Someone asked me recently, “Do you wish you could hear?”
I had to stop and ponder that one.
If you asked me that question when I was nineteen, shortly after I became deaf from a fall while barefooting, I would have said, “Hell, yes.” No pause. No reflection there. The answer would have been simple: give me full-fledged hearing and I will dance a jig until the end of time.
I was born with hearing in the normal range. I can remember my Dad telling me stories about a dog named Scamp. My Dad worked double shifts, so I would crawl into bed when he arrived home and lie there while he told me stories. I was about five or six when the warning signs began showing– I’d misunderstand a sentence or would ask him to repeat the words. I grew up hard of hearing and had developed lipreading skills since I was young — I was firmly entrenched in the “hearing” world and knew no sign language.
I was miserable being hard of hearing. The struggle to lipread and understand people in group conversations was next to impossible at times. So I found my solace in books and in my small circles of friends who knew me inside out. Those friends accepted me so well and knew what to do to make communication happen.
The last shred of what I could hear without hearing aids was gone the moment I climbed into the boat after cartwheeling on the water. I didn’t realize it that day– I just figured I had water in my ears and it would subside. It wasn’t until the day that I left for college that I realized that “being deaf” was here to stay. I spent my college nights lying there in the dark and… crying. Grief was a heavy cloak that wrapped around me in the darkness. I cursed the piece of electronic equipment that I stuffed into my ear each day which did nothing more than bring environmental sounds to life and made lipreading a tad easier. I had already spent most of my life lipreading, but I could at least hear the sounds around me and turn when spoken to without the hearing aid. After that fall, there was nothing but silence without hearing aids. A blessing at night, indeed, when the roar of tinnitus eventually stopped. But it wasn’t a real blessing until I was deep into the journey.
College life was filled with deaf and hard of hearing friends; some who had arrived into the Deaf Community like me– with no knowledge of American Sign Language. I spent my days learning to lipread the interpreters and match their lip movements to their rapid hand movements. I took several ASL classes and slowly incorporated the language into everyday life. Before I knew it, life had become a happy journey down this new road. I met Joe–also deaf–who later became my husband. We spent twelve years traveling with a deaf volleyball team and playing in tournaments.
And then one day, I realized that I no longer grieved. Instead, I celebrated. There was much to enjoy from this new life path– an amazing language, a wonderful community and a blessed acceptance that a deaf life was indeed full and beautiful. And…three deaf and hard of hearing kids.
So, you can see why today, I pause and ponder the answer to the question, “Do you wish you could hear?”
The answer is a complicated one. On one hand, yes. I close my eyes and imagine being able to hear what others are saying when I hang out in groups. I imagine the sweet bliss of being able to go anywhere, anytime and have access to the audio jungle out there. But there is the sweet bliss of being content with how my life has unfolded on this journey; because you see, becoming deaf didn’t rob me of life, instead, it gave me a whole, new, beautiful life.
Karen Putz is known as The Passion Mentor. Want to learn how you can live a PASSIONATE life? Schedule your 30-minute Passion Consult here:
Comments
20 responses to “On Being Deaf”
What an awesome post! Hopefully one day you will link up to my Weekend Warriors so more Caretakers, Relatives, and Mothers of Deaf children can see this!
You and I are on the same boat. Often times, people ask me if I wish I could see.
The answer, like yours, is also complicated. I’ve been blind since birth and am used to it. If the question was asked when I was elementary school, the answer would be “YES”. Now, life is good as it is. Of course it would be wonderful if I had vision. I love my life as it is.
Great post and outlook. I thought this would be fitting to repost here:
WELCOME TO HOLLAND
c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved.
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this……
When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”
“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”
But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.
So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around…. and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills….and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy… and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”
And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away… because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But… if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things … about Holland.
by: Emily Perl Kingsley
Anthony Russo
http://www.anthonyrussoblog.com/Anthony
Skype: anth.russo
Twitter: @AnthonyRusso
What I love about you is that you do not define yourself by your disability, but by your ability. You have learned to live life to the fullest, and I admire you immensely.
Karen, you have such a beautiful spirit – it’s what I noticed when I first met you and remember each time I think about you. I’m not really surprised you found the way through your experience to embrace and celebrate it… but that doesn’t make it any less wonderful.
It’s also wonderful that you share it. Can only help the world be a litlte more open minded and open hearted.
I posted on the Weekend Warrior– thanks for introducing me to that!
Silly Ez– Thanks for sharing! “I love my life as it is”– those are sweet words!
Anthony, thanks for sharing that essay. “Welcome to Holland” has helped to change perspectives for families who are just starting on the path of raising a child with a disability.
Jen, babe, thanks for the lovely comment. I love and admire you too!
Do I wish for normal hearing? It would certainly make life easier. I don’t know if easy is good, though. Working harder for my achievements really does make them worthwhile. Being a role model for students with hearing loss has been an important part of my teaching career. When they see me, they see a hearing impaired person who is a professional, working alongside hearing persons. I hope my presence in their lives makes a difference.
Very inspirational post! Good to hear deafness being celebrated!
Daisy, you said it well. Adversity and overcoming obstacles does make a person stronger. I am sure your students recognize the difference you make in their lives.
Jal, thanks for reading. I hope more and more folks will celebrate too!
What a great post! You got it spot on! Personally I would still want my hearing back without a doubt, but I think you are so fabulous for having reached such a high level of acceptance. I hope I too can one day pause when asked that question!
Thanks for sharing your journey with us.
hi deafmom,
i love your recent blog. i’m so with you. but i do have strong desire of wanting to hear on only certain things: movies and musics. don’t get me wrong, i’m fully deaf at birth, came from few generations deaf families. totally proud of who i am. i can’t control what i feel, desire to hear things. for instance, hearing my daughter’s voice, making noise that melts me. my daughter is coda and often people make mistake her as deaf child. she will tag along to the point i have to stop and have her to tell them the truth that she’s hearing. she’s good at it. ha! back to the point, i love that i don’t have to deal with unnecessary noises during my sleep, driving, travels or listening to other people’s crap talk which my daughter or mom (interpreter) have to deal with everyday. when my daughter and i want to rent a movie or rocking out on the musics together, that’s when i would put my CI on, nothing more. that’s just more of like entertainment noises i do enjoy. i’m still always will be deaf without it and i totally love being deaf, no question. 🙂
again, i love your article. such an refreshing feeling. have a great day, deafmom!
Olivia and Kim–thanks for reading! I enjoyed sharing it!
Jasun, thanks for sharing! It can be really nice to turn the noises on and off!
Karen, this post was meaningful to me. I know you know my daughter left for college last year. Thank you for helping me imagine better what it was/ is for her.
Wonderful message about blooming where you are planted. Always appropriate. 😀
What an uplifting post. You really are an inspiration to all. Yours is a great lesson about making the best of what you have and loving it in the meantime.