Now that I have this newfound perspective, I realize there have been so many defining moments related to my hearing loss. The first, came in the form of teasing in elementary and junior high school.
Let me share the backdrop for the teasing. When I was in the third grade, my father had a mountain biking accident on famous Mulholland Drive in Los Angeles. He was veering to get out of the way of a car he thought was driving too close to him when the front wheel of the bike failed. The rim of the bicycle wheel was severed. He was riding downslope at the time, so the jolt caused by the wheel collapse flung him dozens of feet into the air. He landed face first. The impact left his face split open from the nose down and his teeth and part of his jaw bone decimated. Nearly a dozen surgeries would follow but miraculously, my father would survive with only scars, titanium implants and mild short-term memory loss to show for it.
I was extremely vulnerable after this cataclysmic event. I went from being sociable with my group of girlfriends to a child slowly retreating inward. A misunderstanding between friends led to a huge tiff shortly after my dad's accident and consistent playground ridicule ensued. Up until then, my hearing aid--I only wore one in my right ear off and on from my diagnosis until age 27--had just been something I forgot to remove when I jumped in the pool in my backyard. Quickly, though, it became added fuel for the fire for my tormentors. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of my differentness.
I moved to a new school for highly gifted students for 4th and 5th grade where I remained aided. But, when it was time to go to junior high, I was determined to fit in. To fit in, in my mind, was to stop wearing my bulky behind-the-ear hearing aid. And, that’s what I did.
Of course, this stubbornness about my hearing loss in conjunction with all the typical pre-teen angst made me pretty much a terror. I was too young to realize the biggest source of my troubles was my refusal to be aided. I just knew I didn’t stick out amongst my peers anymore and that was all I desperately wanted. Mom and Dad tried and tried to encourage me to wear my hearing aid to no avail.
Three trying years later, it was time for high school. My parents and I had moved to a new neighborhood and so I was going to a school where I knew only two people. It was a fresh start that I was both excited and nervous about. At age 14, my ear was fully developed and I was the perfect candidate for a more discreet aid option—an in-the-ear Widex. Thousands of dollars of my parents’ hard-earned money were plunked down for the brand new hearing machine. My mood and grades improved almost overnight.
When I was 15 and a sophomore, my classmate Ari threw a big Halloween party at his mother’s house and invited all our friends. I dressed up in an emaculate Greek goddess costume complete with gold sequins. I felt like the Belle of the ghoulish ball. I was goofing around in Ari's backyard with friends for about an hour when it dawned on me--I was having a hard time hearing. My hearing aid was missing! I was completely devastated. Where was it? I was sure it had fallen out. I immediately burst into tears. I kept thinking, how are my Mom and Dad ever going to forgive me for losing this hugely expensive item? How was I going to live life without it?
My amazing friends began a search party as the sun went down that night. They combed the ground for the small skin-colored amplifier. They were essentially looking for a small snail in a big forest--no less in the dark! It was all for naught. After summoning the courage, I fearfully called my parents. I was relieved when Dad answered. I didn’t want to face Mom just yet. I pitifully asked my Dad to look in my room and bathroom for my hearing aid. I had gotten ready for the party in both just a couple hours before. My dad found it a minute later, sitting on the bathroom counter near the hairdryer.
The hairdryer has consistently been an object I can't use while aided. The amplified noise of a hairdryer sends me into a full-on state of panic. So, each time I use one, my hearing aids vacate my ear.
That Halloween, it had been more than a year since I had begun wearing my hearing aid daily. That night was the first time I had forgotten to put it in before heading out of my house for any reason. I was both relieved and incredibly embarrassed by my emotional display. Fortunately, most of my friends forgave me, though I think many of them never looked at me quite the same way again. I am not sure how many of them had been aware that I wore a hearing aid until that evening. I had chosen not to mention it to anyone. Now, the secret was officially out.
That same year, my hearing aid came loose one day in history class. My crush at the time made a comment about a weird whistling noise. He said it was coming from my direction. Frustrated at his relentless flirtatious teasing, I began to argue with him that he was making things up. Then, suddenly, it dawned on me, he’s hearing feedback from my hearing aid that I can't hear myself. I quickly took my hearing aid out for the rest of the day. At home that night, I told my Mom we needed to go to the audiologist to get the mold of my hearing aid resized. It was coming loose in my ear and calling attention to my shameful problem.
Once the new mold was ordered and received, life went on as normal. I became an editor on my high school newspaper, a swimmer on my school’s varsity team (poolside conversations and commands were next to impossible for me to hear but I never let on) and a superior student in honors and advanced placement classes. I was not defined by hearing loss or so I thought, and I was proud.
My pride got in the way most notably when I was applying to college. I had had my heart set on Emerson College in Boston for Broadcast Journalism since I visited the campus the summer before my senior year of high school. I applied early. My college counselor and my mother pushed me to include my impairment in the application. I refused. I felt if I did include that I was Hard of Hearing, it would essentially be like asking the admissions board for pity or a free pass for getting less than stellar grades in some of my classes. I had done just fine despite my hearing loss, thank you. Plus, I had convinced myself that any trouble I had in classes had to do with my intellect and not the fact that my classmates were talkative, that I chose not to sit in the front in most classes or that female teachers were generally hard for me to comprehend. I had long pulled the wool over my own eyes. I wouldn’t realize the tricks I had been playing on myself for nearly a decade.
Ultimately, I got into Emerson College but none of the other schools to which I applied. When I received the rejection letters, I considered appealing the decision, particularly to UCSB and UCSD. My well-meaning college counselor again suggested I include documentation of my hearing loss as part of my appeal. I adamantly refused and decided that if that was my only recourse than screw it, I had already gotten into my top choice school so who cared? Talk about being as proud as a lioness.
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