The Speech

Since September, I've been a participant of Leadership Adirondack, a program sponsored by the Adirondack Regional Chamber of Commerce in upstate New York.

For years, I've admired the LADK program from afar; the classes are comprised of bright, philanthropic professionals eager to make a positive mark on the world. Though my heart has yearned to join this crew for awhile, year after year my hearing impaired self questioned if I was good enough to even apply.

While life with a cochlear implant is by no means perfect, I know my confidence has grown from the journey-- partially because I AM hearing better, but more so because I've shared my true self with so many. And you know what? I'm okay.

2012 was my year to join the program, and I am ecstatic to have learned what I've learned and to have met some of the greatest people I've ever encountered.

To top this all off, my LADK classmates selected me to speak at our graduation dinner, held February 21st in Lake George.

What a program, what a night, and what an honor. The speech was a game-changer for me, increasing my hopes to reach a higher level of self-acceptance than ever before.

I've received several requests for a transcript of my speech, so here it is.

Thanks to all who cheered me on and those continuing to route for me. I promise-- I'm routing for you too. 

The Hearing Impaired Hostess

On Sunday night, Jeff's parents, brother, and sister-in-law came over to celebrate Colin's 9th birthday.

It's always a bit chaotic- and certainly much louder- when company is over.  The control freak in me loves to be the hostess, the cook, and the event planner; in fact, I even planned a gala fundraiser in my professional life, and while I did a good job, the task nearly sent me into complete mental deterioration.  This is mostly because of the hearing responsibilities that came with the role- directing people to appropriate places, handling questions thrown my way, and being able to maintain a conversation while usually doing ten other tasks simultaneously, which is very hard to do, by the way, when you need to LOOK at people to understand them.  My at-home events are not as stress-inducing (I can sense my husband rolling his eyes).  Fine, Jeff.  I admit, once in awhile, my lack of hearing leaves me wanting to pull my hair out before a meal even begins.

Sunday evening's dinner was a typical small family gathering.  There were people around talking, or loading their plates, and Claire was coloring in the living room.  I was in the kitchen, the dining room separating our respective rooms from one another, when I realized Claire had not yet specified a drink selection.

"Claire!" I called.  "What do you want to drink?"

She responded, "Lemonade!"

I called back, "Lemonade?  We don't have any lemonade.  How about orange juice?"

"Okay!" she said.

As I went to get the orange juice, I paused.  I acknowledged the moment, just for a second, and I smiled.  Thank you.

She was two rooms away from me, and I GOT THE MESSAGE.  Our exchange was by no means a life-changing conversation, but this example is EXACTLY why I wanted the cochlear implant in the first place.

Being able to call to your child and receive a response is such a normal "mom thing" to do.  Calling out to your guests and being able to offer them what they need is such a normal "hostess thing" to do.  In the past, I've felt inadequate with my inability to do either in a simple manner.

In the spirit of Claire's drink order, you know the phrase: "When life gives you lemons, MAKE LEMONADE," right?  Well, the last few years with my deteriorating hearing, I've felt as though I was given a truckload of lemons.   And I've just stared at these rotten, bitter fruits, damning them, agonizing over what to make out of them.

I'm thinking my cochlear implant journey is my path to a refreshing glass of lemonade. Cheers!

Colin Turns 9

Baby Colin

Nine years ago, I became a Mom.

This concept overall should have scared the crap out of me, but it never did.  I admit I was nervous about becoming a hearing impaired mom, but what brought me even greater anxiety was the possibility of my baby being hearing impaired too.

At 22 years old, I lacked understanding of the real world, and I was greatly unsure of my life.  I was also deeply ashamed of who I was.  I couldn't speak of my hearing without my eyes welling with tears, and if someone else was to speak of my situation, or even ask me a question about it, I felt violated, embarrassed, and buried in self-consciousness.  I also felt guilty for my feelings, because I knew, intellectually, that my hearing impairment was not that big of a deal. Still I couldn't shake my damn emotions, and so I marched into parenthood wrapped in denial, hoping for the best, but deeply worried for the worst.

I think I've always known that at some point or another, I was going to have to accept the life God had given me.  I also believed- and still believe- that my circumstances are no accident, but this didn't necessarily make me feel better about not being able to understand people.  Still, as angry as I could be with my ears, I've always believed I was made this way for a reason.

Now I'm warning you: This might sound crazy.  But I feared God would punish me for my lack of acceptance.  I feared my baby would be born hearing impaired or deaf.

Throughout my pregnancy with Colin, and even three years later in my pregnancy with Claire, I reasoned there was only one way TO FORCE me to accept my life.  I knew I wouldn't be able to help my child develop confidence if I could not be confident in myself.  And so I assumed I would be forced to tackle my truth by having a hearing impaired child. The presumption of this challenge was so monumental to me that it terrified me to my core. 

