By Heather Chambers

Recently my family and I flew into Miami International Airport on the way home from vacation. What should have been a short layover turned into a six hour ordeal while a violent storm played havoc with airport operations. Active thunder and lightning directly over the runway meant planes, bags, and passengers could not move. People were stuck in the baggage reclaim hall, bags were stuck on the planes, and all we could do was wait for the weather to pass. 

I already find airports overwhelming and uncomfortable. The vast echoey spaces, rumbling machinery, and masses of people make it hard for me to pick out the sounds I need to hear. I have an auditory processing issue that has never been properly diagnosed. I know I can hear everything in isolation, but add interference and I can’t distinguish or focus on distinct sounds. It’s like my noise-canceling feature is broken. 

I have, of course, considered seeking further testing to nail down the exact nature of the issue, but it’s an expensive and time-consuming process so I’ve just tried to cope with it the best I can. 

Auditory processing disorders (APD, also known as central auditory processing disorders, CAPD) are hard to explain as there’s no singular definition. Sufferers experience APD in different ways. It’s not nearly as straightforward as being partially deaf or just missing a few words, and it gets worse or better depending on the environment. My hearing is technically perfect, but when you perceive all sounds at the same volume it’s hard to actively listen to what I need to actually hear. An equation of acoustics, noise levels, and proximity determines whether I’ll struggle on a given day or not. It’s like being hard of hearing, but not in all situations. 

Loud and busy places become incredibly triggering. First comes anxiety (when you can’t hear, you don’t know what you missed), swiftly followed by irritation and anger. It’s frustrating to be unable to do something others don’t need to think twice about. I don’t even consider it a disability as most of the time I can hear just fine—except when I can’t! 

I don’t normally talk about it and there’s no special needs lanyard or visible hearing aid as a clue, so no one knows there’s an issue until I raise a flag about it. And even that can be a tricky conversation. Trying to explain APD to a stranger is a challenge! Even friends and family members can be perplexed. I’ve dealt with rude questions such as “is that really a thing?” and minimizing and denial—“we all get that sometimes” and “that’s just you not paying attention”—none of which are helpful or provide a solution.

My current coping strategy is to keep it vague, and make sure I identify the problem as mine. That day in Miami, I approached a staff member with a question. He was moving Tensabarrier stanchions around as I spoke. He started his response, looked away from me and, turning back around, scraped a metal post on the floor. I caught none of his answer. 

This happens a lot, and I’ve formulated the exact thing to say through years of trial and error. The formula goes like this: Identify myself as the one with the problem + allude to deafness + specify what I need. 

So, in this case I said, “I have a hearing problem. I couldn’t catch what you said. Please can you look this way and repeat that?” It’s amazing how this combination inspires an appropriate and thoughtful response. I almost always find people are pleased to accommodate the differently abled, once you’ve given them the information they need. 

That said, the formula must be applied exactly. I’ve gotten the order wrong before and it comes off rude. Ironically, winding people up like that causes them to shout and then I hear them loud and clear! 

The magic formula deals with the people side of things, but in a busy environment, especially one you can’t escape, that’s only half of it. Background noise that others intuitively cut out becomes an irritation that you just can’t shake—a murmuring roar that won’t quit for hours on end. 

I’ve formulated the exact thing to say through years of trial and error. The formula goes like this: Identify myself as the one with the problem + allude to deafness + specify what I need. The formula must be applied exactly.

To cope, I always carry either headphones or my ultimate travel companion, a tiny headphone jack to iPhone adapter, but even standard Apple earbuds will do. Then I can play Spotify or an audio book. As my incredibly basic hearing favors the loudest and the closest sounds, any of these are effective at providing something close to focus on. The best option is noise-canceling headphones, which I use with my phone in the terminal (and an adapter) and for watching movies inflight. They add the function I lack, plus the added bonus of making it obvious that you can’t hear what anyone is saying. A win-win! 

Of course these strategies don’t actually help when you absolutely have to hear the announcements. When I travel alone, I am always concerned that I’ll miss a gate change or other instruction that’s only been delivered aurally. With all the screens, apps, and visual information available in an airport, I find it bizarre that there is still so much reliance on public address systems and verbal updates delivered by staff at the gate, especially when dealing with the unexpected. 

I suppose that when scrambling to get information out to hundreds of grumpy passengers about a delay, the corporate disability inclusion guidelines fall by the wayside in favor of what’s quickest. These days, the technology is there to ensure everyone gets the message, such as asking people to opt in to text messages when they purchase the ticket. With this in mind, I’ll be writing to American Airlines and the airport to remind them that it’s incredibly ableist to rely on one single method of communication, even during chaotic and rapidly changing situations. It’s about time they did. 

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