By Julie Olson
Hearing loss came into my life when I was a college junior. I rushed to classes to get front row seats, and I noticed that when listening to records with my ukulele-playing, folk music group, I heard lyrics differently than my fellow members. I would not have recognized these issues had I not been taking a class in speech education that included a unit on communication disorders.
Julie (center) with granddaughters Colleen and Kelly.
After talking to my parents and seeking medical advice, I sought testing and learned I had a progressive bilateral sensorineural loss. The physicians told me I had the ears of a 60-year-old and that I’d be deaf by age 40. At 20, that seemed light years away to me, so I didn’t get too concerned.
The doctors—who were reputable, and based at a well-known clinic in the Midwest—also said nothing could ever be done to help me. They discouraged hearing aids because they were just a waste of money, and told me emphatically I’d just have to learn to live with it. Nobody told me how. They just reiterated that there would never be a cure or any kind of treatment that could ever help me. This was in the early 1960s when perhaps not enough was understood about hearing loss and treating it to help me.
My hearing loss had minimal impact on the early years of my teaching career in physical education. I was fortunate to be able to work in just about any school. Women in P.E. in the ’60s were scarce as those in my field were still fighting for the enactment of Title IX, which eliminated gender discrimination in the academic system in 1972.
A few years later, my hearing difficulties became more apparent. Proud of my fair and inclusive P.E. teaching style, I was disheartened to learn there were gaps in communication due to my hearing loss. A student who’d been assigned to be my teacher’s assistant very politely told me I’d misunderstood some questions from the class. I told her about my hearing loss and realized I had a problem. I did not have hearing aids or any solution to my hearing loss. Recalling my doctors’ dire predictions, I decided it was time to retire. So I did. I was in my early 30s.
When I abandoned the career I loved, I also slowly became a social recluse. I had no idea how to help myself, nor did I know how to explain myself to others. I felt very much alone.
I smiled in social settings and tried to bluff my way through conversations, sometimes embarrassingly unsuccessfully. Once, while hosting a party with my husband, a guest arrived late, apologizing because he’d “been at a neighbor’s wake.” I heard “neighbor’s lake” and responded enthusiastically. “I bet you had fun on the water!” I exclaimed, prompting odd looks. I felt like a complete fool.
My neighbor, who was a medical doctor, also caught my bluffing and, concerned, referred me to a local otolaryngologist for another hearing test, but I wasn’t ready to act on it.
I did, however, enroll in a stress management course in a hospital during that bleak time after quitting my job. For treatment, I was directed to lie down and listen to relaxation cassette tapes, which I could not hear. Obviously, the medical staff had no idea how to help someone with hearing loss mitigate stress. After many years of frustration, I became determined to make my voice heard and asked a few hearing specialists for help creating a support group for people with hearing loss. Their response? “Don’t waste your time. No one would go. People with hearing loss won’t come out of their shell to admit they have a problem.”
Incidentally, I came to find support to come out of my shell in two ways. First, a friend suggested that I sit in on a class in a nearby university’s speech and hearing program. I was happy to hear a graduate student give a presentation about how hearing aids do help many people with hearing loss, and even happier when I was invited back to be the guest speaker.
Speaking to the class of graduate students, I opened up and shared my frustrations. I explained how humiliating it was to respond out of context. For the first time when talking openly, I didn’t feel I was boring someone. The class made supportive, encouraging suggestions. As part of the exercise, the students tested me and while the diagnosis was the same, the tests showed a slight improvement with amplification. They encouraged me to try hearing instruments. I hesitated, concerned about the stigma (that still exists today), but eventually I was fitted. The hearing aids helped in many situations, but I still had trouble in noisy places where most social activities take place. Life was better, but remained a challenge.
In 1983, I found another form of support when I discovered Self Help for Hard of Hearing People, Inc. (SHHH), today known as the Hearing Loss Association of America (HLAA). I was encouraged not only to attend their first annual convention but to start my own chapter in Appleton, Wisconsin, where I lived. Starting that chapter meant having to go public with my hearing loss. I found the courage to ask a local newspaper reporter to promote the meeting. It happened, and 53 people showed up at the library to hear what I had to say. The therapeutic value of meeting and talking to other people with hearing loss was magic for all of us. We were no longer alone.
Through SHHH I also learned about hearing loss research and the development of better technology, like FM systems, infrared systems, hearing loops, and, eventually, cochlear implants. Until the late 1980s there had been little support for research in the field of hearing loss. The term “cure” was rarely used until recently. How amazing it is to hear that word now!
Because I enjoy educating others about hearing loss, I enrolled in a master’s program in community human services, and technology made my studies possible. I developed my own program and completed my master’s with concentrations in counseling, organizational development, and aural rehabilitation. I taught adult aural rehabilitation at the university speech and hearing clinic for a few years, followed by a short return to P.E. for elementary and middle school students.
I ultimately worked, until my retirement at age 67 in 2009, as a case manager in a human service agency. My department worked with low-income workers who wanted to return to school to qualify for higher-income jobs. It was interesting to learn how many of my clients had communication disorders, including a few with undiagnosed hearing loss. My supervisor asked me to develop a special in-service training program for them. It was so rewarding to be able to help people motivated to succeed in life, including people with hearing loss.
In 2005, while at the agency, I became a cochlear implant recipient. I’ve adapted to being bimodal, using both cochlear implant and hearing aid technologies to hear well. It just keeps getting better!
I am encouraged by the research being done today. I truly believe a cure for many types of deafness will be found. Living well with hearing loss is difficult, but possible, thanks to advancements in technology and attitude. I am extremely grateful to my family—my husband, daughter, granddaughters—and many friends for joining me on this long journey coming out of my shell.
Julie M. Olson M.S., is the newsletter editor for the HLAA–Fox Valley, Wisconsin and HLAA–Wisconsin. She was elected to the original national board of SHHH, and served for 14 years, including two years as board chair.