At 10:43 AM on January 19, 2004, my beautiful baby boy, Colin, was born.  He was absolutely perfect,  and through the afternoon into the evening, my fears melted away... temporarily. 

Jeff had gone home for the night to get some rest, and through middle-of-the-night darkness, a nurse entered my room to let me know Colin was going to be taken to the nursery for tests.  Included was his infant hearing screening, and my chest tensed in anxiety.  The nurse told me to just sleep, but despite the exhaustion that comes with labor, hospital visitors, and new motherhood, I was wide awake.  I told the nurse I needed to know the results of the hearing test immediately.  She was adamant I needed my rest, but agreed she would slip a note under my door letting me know the results.

She told me not to worry, and to get some sleep.  Yeah right.

I stayed awake, my eyes glued to the clock watching each excruciating early morning minute pass by.  Occasionally I would tiptoe to the door of my room (I felt like I was being defiant in rejecting rest, not realizing yet my role as a parent and my right to be with my child).  So I would sneakily pace my way to the door in hopes of getting the results sooner, only to feel like I was being foolish and would anxiously return to my bed moments later.  This went on for what seemed like forever until finally a sliver of light entered the room as the door cracked open.

When I got to the door, THIS note was on the floor:

CONNOR?!  WHO THE HELL IS CONNOR?

I had spent most of the night worrying about this very moment, so I no longer cared if I wasn't following nurse's orders.  I marched to the nursery, the note in hand.  When I found Nurse Kim, she assured me she had mistakenly written "Connor," and that indeed, Colin had passed his screening with flying colors.  He was continuing his tests and doing just fine.

And then, finally, I rested.  Next thing I knew, nine years flew before my eyes.

As the years went on, I am happy to report Colin continues to pass his hearing tests.  We were skeptical during grades 1 and 2, but alas, he achieved a perfect score with the audiologist.  It seems Colin has a combination of selective hearing and a case of "Fisher Fog," otherwise known as a genetic condition where Fisher males seem to be looking through you as you speak to them.  Colin acquired one of the worst cases.

He's also a wonderful kid: witty, passionate, creative, philosophical, athletic, and wise beyond his years.  And now he's nine-- the same age I was when I learned of my crazy hearing.

I'm no longer worried Colin will be hearing impaired, but should it happen, I know I'm a hell of a lot more equipped to support him than I would have been when he entered this world.

Today I can say, I am who I am... and I'm okay.  But I'm not just saying it; I believe it.  And I hope my kids can see that no matter what, they'll be okay too.

Claire, me, and Colin

Fitness Barbie

It's the beginning of 2013, and with a new year comes new year's resolutions, usually taking the form of masses of people running to the gym in January. I am no exception to the trend, and typically exercise vigorously post New Years Day, only to stop in February and then panic and run like a madwoman in May when bathing suit season too quickly approaches.

This year, however, I wasn't burning calories on January 2nd; instead, I had a coupon that enabled me to join a new gym on January 10th for $1.  So I refused to work out until the 10th, because I knew I would be cashing in on this sweet deal and sweating off the massive amount of wine and cookies I had ingested over the holiday season... which in my case, started pre-Halloween.

At around 4 PM on the 10th, I stepped into my soon-to-be new gym and approached a young girl in a tracksuit who appeared to be a staff member... and a Barbie doll.  I held up my coupon in triumph, excited to embark on my 2013 fitness journey for only ONE DOLLAR.

The real life Barbie Doll didn't wear this outfit... THANK GOD.

Barbie Doll was elated and quickly ushered me to her office to start paperwork.  She left the office door open, and I tried to understand her as she was explaining that I would be paying $1 today... but, um, $450 soon after.   Sure, I had been scammed by a flashy postcard promotion, but I still wanted to join.  I had procrastinated to the 10th of the month, after all.

Barbie's squeaky voice was competing with the surrounding echo of treadmills and elliptical machines, and while I was following most of what she was saying (like that she called me ma'am repeatedly... am I really old enough to be ma'am?) I'm also a much better advocate for myself than I used to be, so I stopped her and explained my hearing situation.  She asked if it would help if she shut the door and I agreed that would allow me to understand her better.

As Barbie shut the door, I guess she explained to a fellow staff member outside of her office that she was dealing with a hearing impaired customer, and news of my situation- exciting, I know- must have spread like wildfire.  Probably thirty seconds later, a staff person entered the office to retrieve some paperwork.

She looked at me and smiled in a rather phony and uncomfortable way.  "Hiiiiiii!"  she said loudly, her one word taking way too many seconds to say.

"Um, hey," I responded normally, disliking her immediately.

Another thirty seconds passed and the gym's owner decided to stop by my meeting with Barbie. 

"Hi, I hear you have some trouble hearing," he stated right away.

He could have said, "Hi, I'm the owner, and I'd like to tell you about our gym."  Or "Hi, I'm the owner.  What kind of fitness goals do you have for yourself?" But no.  I don't even know his name, but I know he knows I have trouble hearing.   

