The Bright Side

I like to think I am an optimist… that I try to see the good in even the bleakest of situations.  However, when I’m in a Dayquil-fueled fog accompanied by head-buzzing misery, I struggle to see the bright side.

Prior to Thanksgiving, I caught the dreaded stomach bug.   A week later I replaced my condition with a never-ending sore throat and sinus headache.  I’ve had two colds since my surgery, and both times, it seems my cochlear implant’s functionality is compromised during cold and flu season.  For me, a simple cold now coexists with head pressure surrounding my implant site, and more annoyingly, a constant buzzing that remains ringing through my head regardless of whether I am wearing the processor or not.  That’s right; even when the implant is OFF, I still hear noise—a condition common to people with cochlear implants known as tinnitus, also known as “ringing of the ears.”  Some people have this without being hearing impaired or having an implant, and it’s my understanding that deaf or not, it sucks for everyone. 

Additionally, certain noises seem to be even more obnoxious than normal when I’m sick.  Head-buzzing is one of them.  Another is the high pitch squeal of Claire’s screams when she plays with her brother.  This has always annoyed Jeff, but pre-surgery, I was oblivious to its occurrence.  Well, I hear it now and OH. MY. GOD.  Little girl screams are the WORST. 

As you can probably tell, I’ve been grumpy, and though I should probably focus on my blessings during this most-wonderful-time-of-the-year, I admit I haven’t been feeling very thankful.  I thrive to hear voices, after all… clearly and effortlessly; I didn’t get this surgery to hear squeals and buzzes.  And so, I’ve spent the last few weeks pretty pissed off toward my cochlear implant progress.

Today, however, and in more ways than one, I was lucky to see some light.  It appeared during an all-day training held in a large, hotel banquet room.  The majority of the training was lecture-style, and the speaker was great—charismatic, interesting, and to my luck, he spoke loudly and clearly.  Even better, I realized I didn’t have to work to understand him… that is, until I slid my processor magnet off my head to see what he would sound like without the implant.

He wasn’t clear.  And he wasn’t loud.  I had no clue what he was saying.

It would be a disservice to the implant not to acknowledge its value to me when I’m attending presentations and lectures.  In that setting, and with the right speaker, it is working.  Upon realizing this, the room brightened.

The training, incidentally, focused on cultural diversity and social identities, and considering my 23 years of experience with a disability, I felt I could contribute to the discussion.  After sharing some of my story with the participants, one woman added that when she first heard my voice, she wanted to know “where my unique accent was from.”

There it was—the reaction to my speech that I try to make sound as normal as possible.  Sometimes I get the “Where-are-you-from question,” and other times, and especially from kids, I get the frank “You-talk-funny” statement.  On occasion I’m asked if I have my tongue pierced.

Then there’s my favorite-- when a daycare parent once looked at me inquisitively while I spoke and then commented, “You’re so exotic.  Where are you from?” 

To which I replied, “New Jersey.”

If ten years ago, a colleague had pointed out I talked differently in front of 50+ professionals, I most certainly would have been embarrassed.  I might have cried.  And I definitely would have wanted to wring that lady’s neck for spotlighting the fact that I was different.

Today, however, there was no bitterness.  I realized she wasn’t trying to hurt my feelings, but that she was curious—that’s all.  Just. Curious.  What a difference from a decade ago…  Hell, even a year ago!  My progress in self-acceptance continues to surprise me and truly brighten my days. 

I realized today that the bright side is there, but it is my choice whether or not to let the light in.  Moreso, when the journey seems foggy and dark, it is up to me to remember those moments of brightness.  During the 2012 holiday season, my first Christmas with the implant, I choose for my days to be merry and bright.   I wish the same for all of you.

Thank you, Thank you Dunkin' Donuts!

For several years now, I've been running on Dunkin.'

My love affair with Dunkin' Donuts became serious after I had my daughter, Claire. Though I have always liked coffee, I used to be able to take or leave a cup in the morning, and I was not particularly partial to any brand or shop.  Once I became a working mother of two, however, coffee became a necessity, and if I didn't have it, my chances of having a good day were minimal.

