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.

Our Hometown Tree

The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree beginning its journey from my hometown of Flanders, NJ

Last night started like most other weeknights: I was hungry in bed trying to convince myself NOT to have ice cream (FAIL), Jeff was in the living room reading about nineteenth century Russia, and I tried my best to maintain optimal focus between concurrent games of Draw Something and Bravo reality shows.  Then something magical happened.   Lighting up my facebook news feed like a Christmas tree, was just that: a Christmas tree, but this was no ordinary tree—THIS was a 10 ton Norway Spruce from my hometown of Flanders, New Jersey, selected as this year’s iconic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.

My parents still live in Flanders, while many of my classmates from high school live in or nearby the suburban town located in northwestern New Jersey.  The town and its surrounding areas were not spared from Hurricane Sandy’s destructive path, and while my parents were extremely fortunate to lose electricity for only 48 hours, I learned through facebook that many of my old friends went up to almost two weeks without power.  Many also waited for hours to fill their gas tanks, suffered through long trips at the grocery store and were unable to return to their schools, workplaces, and businesses.  In fact, many friends had their power restored just the day before the wondrous news of the Rockefeller tree.  I imagine that going from heartache and exhaustion to civic pride was a real morale booster for the Flanders residents.

It was for me too.  Four hours north of Flanders in my upstate NY town, I had been feeling kind of glum.  And to make it worse, I felt guilty for feeling this way because I knew my troubles were minuscule compared to those trying to move past the hurricane.  When the weatherman warned of Sandy’s potential damage,  I absolutely went out and bought an extensive supply of bottled water and groceries, but Sandy’s presence in my town was nothing more than a somewhat windy rain shower.  There was no damage-- aside from what I was viewing as an ongoing catastrophe on the right side of my head.  Now in November, I had reached a plateau with my cochlear implant progress, and even more embarrassing is that in recent weeks when I struggle to hear, I have suddenly burst into tears, a totally unfortunate and unprofessional occurrence.

But how can you be sad when an 80-foot tree from your hometown will soon be the most famous Christmas tree in the world?  You can’t. Upon sharing the excitement in my own facebook status, I started daydreaming how amazing it would be for all my friends of Flanders past to come together in Manhattan to view the tree- OUR tree.  Then I took the daydream to the next level, imagining that I would sing “O Holy Night” at the tree lighting.   And then I started laughing at the thought of us all ice skating together beneath the spruce, similar to how we had skated in middle school at a place that I hold near and dear to my heart: The Hackettstown Roller Rink.

During my middle school years, I spent many Friday nights at this establishment.  For a boy-crazy pre-teen like myself, it was heaven.  Sporting a kickass bodysuit or perhaps a hooded baja shirt,  I would glide around that rink to tunes by Ace of Base and Crash Test Dummies, strategically positioning myself to grab a nearby boy for the much anticipated couple skate.  Young couples would demonstrate their love to each other when the rink dimmed the lights, skating hand in hand to “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston, or “I Swear” by All-4-One.  And sometimes, we would use this opportunity to exit the rink and kiss by the video games, fulfilling all of my dreams of middle school romance.

I then started thinking about my hearing in relation to the rink.  It was certainly a noisy place with all the kids, and the loud music, and such environments are usually not my favorite locales because of the background noise.  Maybe it was because I was skating (or kissing) more than talking, or maybe my hearing was just so much better than it is now, but I can’t remember even thinking about my hearing at the roller rink—a much different situation from today, as I rarely go an hour without silently acknowledging and damning my disability.

Thanks to facebook, another wave of nostalgia washed over me. My high school boyfriend, Andrew, had liked my status about the tree from Flanders, and my thoughts shifted from middle school years at the roller rink to high school years when he and I had dated.  Andrew was in the class ahead of mine, played on the varsity soccer team and drove a sweet Grand Am.  He had earned the nickname Rico Suave, I think because he would unabashedly sing the god-awful song on demand (fortunately he did not look like Gerardo), and also, because he grew up in an Italian/Spanish household and acknowledged women with over-dramatic charm and flattery.  And I loved him.  For being 15 and 16 years old, we thought we were so mature, not knowing at the time that adult relationships rarely include constant love notes, dramatic marathon sessions on the telephone (YOU hang up first.  No, YOU hang up first!), and the hormonal drive to touch one another as often as possible.

By the time I was in high school, I had developed a greater awareness of my hearing impairment.  It didn’t interfere all that much with my teenage activities (I spent hours on the telephone, for example), but there were minor instances when I assumed my hearing was obvious to everyone, and I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and totally uncool.   As Andrew and I grew closer, I one day mustered the courage to tell him about my hearing, which of course led to a crying fit despite Andrew’s reaction of absolute indifference.  Looking back, this might have marked the first time I honestly revealed my truth to someone.   Sixteen years have passed since then, and I now recognize that any time I “come out” to someone, it never results in the person not liking me.  Still even today, even with this blog, I still fight the shame that comes with revealing my true self to people.