By this point, I'm fired up.  Do they make this similar introduction with say, a gay person?

As in, "Hi, I hear you're gay.  Thanks for stopping by."  What if the customer was scratching his head, and then admitted to Barbie he had a dandruff problem.  Would the owner stop by and say, "Hi, I hear you have dandruff."  NO... because it's TOTALLY UNNECESSARY.

Meanwhile, Barbie was fine.  She identified my concern, she asked what to do to make it better, and she helped by closing the door.  But I classify the follow-up from the other staff members as borderline ridiculous- actually, scratch that... it WAS ridiculous...  and certainly not the way businesspeople should address a prospective customer.  I could justify the behavior if the staff wanted to ask about how to best communicate with me, or if they were concerned about safety,  but there was no mention of any of these issues.  I'd like to think maybe they were considering these thoughts and upon hearing my response, their concerns were alleviated.

At this point, I tell the owner, "Yes, I am hearing impaired but I got a cochlear implant this year and I'm re-learning to hear.   You don't need to yell... I may ask you to repeat yourself sometimes, but for the most part, I do very well.  And I don't talk to people when I work out anyway."

And that seemed to end my conversation with the owner.  He left. 

When I told this story to my husband, he reasoned, quite simply, that this particular gym staff was not normal.  But I beg to differ.  This is not my first awkward hearing moment at a gym; in fact, there was one encounter at another gym that was even worse, and I vowed never to return... but I'll save that story for another blog post.

To make this a teachable moment, I'm asking readers to consider this thought.  When encountering people with differences- whatever it might be- try to learn how to help the person, and focus on the act of helping them, not on the difference that constitutes the help.  Having worked in human services and in education for more than a decade, I've encountered many adults with limitations of some kind, and more often than not, they KNOW what accommodations they need to live successfully.  They also know that they don't need people identifying their limitations just for the sake of saying the name of their disability out loud.  Letting someone know that YOU KNOW they have a disability does not make you a caring person.  It makes you a DUMBASS.

So, while I'd never thought I'd advise this, here I go: Be like Barbie.

Happy to help, MA'AM!

Kindergarten Critics

Me and Claire-December 2012.

“Look at my mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!” chimed my daughter Claire as she reached to the right side of my head.  Surrounded by her friends, she was trying to brush my hair away to reveal the sound processor behind my ear.

We were in Claire’s kindergarten classroom where I had just finished volunteering.  Forty five minutes earlier, I had sat in front of 25 little faces, their bodies seated criss-cross applesauce on a colorful carpet.  Before opening my storybook, I explained I first needed to tell them something.

I had trouble looking at the teacher or the teacher’s assistant as I began my speech, completely aware I was avoiding eye contact with them.  Maybe because if I had looked, I would catch a glimmer of sympathy in their eyes, or even a silent small smile-- the “I know this is hard, disabled one, but good for you” acknowledgement that would leave me off-balance and overly emotional because they knew the truth. 

It was hard giving this speech. 

I was scared a group of five year olds would somehow lessen their respect for me if they knew of my truth.   And despite a brave front, I questioned if Claire, seated smack in the middle of the group, would feel any wave of embarrassment, sadness, or shame that her mother was different. 

“I have something special about me,” I began.  “I used to have trouble hearing so in the spring, I got a surgery to help me hear better.  It’s called a cochlear implant.”

I then lifted my hair to show them the processor. “I’m still trying to learn to hear, and there are some things you can do to help me, like speak loud and clearly, and to raise your hands before you speak.”

Right away, several of the kids’ hands popped up. 

“And LOOK at you while we’re talking,” chimed in a little pony-tailed angel in the front row. 

“And take turns speaking,” added the second child I called on.

“Wow!  You guys are smart!” I commended, and I meant it, though I admit that initially, I didn’t give these kids the credit they deserved. 

Later, when I spoke with Claire about the day, I asked her if there was a hearing impaired child in her class, figuring someone at some point must have gone over communication strategies with the kids.  But Claire assured me she knew of no child who wore a hearing aid (or a big earring as she called it). 

She didn’t offer much of an explanation, simply stating, “Even the kids who normally misbehave looked right at you, Mommy.  I guess they must have liked you.”

Here were kids, some unable to write their own names or tie their shoes, and yet they knew how to communicate with me better than many adults.  There was no unnecessary increase of volume in their voices.  No E-NUN-CU-AT-ING EACH SLOOOOOW AND PAIN-FUL SYLL-A-BLE to make sure the deaf lady understood.  Within 30 seconds, it seemed the kids made sense of the situation, offered some suggestions so that we’d better understand one another, and that was that.  After my speech, I glanced at Claire, wondering if she would smile in my direction or give a small nod of approval.  There was none of that, either.  Her face carried the same expression as if I had told her the weather condition outside-- an expression that says, “That’s nice, so what are we going to do next?”

