP-BA-BUMP.
My fingers, twitching with excitement, leap to smash the buzzer.
BABUMPBABUMPBABUMP.
Before I can press it, I hear the jarring “BZZZ” sound I know all too well from the opposing team’s table.
I sigh audibly.
How did the other team respond so quickly?
Granted, speed reading was among many of skills I had acquired through participating in Gallaudet University’s National Academic Bowl for Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing (HoH) High School Students. Because of the variety in hearing situations of the players, questions in this competition differ from that of a traditional quiz bowl setting; here they are asked exclusively through visual cues, rather than auditory ones.
The match ends, and I use ASL to sign to the other team “good game.”
They smile back and say the same to us.
I head back to the audience, where I warmly greet my friends I have met through Academic Bowl—Yael, Talia, Rosie, and Bella. All of them are experiencing some form of hearing loss and in that moment, I recall fondly memories them: us exploring the bitterness of marinara sauce mixed with Sprite, endless late-night conversations about the human condition, and hours on end of laughter.
However, the most valuable pieces of knowledge that I have gained from my experience at Academic Bowl are stories.
Stories of schools not offering sign language interpreters.
Stories of classes unable to adequately provide for the needs of my deaf/HoH friends.
And most disturbingly, stories of districts showing emergency preparedness videos—without captions.
Unfortunately, access for people with disabilities has too often become an afterthought.
PART VII
My bed shakes violently.
BZZZZZZ!
My eyes shoot open in an instant, I reach over to my side, and slam the snooze button on my alarm.
I always had a love-hate relationship with my vibrating alarm. Because I take off my hearing aids when I sleep, I can’t really use a traditional noise alarm
As such, if I ever wanted to wake up on time for class on Zoom University, I am forced to use a specific alarm clock which has a sensor that vibrates my whole bed.
Does it wake me up? Sure.
Does that mean I enjoy it? Not in the slightest.
I put on my glasses and hearing aids groggily and turn on my laptop. I glance at the time on the screen—9:46AM.
Wonderful. Already a minute late to Sociology.
I stretch my back in my chair as I wait for the Zoom link to load. In an instant, I hear the familiar sound of my professor’s voice lecturing.
Clarification—I can also see his face on camera. This means that if I don’t catch a word or a phrase here and there, my lip-reading skills will usually take over and compensate for it.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for in-person interactions simply because everyone is wearing a mask. Depending on the clarity and loudness of the other person’s voice, I can sometimes have a hard time interpreting what they say.
In a way, I am grateful to have online classes right now as I do think I would likely understand a lot less in an in-person class with masks. At the same time, I really hope to return to a state of normalcy soon, though I know that will only come with time.
I glance out the window.
Every hard-of-hearing person knows what I mean when I talk about feigning a laugh just to fit in with everyone else or feeling ashamed after asking another person to repeat themselves multiple times, or any other situation in between.
Will it ever be any less tiring?
Nevertheless, I know I can’t forgo my memories that have made me who I am today.
I smile and turn back to the Zoom lecture.
And in the end, that’s what makes life worth living.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Dixon, Angel. “‘I’m Always Like This.’” Disability Stories. Medium, January 14, 2019. https://medium.com/disability-stories/i-m-always-like-this-50c705c4131a.
Godin, Leona. “When People See Your Blindness as Superhuman, They Stop Seeing You as Human: M. Leona Godin.” Catapult, November 29, 2018. https://catapult.co/stories/when-people-see-your-blindness-as-superhuman-they-stop-seeing-you-as-human.
Helmreich, Stefan, Sophia Roosth, and Michele Ilana Friedner. Sounding the Limits of Life: Essays in the Anthropology of Biology and Beyond. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016.
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