Some more about Andrew: I’m surprising myself by even including him in the blog.  Our breakup was just as dramatic as the relationship that preceded it, and up until meeting my husband, I mourned that Andrew and I would likely never speak again. Though I have not seen Andrew in more than a decade, he and I have started to reconnect in the last year via facebook, and it's an unforeseen joy to read posts that he is advancing in his career and look at pictures of him and his adorable wife and feel genuine happiness for the boy that shaped so much of my teenage experience.   When I started the blog, he sent me an encouraging message wishing me the best.  He also gave me his blessing to include stories of him in the blog (he was never very shy, after all) and assured me my hearing had always been a non-factor for him, a sentiment that the insecure teenager in me truly appreciates.

Cut down today and shipped to Manhattan, the heavy tree from Flanders will soon be admired by millions of people.  It will serve as a symbol of joy, and of tradition, and for many looking up at its white lights this holiday season, it will serve as a symbol of hope. Whether or not I get to view the hometown tree in Rockefeller Center, I am grateful it has already reminded me of my roots and how far I’ve come. 

Lessons From Jamaica: A Six Month Update

Kathryn on her wedding day and me in Montego Bay, Jamaica

Hi there.  Remember me?  I realize a long time has passed since I last posted.

A week ago, I drafted an apology for the lack of updates.  I started by explaining how “insanely busy” I’ve been throughout September and October.  It was similar to a recent talk I had with a personal trainer at the gym.   First you should know this guy was not ­­my trainer- I’m not that cool or rich.  Rather, I was waiting for someone at the gym, and the trainer was nearby, so I chatted with him.  I initiated the conversation by telling him how I really want to make it to the gym more, but I am just so busy with this, and that, and this…   He listened to the tales of my complicated life, then shrugged and said, “If you want to be here, you’d be here.  There are many people busier than you and they get here.  You have a lot of excuses.”

I guess I could have been pissed off, but I tend to appreciate straightforward people.  And he was right.  I was making excuses.

The same goes for writing… I love it, and I love this blog.  If I really wanted to, I’m sure I could have posted an update.  Lord knows I spend enough time on Facebook commenting on photos.  So what has been holding me back?

When I started the blog, I wanted to inform my family, friends, and colleagues of my decision to get a cochlear implant.  I figured it was easiest to update everyone all at once as social media carried my news from person to person.  It worked, but once I published, I also realized the weight of my shame as a hearing impaired person, its heavy presence on my shoulders day after day, and the constant voice whispering, even in the presence of success, “You’re not good enough.”  Sharing my feelings via the blog was an incredibly freeing experience, an occurrence I credit for changing my life.  I wasn't just ready to hear, but also to heal.

Following surgery, my activation and initial weeks in rehabilitation proved to be challenging, and as frustrated as I was with the new cochlear implant, I at least recognized as a writer that my experiences made for a good story.  I was also generally optimistic.  I figured in the months that followed, I would persevere through my trials and tribulations.  I predicted that one day I would say to you: Yes, the beginning of this journey SUCKED, but LOOK AT ME NOW!   I’d be sharing stories of how I talk for hours on the phone with my friends, or how when driving in the car, I pick up all the lyrics to a song, or how my new hearing makes me feel fully competent, completely included, connected and whole.

I tend to describe my cochlear implant success based on how well I communicate in “bigger” milestone events as opposed to everyday occurrences.  I realize this analysis might not be the most accurate, but I can’t help but put more emphasis on the significance of hearing during special occasions.  Post-activation, it was my son’s communion and my daughter’s birthday party—two events surrounded by a storm of unrecognizable noise.  NOT a great hearing weekend.  Then came my first family vacation with the implant, and the reality that life with a processor was often inconvenient.  I mourned the loss of natural hearing I once had in my right ear.  I was also saddened by the difficulty I experienced trying to understand multiple voices in a single setting. 

With each milestone that passed, I hoped the next big event would be better.  May events were difficult, I still struggled in June, but with the arrival of summer, and a few different mappings, I thought I was on a better track. Though I still wasn’t where I wanted to be, people around me were noticing a difference, saying I was more relaxed and seemed to understand more than when I was without the implant.

My BIGGEST event of 2012, the one occurring a whole six months post-activation, was the wedding of my best friend, Kathryn.  She and I talked about the occasion before I even went through surgery, and I’d say things like, “I’ll be able to HEAR at your wedding!  YAYYY!”