The volunteering continued, and after a story, some crayons, and a snack of the Dunkin Donut munchkins I had brought just to make sure I could win the kids over (totally worked, by the way), the class lined up for lunch and I decided to walk down the hallway with them as I left the school.  It was then that my daughter looked up at me and smiled, and while most of the kids were too preoccupied to hear her, I did.

In her signature high pitch singsong voice, she exclaimed, “Look at my mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!”

And you know what I realized?  She’s proud of me. 

After years of worrying that my situation would somehow embarrass my kids, Claire looks at my cochlear implant as some kind of badge of honor.  In fact, sometimes when I’m not wearing the processor, I catch her by my bedside table, placing the processor behind her right ear and then looking in the mirror, cocking her head from one side to the other as if she’s trying on a headband or experimenting with eye shadow.

In moments like that, my heart smiles… and heals.  And when she decided to show me off to her friends, well… my heart just swelled with enormous gratitude that I get to be this little girl’s mother. 

Because of Claire, I am learning to wear my “big earring” with pride.

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.

To Have, To Hold, To Hear

I met my husband in October 1999.  I was a freshman at Syracuse University, and Jeff was the cousin of my roommate, Kathryn.  Jeff plus three of his hometown friends came to visit for the weekend, and as the four boys entered my dorm room, I quickly assessed that I needed to get the hell away from them… and FAST.  They were NUTS.   Fifteen minutes into their arrival, I knew these boys had some serious partying experience, and terrified for my personal safety, I made plans with a girl down the hall to hang with her for the weekend.

It was Halloween, and on Saturday, my friend and I ventured to the upperclassmen apartments and competed with all the “sexy” cats, nurses, devils, and playboy bunnies to be first in line for the keg.  I had teased my then-curly hair as big as possible, wore an obnoxious amount of make-up, and called myself an 80’s girl.  And that 80’s girl… well, she got pretty drunk.

I don’t remember much from that night, but I vaguely recall arriving back to my dorm, screaming down the hallway and pounding on each and every door because I couldn’t remember what room was mine.  Eventually, Kathryn came out of our dorm, and led me back to our room. 

“You need to go to sleep,” I remember her saying.  “My cousin Jeff is already in your bed, but just get in with him… he won’t care.”  I didn’t even hesitate.  Into my bed with the cute stranger I went. 

The next morning, and I DO remember this… Jeff and I awoke at the same time.  We’re in a college-size twin bed together.  He didn’t have a shirt on, and I was still wearing my hideous makeup from the previous evening. 

“Um, hi.” I remember saying, trying to remember how this boy and I ended up in my bed together.  We were both utterly confused, searching our hungover brains for reason as to why the situation was happening.

And that was the beginning of Jeff and Pam’s romance.

Hearing and Healing

A couple of weeks before my surgery, a colleague stopped me as I entered the room. 

"Can I say something to you at the risk of being inappropriate?" he started.

I braced myself.  You see, this particular colleague is inappropriate on a regular basis, peppering everyday pleasantries with mentions of genitalia and orgasms at every chance he gets.  He is also Santa Claus... literally, his side job is Santa at the mall, and I tell you this because I think it makes for an amusing visual as I continue my story.  Anyway, the fact that he was WARNING me of potential inappropriateness was terrifying.

"You look radiant!" he continued.  "Your aura... it's a BEAUTIFUL, BRIGHT BLUE!"

And that was all.  I exhaled.  It was nothing compared to what Horny Old St. Nick is capable of, and while it's questionable if he could really "see" my aura, I chose to believe him.  Yay for me and my beautiful blue radiance!

Oddly, it was the second time that week someone had commented on my "energy."  I had met a lovely woman- who happened to be a doctor- and she told me she sensed some strong spirituality and power that lived not only in me, but also in my daughter, Claire.  Of course, I LOVED her medical opinion and immediately called  my husband to inform him of my superpowers.  I think he laughed.

Though Jeff wasn't impressed, I found the whole energy-detection thing intriguing.  I've always believed if I put good energy out in the world, eventually, good will come back.  I KNOW this, but it's hard to do, and sometimes, especially a few days before my period, I lack control and my nasty energies unleash themselves all over the place.   I want more healing and good in my life, and I'm not ashamed to admit I need help.  So this past week, I scheduled my very first Reiki appointment.

According to the pamphlet I grabbed, Reiki (pronounced Ray-key) is a name given to a system of natural healing, where a practitioner gently places his/her hands non-intrusively over a person to realign energy centers of the body.  In the pre-session consultation, I told the Reiki Master I wasn't sure if I was opening myself up as much as I could to my new world of hearing.  This might seem odd (why would I want to block my new ability?), but I was noticing, for example,  I could hear the phone one day, but then the next day I couldn't.   I would know it was ringing because I could see the phone blinking and I would pay close attention.  OK, RING, I heard you yesterday... where are you NOW?   And nothing.

