By Irene Goodman
It happened on a day when I wasn’t looking.
We were having a meeting in the office with six or seven people, who were chatting, laughing, drinking coffee, and munching on pastries. Our conference room isn’t that large, but it’s a little echoey.
My hearing had been gradually declining. I knew that because I would hear ringing in my ears, and I knew what that meant. (Scary organ chord here.) It meant hearing loss. But how bad could it be, I figured. I’m still hearing. I’m still on the phone. I’m still talking to people. I can manage, right? This had been going on for several years and it was my new normal. Sure, I have to say “What?” a few times, but so what.
But on that day, I missed at least half of what was said between all the cross-talk, the trucks rumbling outside, the blaring horns from the traffic, the laughter, the rapid speech, the echo, and the millennial slang, some of which goes right over my head.
“And zen I uz mruwah blanken!” someone exclaimed and everyone howled. I sat there feeling like a dunce, barely able to contribute or get into the groove.
Afterward, two of my colleagues asked if I was okay. “Sure,” I said. “Why?”
“You looked kind of out of it and sad during the meeting. Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just that—” I stopped. I couldn’t say it.
“Everything okay with that project?” they supplied.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “But that’s not what I’m struggling with.”
“What are you struggling with?” they asked in unison.
When she got her hearing tested for the first time, Irene insisted that her adult son, Rob, born with a hearing loss, accompany her to the audiologist’s office.
“My hearing.” There. I said it. It was out.
“Ahhhh….” They had had no idea. Hearing loss is invisible. They never would have known if I hadn’t said it. They were understanding, and I knew what I had to do. I made an appointment with an audiologist, something I had been dreading for years. It was at the same place where my son Rob goes. He was born with a hearing loss and by now was an old pro at visiting.
They gave me a hearing test. I had to repeat various words in rapid succession, like “barbecue,” “hot dog,” and “backyard.” I got many of them, but missed some. I added a word of my own—mustard. Who wants a hot dog without mustard? But the audiologist was in no mood for humor. She was a technician, determined to do her job and get the most accurate possible audiogram.
I knew how to look at an audiogram, and I was mildly shocked when I saw mine. My hearing loss was worse than I had expected. Hearing aids were ordered. I had to go back in two weeks.
I insisted that my son come with me because I was scared. He rolled his eyes and assured me that I would be fine, but I still really wanted him to be there. So I used a sophisticated psychological technique to persuade him. This consisted of “Pleeeeease!!! We can get ice cream after.” (He was 30 at the time.)
Anyway, he took pity on me and agreed to come. At the audiologist, he sprawled in a chair looking bored. I had been there as a mom with my little boy. Now he was grown and I was the one who didn’t know what to expect, and I knew it would take some adjustment. My hair was long enough to cover the hearing aids. No one would know, but I would know. How different would it be? Would it be challenging? Would it solve all my hearing problems?
I put on the hearing aids and they were turned on. At first—nothing. No one said anything. Then the audiologist asked me a question and I jumped. “Whoa!” I said. It’s not that it was too loud, but the extra volume and clarity were a jolt. I shook my head. “Weird.”
Rob and I went outside and found a Chinese place. The waiter barely spoke English. Was this really going to be that different? We managed. In New York City, hardly anyone speaks English anyway. I could hear better—much better—but it wasn’t exactly like typical hearing either. There was something more mechanical about it. And it wasn’t perfect. At first I wasn’t sure I liked it. But over the next few days, I loved it.
The benefits so outweighed any possible drawbacks that I didn’t care. I learned that the hearing aids cannot yet be absolutely perfect, although technology keeps improving, and everyone’s hearing needs are unique. I might still miss something at a lively meeting, but I will miss maybe 5 percent, not 50 percent.
I have learned to speak up for myself and advocate. “I need to sit here,” I’ll announce at a meeting, asking someone to move over. “I can hear better in this seat.” No one has ever argued or taken offense. They are happy to accommodate.
Of course, it’s not always that simple. If everyone is cross-talking, it’s still hard. I ask them to speak one at a time and they do it for about a minute and then they forget. Restaurants are a challenge, but then, as I looked back on it, I realized that they always were. A large, noisy room is never going to be an optimal auditory environment.
I love to go to the theater, and that can still be difficult. But not always—it depends on where I’m sitting and the individual voices onstage. I saw one play where I could understand everything one character was saying and almost nothing of what the other character was saying. It’s like a game of chance, but nothing is going to stop me from seeing the theater.
The moral of this story is: DON’T WAIT! Don’t let years go by where you miss out on much of your life. Make that appointment and just do it. It can only be better. It cannot be worse. It will be one of the best things you ever do for yourself and it will change your life for the better. If you’re nervous, take someone with you. If you live in New York City, ask Rob to come. Just take him for Chinese (or ice cream) after.
Irene Goodman lives with her family in New York and Massachusetts. A top literary agent, Goodman and her namesake agency have produced many bestsellers, and since 2009 she has regularly auctioned off critiques of manuscripts to benefit Hearing Health Foundation and other nonprofits. HHF is grateful for her longtime support. To learn more, see irenegoodman.com/charity-critiques.