This was NOT just any wedding.  Oh no.  This was a full five-day event in Montego Bay, Jamaica, complete with all-inclusive cocktails, a trip to the spa, uninterrupted, child-free time with my husband, and more than 70 guests joining for what would be a once-in-a-lifetime occasion.  In my airplane group alone were four sets of parents collectively leaving seven children ages 8 and under with trusted babysitters.  This does NOT happen every day, friends, and I promised to embrace every second of Jamaica to the fullest.

And I did.  The wedding was beautiful, the resort was amazing… but it’s not a complete story if I didn’t admit to the cochlear implant frustrations.  First, before I even made it to LaGuardia Airport en route to Jamaica, the ear hook on my processor broke.   Of course, it was my last small one.  I was forced to use a large hook for the remainder of the trip, resulting in an awkward fit around my ear.  I spent the first two days at the beach feeling my processor dangling from my head, petrified it was going to get too wet and no longer work.  But I didn’t sweat it… it was the trip of a lifetime, and in the days that followed, I didn’t wear it at the pool or beach.  Was it hard to hear?  Yes, but I was in Jamaica.  No problem, Mon.  Plus there were endless frozen drinks.

I was able to push the processor frustration aside, but another remained.  I had anticipated hearing much better WITH the processor than what was actually occurring.  I expected success in the airport (I had never been able to hear in an airport before), but I found it just as difficult to communicate as it had been in pre-implant life.  I also found group conversations to be more difficult than I expected.

At dinner one night at a restaurant at our resort, I sat among some of my favorite people in the world—beloved family members, my best friends, my husband’s best friends.  Conversation was occurring all around me in various directions, and several times, people had said something to me but I failed to understand.  For a few seconds, I let my frustration show, and admitted to the table I was having a lot of trouble.  As soon as I said it, I felt the tears coming.  

 I was NOT going to cry in Jamaica, I had told myself, and I excused myself from the dinner to shake it off in the ladies’ room.  I later realized the tears were not just because I hope to do better, but because I realized, others so wanted it to be better for me too.  I saw the hope in each person’s face that surrounded me at that dinner table.  I often cry when I feel loved, and that night I definitely did. 

The next day- the wedding day- Kathryn had gone to her suite to start getting ready.  It was midday as I sat by the pool when suddenly, those tears returned.  But this time, there was no shaking it off.  This time, they flowed freely and uncontrollably.

The few women around me understood I was emotional because my best friend was getting married.  I blubbered on and on about how much we had been through together,  how she had been by my side at my wedding, and a bunch of other dramatic-girl sentences that left all of us in bathing suits sniffling and hugging while slurping our daiquiris.

But it was more than that.

Perhaps prompted by the previous night at dinner, I had been thinking about the cheerleaders in my life.  I thought about how Kathryn had always wanted the best for me when it came to my hearing.  Having lived together for four years during college, she knew of my situation during a time when I spoke with very few other people about it.  Her understanding of me wasn’t just because I shared my feelings with her, but because she saw it.  She LIVED it.  And in many circumstances, she was my lifeline, filling in the missing pieces when I didn’t understand, rephrasing or repeating when I needed it.  Above all, I knew she didn’t see me as “the hearing impaired friend,” but just as Pam.  I’ve been blessed to have developed other similar relationships since that time, but considering how special Kathryn’s and my friendship is, and how really, she served as the first person I truly “came out” to, it was completely justifiable that I turned into an emotional basketcase three hours before the wedding.  I cried from a place of gratitude.

So why haven’t I written?  Maybe it’s because the writer in me felt that the story was not getting any more exciting.  Maybe I felt I was not only letting myself down, but letting others down, as well.  Six months post-activation is really no different than three months ago.  Sometimes life with the implant is fine, and other times, it’s annoying.  I remain grateful I can hear the phone ring, but totally pissed that I can’t talk on the phone without struggling.

Speaking of phones, I recently talked with my friend Kathryn, now  married and settling into life after Jamaica.  We don’t speak on the phone though… rather, we text each other for hours at a time, often providing one another with amazing commentary during Real Housewives episodes.

In our last texting exchange, we talked about continuing to motivate each other to work out, to maybe do a half marathon soon… and at the end of the conversation, she suggested we put a phone call- a REAL one-  in our schedules.  She followed up by saying, “Who cares if you can’t hear me?  We can text about it after.”

At this point in the journey, I seem to be at a plateau in the climb.  Still those who love me continue to be patient and cheer for me, and even push me to try harder.  I am grateful because frankly, I need it.  The challenge continues, but I try to remember what my friend Kathryn tells me: “You’ll get there.”

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.