I feel like my brain can be overly cautious and tired, and sometimes, when sounds approach, she can be hesitant to welcome them.  As she gets used to them, she might allow one or two sounds to come in initially, and after warming up a bit, maybe she'll host a few more the next day.  But if she's tired, she's probably going to keep to her quiet self.  My hope is that eventually, my brain will open her doors to a big sound party, stop over-thinking, and just relax.

And that's why my bright blue aura and I gave Reiki a shot.   I want to be open to the possibility of my new capabilities.  And I enjoyed Reiki.  It was relaxing, and though I could hardly feel the practitioner touching me, I DID feel warmth, out-of-nowhere shivers, and at the end- SWEAR TO GOD- my implanted ear let out a little POP.  

My cochlear implant journey is a story about HEARING, but it's also about HEALING.  It's a story about sharing my truth, finding my inner power, and aligning myself with who I am meant to be.  And it's a very spiritual journey, only instead of Jesus or Buddha, at least so far,  I'm stuck with a naughty Santa pushing me in the right direction.

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?

One Month In: Good Days, Bad Days, French Lit and Modern Family

Hard to believe it has been an entire month since my surgery. 

Of all the occasions thus far, my first mapping day proved to be my most victorious situation yet.  Noises surrounding me seemed to be normalizing; instead of hearing voices comprised of 95% beep and 5% robot, I transitioned to around 70% voice and 30% robot.  The latter mix has been much more tolerable.

Since my audiologist, Dr. Sharon, told me I was doing so wonderfully, I was fired up to rehabilitate and to truly start hearing.  I had previously purchased an app on my smart phone; though designed for children, I figured it couldn’t hurt for me to try it.  The app is called Hope Words and it is made by Cochlear, the company that also manufactures my implant.  The premise behind the app is that the user can select a letter of the alphabet and the program will go through various vocabulary words and pictures for a particular sound. 

When I was first activated, I would go through the words and they sounded much too similar to identify.

Banana.  WOOT WOOT WOOT.

Apple.  WOOT WOOT.

Bear.  WOOT.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t even get the syllable count right.  My children would select a word and with little sound recognition other than WOOT, I’d try guessing.

“Um, ball?”

They’d laugh and tell me I wasn’t even close. 

“Banana, Mommy, Banana!” Colin would yell through laughter.  Funny for him, I guess, but I was beyond frustrated.

The day of the first mapping I went through a lot of the words again, and I felt like I was doing better.  Apple, for example, started to sound like “Ah-eh,” which is more like apple than “WOOT WOOT” anyway. 

My confidence was really high on mapping day, and after the kids went to bed, I asked Jeff to cover his face with a magazine and to state completely made up, ridiculous sentences, removing context altogether.  This was quite a task for Jeff who isn’t exactly the nonsensical type, but with time and practice, he was talking about elephants wearing clothes and pooping birds driving cars, and really anything that failed to give me context clues or lips.  I wanted to really see if I was improving. 

I was repeating most everything accurately, and Jeff decided to advance my rehabilitation practice to the next level.  I was thinking more along the lines of Dr. Seuss, but leave it to cerebral Jeff to read aloud a selection from French Literature.   As he recited passages from Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust, I was soon repeating phrases like “almost the purple hue of tilled fields in autumn,” and my growing self-assurance was turning into giddiness.  IT WAS WORKING.

To really test how well I was doing, however, I removed the implant processor (without the processor I am deaf on the right side), and we tested my abilities again, this time only my left ear (with its natural hearing) listening.  I expected I would do terribly, a true testament to my implant’s new found success and glory, but oddly enough, I was still doing pretty well.  What the heck was going on?  So much for my giddiness.

More than a year ago, as I slooooowly began to accept my hearing impairment, I attended presentations and support groups.  I had avoided such groups in the past because I didn’t think I would find anyone who would relate to me; I could hear some sounds, after all, and I didn’t wear hearing aids or know sign language.  I also figured I’d be the youngest person there, and sure enough, at my first support group, all of the attendants were a good thirty years older than me. 

Still, there was an instance in one of those groups when a husband was talking about his wife’s declining hearing.  He said, “Some days are better than others… she has good hearing days and bad hearing days.”  That statement was particularly validating for me.  For years, I referred to the good day/bad day philosophy, but wondered if it was all in my head.  For example, I especially noticed my good days in professional situations.  These were days I was just ON, and I would wonder if I was defying science and somehow re-growing hair cells in my inner ear.  And then other days, I would experience the opposite end of the spectrum.  I’d be completely lost, holding back tears (or maybe letting them flow freely depending on how hormonal I was on the bad day), and certain that I would be completely deaf by the following morning.  The support group attendees assured me I was not alone; they too, had good hearing days and bad.

I hate to downplay the success of my first mapping (I can already hear my readers telling me to be kind to myself), but looking back, I think Mapping Day was a really, really good hearing day.  I know the mapping  substantially reduced background noise that previously cluttered my soundscapes in the implanted ear, but I also feel that my left ear and all of its natural hearing was just ON that day.  Together, my left and right ears were little champions.  