My local Dunkin' Donuts is within two miles of my home, and my addiction intensified after experiencing the intoxicating joy of my local drive thru attendant, a blonde and smiling woman my friends and I have come to refer to as "Thank you, Thank you."  Why?  After handing over my money for my necessary morning drink, this woman- who I've since learned starts work before the crack of dawn- cheerfully leans out the window and gives me a glee-igniting smile and wave before saying her signature, upbeat "Thank you, Thank YOU!"

It is the BEST, and I.  LOVE.  HER.

About a year before my surgery, my trips to the drive thru window lessened.  Even in rain and snow, I started to park the car and walk into Dunkin' Donuts to place an order instead of go through the drive thru.  Soon, I was pretty much avoiding the drive thru altogether, which was often inconvenient and time-consuming. As I noticed my hearing declining, the experience of the drive thru- and most experiences in my life, for that matter- became anxiety-provoking.   Receiving my coffee from Thank You, Thank You had always been so fun, but it was no longer the same, and I was plagued with insecurity about not being able to hear the voice over the speaker.  It was yet another reminder that I couldn't perform such an everyday task, and it depressed me.

Since my surgery, I have visited my local Dunkin' Donuts several times, and I have tried the drive thru once again.  In the beginning, it was HORRIBLE, and I would end up pulling the processor off my ear, sometimes abandoning the speaker to give my order at the window.

But I'm improving.   Even though I don't hear each word Thank you, Thank you says over the speaker (or whoever is working the window for that matter), it's getting better.  MUCH better. (Also exciting, though irrelevant to the story, is that I recently purchased an iced coffee koozie from DD.  It's awesome.  So I now have coffee, koozie, drive thru, Thank You, Thank You, and I'm hearing.  WINNING!)

So today I was driving home from a work meeting where I sat among approximately 100 colleagues in an echo-filled hotel conference room non-stop for seven hours.  It was a lot of voices- A LOT of noise- but to date, it was the BEST I have heard at a meeting.

When it was time to leave, I welcomed a brain break.  During my commute home, I took off my processor in need of some quiet.  My ears continued to ring throughout my drive (a common occurrence after a few hours of noise), but I was still given some respite from hours of constant sound.

Tired, I decided to visit a Dunkin' Donuts on the way home for a little pick-me-up (not Thank You, Thank You's location, sadly, but I don't think she works the evening shift anyway).  Pulling up to the speaker, I waited.

And waited.

"Hmm," I thought to myself, "I'm not used to visiting the drive thru this time of day, so I wonder if maybe the staff person doesn't stay by the window as much as a morning attendant might.... Oh WAIT!  My PROCESSOR!"

As quickly as I could, I put the processor back on my ear and sure enough, there was a voice: "Can I take your order?"

When I got to the window, I asked the pretty teenage girl if she had been talking to me for a while without me responding.

"Yes," she said smiling shyly.  The old Pam would have been embarrassed, but I just laughed.  I then told her about my surgery, and still laughing, I told her how nice it was to know the implant was, indeed, working.  She laughed too, and told me she was happy for me.  

Driving away, a smile on my face, I was once again reminded that I'm moving forward in my journey in so many ways.  I said a prayer using one of my favorite phrases: "Thank you, THANK YOU!"

WINNING!

Applauding Small Victories

It’s been about two weeks since I wrote what I’ve come to refer to as “Pam’s Pity Party Post,” a hearing impaired bitch-fest, if you will, regarding my frustrations adjusting to life with a cochlear implant.  Venting over the Internet proved to be very cathartic (Thank you, Readers, for waiting politely as I revitalized myself with a good, old-fashioned temper tantrum).  Once I let go of some of my frustrations and anger, I am happy to report good moments returned to my life.

