By Sharon Carnahan, Ph.D.,
My hearing loss journey has been gradual—like driving slowly up into high mountains on a twisty road, adjusting to changes in altitude at each major peak. I have been hard of hearing since my 20s, with hearing loss accelerating in my 30s to 50s, and now stable with small age-related changes each year.
As a teenager, I had repeated, long-lasting bouts of ear infections that were difficult to treat with antibiotics. At the time, doctors reassured me that the infections could not affect my hearing. By age 20, I became very sensitive to loud noises, and had big trouble living in a dorm! By the time I graduated from college, relatives noticed that I had to have the TV up very loud, and suggested I get my hearing checked. I ignored them.
Sharon Carnahan, Ph.D., stands in the center of a children’s program at Rollins College Child Development & Student Research Center, where she serves as executive director.
I saw an audiologist for the first time at age 24. Doctors told me that I had a bilateral sensorineural hearing loss of unknown origin, affecting one ear more than the other; that was probably progressive; they did not suggest aids or any treatment. They said it was very unusual—the audiogram looked like someone had “taken an ice cream scoop to my hair cells,” knocking them out in strange, spotty groups of frequency loss, with good hearing at other pitches.
This was in 1981. If I had it to do over again, I would seek additional opinions. Steroid treatment at that stage might have changed the resulting hearing loss. I also would have gotten a hearing aid much earlier.
Several years later, when I had secured a professional position with good health insurance, I had another hearing test, and learned that I had lost ground in both ears. As my right ear was still receiving speech with 80 percent recognition, no aids were recommended.
At this point, I had several weird years where the sound in one ear was a different pitch than the sound in the other ear, and my brain began to switch off between the two. My choir singing days were over, as I could not hold a pitch. This was the first trauma for me and for my family, as singing was a big part of my social and spiritual life; it was the first time I encountered something that I simply could not do.
In my first job as a residential living center supervisor, I was walking down the hall when a staff member called for help from a client’s room. I walked on by. My supervisor called me in to her office and solemnly told me I was getting a reputation for being unhelpful, cold, and aloof. I said, “Oh no—I can’t hear!” They did not believe me at first. This is a consequence of having an invisible disability; others make personality-based attributions about my behavior that really are related to hearing loss.
At age 40 as a college professor, my left ear switched off; the loss is now severe/profound and I hear only tinnitus in that ear. My audiologist said, “Girl, you couldn’t hear thunder even with a lightning cue!” The right ear stopped deteriorating at about that time, but I began to have trouble hearing students who were right in front of me.
I gradually moved from hiding my hearing loss to sharing it right away. By age 45, I told my students on the first day of the new term. I discovered that I am a brilliant, natural speech-reader, and so I continued to think I did not need a hearing aid. I told my students that the reason they felt a bit uncomfortable with me was that I was staring at their lips, not their eyes, and they laughed and acknowledged feelings of unease. I got my first hearing aid soon after.
In my late 50s, I began to see changes in my speech (dropping high-frequency sounds) and a sense of confusion in the classroom. For the first time, I sometimes could not get 100 percent of what people said, even if they were looking right at me. I also began to travel a lot professionally, and reading a new set of international lips every hour is exhausting. I could not follow large group discussions, and I quit attending faculty meetings, church, or the theater, becoming more isolated.
Frustration mounted. I needed help! First, I invited a teaching specialist to observe me in class, and she reassured me that my students’ learning was unaffected by my hearing loss. She coached me to stop trying to engage students as I arrived in a classroom, but to stay quiet until I was completely ready to begin. That way students would not be frustrated with my lack of hearing their comments, and I would not seem scattered, trying to divide my attention between people and setting up the PowerPoint!
I also added more online communication with students and invited them to submit questions to me in advance of class, and added small group discussions with students writing their conclusions on the board, instead of asking for a verbal report for the class.
Next, my college produces wonderful plays, and I now ask for a copy of the book in advance and read the play ahead of time, and sit in the first row. Although it spoils the surprises, I find that I can enjoy theater again.
Most importantly, I have successfully campaigned for hearing loop technology at my place of employment. We have loops in two classrooms and three auditoriums, and I (and others) can continue teaching large college classes with this assistance. We also have a standing policy of including microphones for all speakers across campus (after 10 years of me yelling, “Microphone, please!”).
With five years until retirement, my future looks delightful. I plan to return to providing assessment and intervention to one child and parent at a time.
Sharon L. Carnahan, Ph.D., is the executive director of the Rollins College Child Development & Student Research Center, where she has taught undergraduates since 1990. She is a professor of Psychology at Rollins College, Florida. Her research specialties are in program evaluation, community engagement, developmental screening, and early intervention.