But bad days soon arrived.  Following my first mapping, I attended an important meeting of approximately fifty people and it began with attendees greeting each other while grabbing coffee and pastries.  I entered the room and it was LOUD.  As people started talking to me, I was struggling to make out words. 

“Hold on,” I told a friend during an attempted conversation as a I fished through my bag for my implant’s remote control. 

Yes, I am now operated by remote control.  Let me pause to explain the controller, because this feature is a pretty fascinating component of my new status as a bionic woman.  With the remote, I can change the implant’s settings.  Right now I have access to four different settings designed for different listening situations- everyday, noisy, focus, or music.  I can also adjust the volume and the sensitivity on a given program.  The greater the sensitivity, the larger the range.  So if my sensitivity is on level twelve, for example, it’s more likely that I will pick up on noises several yards away than if I had it at level six.  In a noisy room, it can be helpful to reduce sensitivity to be able to hear the person speaking right next to me. 

So anyway, I tried to make adjustments to get to a comfortable setting, but no matter what I did, I could not understand.  As the meeting progressed, I comprehended very little of what was being discussed.  Another moment of defeat and another bad day.  My pity party was brief, though; I realized I just needed to keep practicing. 

I’m also constantly reminding myself that I have to work my implanted ear.  I am still  relying on my left ear- the ear that sounds “normal” to me- and my implanted ear isn’t even breaking a sweat.  I’ve tried cramming an ear plug in my left ear, but it’s no use.   My left ear (“the little ear that could,” as my one friend calls it) still tries to compensate for the implanted ear. 

A way to work through this is to connect an audio cable directly to my processor so that my implanted ear is forced to try and make out dialogue without assistance from the other ear.  It’s particularly effective while watching television.  I have one friend who rehabilitated with the help of 30 Rock, and another who chose evening news broadcasts.  Equipped with a new Hulu subscription, I decided that Modern Family would serve as my rehab selection.  Let me just say that I am thrilled with my choice.  First of all, Modern Family is effing hilarious (How funny was Lily on a leash at Disney Land?), and second, I have the diverse voices of adults, kids, men, women, gay, straight and even a thick Latina accent to challenge me.  Though I’m not able to understand much without captions, occasionally I catch myself understanding a word or two without looking.  In any case, the more I listen, I realize that the world is quieter and more difficult to understand without the implant—another minor victory considering I wanted to throw the device in the PCB-laden Hudson River when I first started wearing it.

One month in, and I’m still waiting for my amazing “I can’t believe I heard that” CI moment.  On the flip side, I haven’t experienced a moment of agony either, so I remain optimistic. And hey—I’ve already realized I prefer Modern Family over French Literature.    Slow and steady, I progress, continuing my journey of both good days and bad.

My rehabilitation team

Breaking Bad Habits: My First Mapping

A mother and son plagued by bad habits

Yesterday marked another cochlear implant milestone: the first mapping appointment.  This appointment is designed to “fine tune” the device so that I have the volume, clarity, and programs that I need to successfully hear.  I was so ready.  After my horrific activation, and the very challenging, chaotic and LOUD ten days that followed, I was very excited for this day.  It just had to get better.  It had to.

I will share the experience with you, but first a story.  (I promise there is relevance.)

My eight year old, Colin, has been making some interesting behavioral choices lately.  One of the repeat behaviors is his perpetual need to talk over adults when they are speaking, both at home and also at school.  I’m sure he is excited to share his views of the world with his teacher and classmates (he’s always been conversational and philosophical) but still, we all learn at some point or another to SHUT UP.

Each time he gets in trouble, he has a plethora of excuses as to why his choice of action made logical sense.  His most recent explanation included an indifferent shrug of the shoulders and the phrase, “I can’t help it.  It’s my habit.”   Wonderful.

Regardless of punishments or lost privileges that occur because of Colin’s so-called “habits,” it doesn’t seem to sink in when he is wrong.  Unfortunately, a simple “Don’t do that” means nothing to him.  He is a tricky breed, and to teach him lessons, I have to match his sneaky cleverness.

So I decided to tell him about a habit I used to have.  Throughout elementary, middle, and high school, I DREADED the required mile runs.  HATED THEM.  And I would tell people- and myself- that I was not a runner.   I explained to Colin how I used to not be able to breathe after one lap, how I used to tell the teacher I was hyperventilating... I just thought those runs (and physical education, in general for that matter) was cruel punishment for a song-and-dance child like myself. 

“But Mom,” Colin said, “You probably could have done it.  You’ve run thirteen miles.  You probably could have done one.”

Yes, it’s true: Fast forward to adulthood, and the girl who couldn’t run a mile, who would have done ANYTHING to be excused from the physical fitness test, actually cheerfully trained for a half marathon a few years back and completed it.  I’ve continued running- and liking it- ever since.

