I can't remember whether I have ever mentioned my hearing aids on Steemit before, but today I feel the need to reflect on what they have meant to me over the years. I rarely feel the need to discuss them at all, to be honest, because they are simply a normal, everyday part of my life. They have been with me ever since I was three years of age, when my parents realised that I appeared to be deaf and decided that they should get me checked out. This post was prompted by an image I found on the popular Bork Bork I Am Doggo meme page last night. I almost cried with laughter – not only because of the boxer's comical expression, but also because of the personal relevance this meme holds for me.
I could never leave my hearing aids at home – because I simply would not be capable of getting by without them – but I can very much relate to "Frank" in this picture. I have often been that person: the one who is blissfully oblivious to what people around me are saying, who has to say "what" after every sentence, who has to try and guess what somebody told me (or do the tried-and-trusted smile/laugh/generic "yeah" response, hoping that the person didn't say something that would require a more detailed answer, because I've now said "what" too many times, and it would be embarrassing to say it yet again).
I have three different settings on my hearing aids, each one designed for different scenarios: hearing something from a distance; hearing conversations more effectively in a crowded room or a bar (in which case the hearing aids aim to muffle distant noises, so that I can focus solely on sounds that are in my immediate vicinity); and picking up sound from electrical loop systems in cinemas, theatres, or other performance venues (where those venues happen to have loop systems fitted). The third one is the best overall setting, as it enables me to hear the most, and is therefore the one I use the most often. The only drawback with this setting is that its sensitivity to electrical noises can be a little overwhelming. Whenever I am too close to tram lines, telephone poles, or even certain types of light bulbs, my hearing aids pick up a shrill, deeply unpleasant whine, and I have to quickly change the setting.
I am deeply grateful to live in an era where the needs of people who are hard of hearing can be met through devices such as my hearing aids. I am inexpressibly thankful to be able to enjoy music, hear my friends' and family's voices, and listen to birdsong in the mornings. These simple pleasures mean a lot to me when I know that if I simply removed my hearing aids, they would immediately become inaccessible. Even though I do mishear things a lot – and find myself saying "What"or pretending to have heard someone more often than I would like – I appreciate everything that I am able to hear, knowing that for many people, those things are out of reach.
One small regret I have is that I was not exposed to Deaf culture when I was young. I was sent to a mainstream school (a situation that was made possible because of my hearing aids) and learned to communicate entirely through spoken language, as every hearing person does. I do not know sign language – though it is true that I could always take a course in it now, if I found the time and money – and I sometimes wish I did. I am part of the Deaf/hard of hearing community by virtue of simply having a hearing disability, but I am not actively involved in that community.
When my parents learned that I was hard of hearing – but that it would be possible for me to attend an ordinary school and be totally assimilated into mainstream hearing people's culture – they did what felt right, they got me a pair of hearing aids, and they gave me every form of assistance I could ever have hoped for. I have no regrets about attending the schools I did and meeting the friends I met there, but just occasionally, I wish I had had more of an exposure to Deaf culture and language. I feel like a stranger within that community. I really should sign up for a sign language class one of these days...
As a hard of hearing person with long hair that usually covers up my hearing aids, I pass quite easily as a hearing person. Few people know that I am hard of hearing unless I tell them or they happen to see my hearing aids. My hearing aids are an unspoken, unnoticed presence in my life most of the time: always there, always on, always helping me to hear, to understand, and to perceive the world in a similar manner to the average hearing person. They are the invisible presence that underpins everything I do, and without them, my life would be completely different.