As my Facebook friends might have seen, I recently posted a status that yielded nearly 100 likes (Thanks, Facebook Friends).  In an abbreviated version of the following story, I wrote how my children, Colin and Claire, had their first piano lesson.  The lesson took place in an old music hall,  and I watched with joy as the kids happily familiarized themselves with the keys and notes of a beautiful, restored 1904 piano.  I think I was so pleased that they were so enthusiastically engaged in the lesson that it took me a few minutes to be conscious of my hearing powers.  As Claire’s fingers slowly paced up the keyboard, I realized I didn’t stop hearing once she got to the upper third of the keys.  In the past, I’ve had enough musical knowledge to “know” what note comes next on the scale, and to be able to hear it in my head, even if I can’t sing it.  (And trust me- when it comes to a high note, I CAN’T sing it.)  In the past, I was also accustomed to hearing the “tap” of pressing down a piano key (think of pressing a key on an electronic keyboard when the keyboard isn’t on).  But this time, I realized, I was hearing actual tones—crisp, clear, non-robotic, and in fact, pretty tones reaching higher and higher in frequency.  Once I realized what I was hearing, I informed the kids’ music teacher that I was new to the high notes, and he allowed me to prolong my moment by pressing some  more keys and even letting me experience the cymbals of a drum.  When presented one by one, I experienced each unique tone like never before.    It was a victory… a small success that my cochlear implant could happily surprise me after a long cycle of frustration.   I was grateful.

Gratitude is a wonderful feeling, but sadly, it can be so short-lived once positive thinking is removed.  After posting my tale on Facebook, I experienced a mild “Oh, how nice” kind of feeling that I had so much support, but there was a part of me that felt as though I was lying.  Sure, hearing the upper register on a piano was new and exciting in the moment,  but that’s not what I wanted from this surgery.  It didn't make me successful.  When I go out with friends, or participate in a meeting, I’m not interacting with a high G note, after all.

Speaking of interaction, however, I DID have a good CI outing on a Saturday with my husband Jeff.  We were at a local restaurant, seated at an outdoor table while a very talented acoustic singer performed near our table.  Pre-surgery, I would have loved listening to the music; unfortunately, that is all I would have been able to listen to, as the background noise of vocals and guitar would have surely dominated over any conversation at the table.  The way I was hearing was different that evening, and by playing with my CI settings and volumes, I was able to come to a comfortable place where yes, the music was there, but so was Jeff.  We could talk.  I was still looking at him, and I was still focused, but we could do it.  Another thankful day, another small victory.

A week after, a group of friends and I returned to the same restaurant for a girls’ night out.  Once again, outdoor seating, and once again, an outdoor performance, although this time it was a band.  I had even suggested the spot because of my previous weekend’s success, boasting to my friends that I would be able to hear them!  And I could… sort of. 

Dealing with four different female voices proved to be a challenge; though one setting might be ideal for Tara, the volume wouldn’t be right for Michelle.  Though the sensitivity level would be perfect for Carrie, somehow I kept thinking Kim said “cranberry” when she was really saying “grape.” (I know... Not even CLOSE). With more noise surrounding me, there was so much more to consider, and the ability to hear all sounds harmoniously presented quite a challenge.  It was certainly not the same as a single note, or one familiar voice.  My brain struggled to keep up.

My optimistic self tells me this is to be expected, and little by little, my brain will allow more complicated noise to be deciphered.  After all, I didn’t initially hear the blinker in my car, or the beep when the microwave turns off (I’m still startled every time it beeps, by the way).  On most days, these small collection of sounds have become a “new normal," an experience I would have never had before.  Still, my regular, perfectionist, impatient self typically ignores those moments and instead wonders why this whole confusing process has to be so damn annoying.

I TRY to remind myself that not every victory has to be the result of some complex, Olympian task.... I really do.  Still, I struggle with Pam’s perfect expectations, not just when dealing with my CI, but when dealing with life, in general.  Take my to-do list, for example.  Too often I won’t finish it.   I might get around to finally folding the laundry (a small victory in itself), but instead, I’ll brood over how I failed to weed my front yard, failed to make dentist appointments, failed to email my friend, failed, failed, FAILED.  Even when I heard the high notes on the piano- quite possibly the first time I had EVER heard those notes- my gratitude quickly faded when I turned my focus to how much I was still missing in conversation, how difficult it was to talk on the phone…  Failure, failure, FAILURE. 

Please remind me during my next pity party to applaud the victories, big or small, to remember the beauty of a single high G note, and to smile and say THANK YOU.  Being grateful just feels better.   

Now what small victory are YOU grateful for today?