“The point is,” I said to Colin, “Before running the mile, I would tell myself that I wasn’t going to be able to do it, that I wasn’t athletic, that I wasn’t going to be able to breathe. My habit was that I told myself I was not able to run. But I eventually changed my habit.”

He stared at me in his kind of spacey, but maybe pensive way, and I hoped he was my absorbing some nugget of wisdom from my little parable.  Interestingly, I didn’t allow my own lesson to sink in until a few hours later as I was thinking about the day’s events.

A few hours earlier, I was sitting in my audiologist’s office, my implant hooked up to her laptop during a hearing test.  As she prepared, I told her about the challenges since activation.  I explained that I was not able to hear the oven timer or phone when standing right next to them.  I told her how at a party, I was able to identify the pattern of my son’s footsteps as he rode a scooter several yards away, but that I wasn’t able to hear the person talking right next to me.  I told her about the headaches, the tinnitus I developed (SUPER ANNOYING ringing of the ears), and how the world since activation was just a constant hum and squeal of noises that made zero sense whatsoever.

The hearing test began.  As the beeps changed frequencies and volumes, I still heard them.  At times I thought I was imagining noises, but the audiologist assured me that I was accurately hearing the sounds.  In fact, there was one beep that made me wince. 

“That was one of the three highest frequencies in the test,” said the audiologist.  “You’ve probably never heard that before.”

In any case, I did really well.  And the test was really important; it indicated that my implant was using 30 levels of power above what I needed.  The audiologist explained that often, recipients progress to 5 levels above after activation, but at 30, I was receiving WAY TOO MUCH input and volume to the point it was confusing and uncomfortable.

Dr. Sharon made adjustments.  Incidentally, I called Dr. Sharon “Susan” in a previous post, and was even addressing emails to her this way.  So embarrassing.  I really should know her name since my life pretty much depends on her!  Anyway, Dr. SHARON  started speaking to me and immediately, the volume was tolerable.  She sounded a bit robotic, but not too bad.  It sounded like speech at least!  I was still looking at her as she spoke to me and had no trouble understanding her.  She told me she was going to say the days of the week to me and I should repeat them.  She then put a large black circle in front of her mouth so I couldn’t see her lips. 

She began, “Thursday.  Thursday.  Monday.  Monday.  Wednesday.  Wednesday.  October.  October.”  Dr. Sharon was trying to trick me, but I still repeated all words correctly.

She then asked me a series of questions, her lips still shielded by the circle.

“How many children do you have?”  Two.

“What are their names?”  Colin and Claire.

“Where do you work?”  SUNY Adirondack.

“What color is Claire’s hair?”  I couldn’t get that one.  She went on to explain that it’s harder to understand sentences when a lot of the same sounds present themselves. 

“Of all of those, Pam, you missed just one!” Dr. Sharon exclaimed. 

“I know,” I started, “but you gave me context with the days of the week.”

“But you got October,” Dr. Sharon responded.

“Yes,” I went on, “but that’s a three syllable word and those are easier to identify than one syllable words.”

Eventually, Dr. Sharon interrupted my excuses to give me some advice.

“To make this work,” she said, “You have to trust yourself.”

She then told me a story of another patient who continuously excelled at her hearing tests, but still claimed she could not hear in “the real world.”  The woman was knitting in a chair one day and the television was on in the background.  As the woman stitched, she realized that she had been following the plot of the television program without ever looking at the screen.  The implant was, in fact, working!

I sat on my porch yesterday waiting for my mother-in-law to drop off Colin and Claire after school.  I heard the people across the street talking to one another.  I heard the cars driving by.  And then I heard some other sound I couldn’t identify—birds, maybe?  I was skeptical, though.  When have I ever heard birds?

“How’d you make out?” my mother-in-law asked as she approached the porch. 

“Really good,” I said, and then I paused suddenly.  “I might be imagining this but am I hearing birds?”

As robins flew overhead, my mother-in-law assured me that birds were singing- very softly, but they were definitely singing.

For as long as I can remember, I have told myself I can’t hear.  For years, I have avoided circumstances that relied strictly on my listening capabilities.  Many times, I wouldn’t even try to listen, certain that it was hopeless and I would fail.  I have continuously reminded myself that I am incapable- just like I was not a runner, and just like Colin can not keep quiet in class.  I guess even with the surgery, I haven’t quite broke free from my habit.  Once again I’m reminded to push my fears aside, work hard, and above all, TRUST that I can be the hearing person I’ve always wanted to be.

The Approaching Activation

So my activation is tomorrow.  Wow.

It was not supposed to happen so soon, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to inquire about an early activation.  My assertiveness paid off.

Let me back up and discuss the post-operation period a bit.  When I went for my follow up appointment yesterday, I questioned if I was healing as expected.  I was caught off guard by an uncomfortable period in my recovery, and I was baffled that my discomfort was growing worse instead of better.

Several days following my operation,  my cochlear implant optimism really started to wane.   Up until that point, I had made it through the annoying and difficult-to-eat phases of Days 1 and 2.  I was fatigued, certainly, but I gave myself permission to ignore the housework and sleep as needed in my very comfortable bed.  Jeff had also voluntarily moved himself to the couch for a few days; though deaf on the right side, my left ear-sadly- can not escape Jeff snoring.   In a way, my recovery was becoming a mini-vacation, with tropical daquiris and views of the beach being replaced by Tylenol with codeine tablets and Bravo reality shows.  This whole surgery thing wasn’t so bad!

Jeff's reaction when I sent him the picture of Pammy Pumpkinhead?

  "AHHH!"

But then Day 3 hit.  The right side of my head had remained pretty numb up until this point, but as sensation started to return, I grew more uncomfortable.  Not only that, but the right side of my head started to expand.  It started to feel like my head wasn’t stretchy enough to hold all the puffiness, and it resulted in this throbbing pressure, and an outward appearance of what I like to call “Pammy Pumpkinhead.” Though I was starting to feel pain, I didn’t have many pain pills left.  The mini-vacation wasn't such a fun time anymore.

It was around this time that my mom-guilt also started to kick in.  Claire's 5th birthday fell on Day 5 of post-op, and I had promised her I would make cupcakes (even though others had offered to bake on my behalf.  I realize I'm still struggling with letting others help me).  One of my character strengths is that when I commit to a project, I like to develop something unique and very special-- especially when it comes to my kids and their birthdays.   As a result, I've created some great memories for my family.  At the same time, I've also collected a lot of stress and tension; my projects are never as simple as I imagine them to be!  By the third damn cupcake, I was tired and messy and wondering why I didn't just pay someone to make professionally decorated baked goods.  (Someone remind me of this next time I start to bake anything that involves decorating, please).  

Cupcakes created during my recovery.  It was my baby's 5th birthday, after all!

On Day 4, the kids, Jeff, and I left the house to obtain my supplies for Project Cupcake.  I was sick of being in the house and ready to experience life outside of my bedroom.  The trip was my first adventure with my silent right ear.  In addition to being a bit uncomfortable, I was also off balance.  Driving in the car felt like I was on a roller coaster, and my depth perception was also impacted.  While shopping, I felt like I was about to fall over my children walking ahead of me.  With only one ear to guide me, loud stores were just a cacophony of noisy sounds.  I realized how difficult it was to really understand the world around me with just the left ear.

By the time our trip was complete and I had spent two hours baking and decorating cupcakes, I was DONE. The pressure in my right ear was pretty bothersome.  Over the night and into the next day, the pressure intensified and my balance continued to be affected.  By the time the post-op appointment came around, I was dizzy and nauseated, and frightened to drive.  Jeff accompanied me to the appointment and the surgeon was quick to identify that I had more swelling than usual.   He thought it was a result of a blood clot behind the incision, which was causing all the pressure.  I went through a series of x-rays to confirm.  After, the surgeon informed Jeff and me that the clot had not impacted the healing, and he thought I could be activated early next week.

Initially, I pictured scheduling the appointment for Monday, the earliest possible day in the work week.  But as I thought about it further, I asked myself, "What is the big difference- really- between activation on Monday and the Friday before?"  

I asked the receptionist about the possibility of a Friday activation and learned the audiologist, Dr. Susan, would not be in her office that day.  But after considering the Friday possibility, I was fired up and decided I wanted activation as soon as possible.  Two celebrations are occurring this weekend- a party for my daughter, and my son's first communion- and I just want to hear something.

"How about Thursday?" I asked.

The receptionist went on and on about how she wasn't sure if she was supposed to schedule anyone on that day and she would have to talk to the audiologist and call me. I provided contact information and in the mean time, I remembered I had a secret weapon: my audiologist's email address.

On the way home, I wrote an email to Dr. Susan and told her about the upcoming weekend's events.  

I received this response: "How about 1:00 on Thursday?   You do understand that you may not hear at the activation.   You will hear sounds, but may not understand speech, which can take months.    I don't want you to have these high expectations that you will hear this communion service..."

I took the appointment.  Though I've been reminded, once again, to keep my expectations in check, I'm really not going into the activation thinking that the audiologist will hit a button and BOOM!  Pam can hear!  I know I am going to have a lot of work and rehabilitation ahead of me. I anticipate certain sounds will be unidentifiable and bizarre at first.  Instead of high expectations, truly, I have no idea what I'm about to experience.  Though I have watched plenty of you tube videos, and though others have shared their activation experiences with me, I am not prepared for tomorrow.   I don't know how I could be.  Of course, I'm extremely curious to start my new life with the cochlear implant.

I'm struggling to find an appropriate ending to this post, so I leave you with this image of a happy little Pam who loved to dance, and who I believe at the time, could hear pretty normally.  I wonder what sounds I'll hear again that will remind me of this time period?  I'll start to find out tomorrow.