You Miss A Lot.

You miss a lot when you’re hearing impaired. 

I thought – for too many years – that the season of “Lent” was actually pronounced “Lint”, and when I was very young I kept trying to make a connection between the piles of laundry and Jesus.

“Mincemeat Pie” sounded to me like “Mintmeat Pie” – a delicacy that I assumed (wrongfully) was ground hamburger and mint flavoring. It sounded disgusting, but figured that once I grew up I would acquire a taste for this odd flavoring.

At a birthday party in the second grade, we played this absurd and nonsensical game where you put an orange under your chin and passed it to the person next to you using just your head, chin and neck without using your hands.  The game was called, “Pass the Orange”. I heard, “Pastor Orange” – and kept waiting for a priest to appear and join the festivities.

I have perfected the art form that is the personal, ongoing adventure called, “What The Hell is Happening Now?” – a skill set required of anyone with a hearing loss plopped into a world not designed with their needs in mind. I learned at a young age to be vigilant about making eye contact with those around me, to study body language, nonverbal cues, and facial expressions which provided a glimpse about social cues and norms. I learned to conduct a careful, sweeping review of the physical environment around me for any lurking information that may help to “fill in” the missing pieces and therefore prevent embarrassment, confusion or another round of “I’m sorry, would you please repeat that?” which became quickly tiresome.

The combustible combination of a significant hearing loss and inability to pay attention due to exhaustion, boredom or disinterest led to one of my more memorable failures – and reinforced my lifelong disgust for the game of volleyball.

“DeMatteo, DEMATTEO! TAKE A LAP!”  

“DEMATTEO! AROUND THE GYM, AGAIN!” 

 “DEMATTEO – ENOUGH!  START RUNNING – 3 LAPS – AND ADD ANOTHER ONE IF YOU’RE NOT READY TO REJOIN THIS GAME!”

I spent the majority of my middle school career plodding in a half-hearted jog around and around the gym in a perpetual, never-ending loop as a result of a litany of committed infractions during physical education classes.  I managed to single-handedly push the already “angry at the world” physical education teacher clear over the edge with my ongoing antics – but this time, my “Chariots of Fire” montage performance was a direct result of my hearing loss.

It was volleyball day.

I failed to hear and understand the directions (again) because I wasn’t paying attention (again) and because the acoustics in the gymnasium caused sounds to bounce, echo and reverberate all over the walls making rapid information processing nearly impossible.  I was already feeling defeated because I couldn’t understand what was being said, and I just didn’t have it in me to raise my hand (again) and ask for information to be repeated and explained (again). I stood towards the back of the group, adjusted my socks, watched the clock, and prayed to any deity that was listening to set the building aflame to hasten the end of the hell that was this gym class.

The group broke up into teams, and we moved towards opposing sides of the net. I mentally ran through every bit of background information I possessed about the game of volleyball to try and determine what other bits of knowledge I needed to glean from fellow students and the action of the game to participate and not make a spectacle of myself.  I figured this game couldn’t be that difficult – it involves a ball and a net, the ball needs to move over the net, and there seemed to be some yelling, though what people were yelling about escaped me in the moment. As the game got underway, I employed my usual strategy of shuffling to the back and waiting out the prison sentence that was this gym class.

I missed that players actually had to shift and shuffle in formation every damn time the other team dropped the ball (or was it after a certain number of minutes? I still don’t know!).  This lack of information disrupted what I considered my foolproof “hide in the back” strategy. I also failed to comprehend that at some point each player would have possession of the ball and would be required to yell out the score of the game before whacking this monstrous sphere over the net to the opposing team.

I should have paid attention. I should have asked clarifying questions.

My prayers went unanswered, the building was not engulfed in flames, and suddenly I was solely responsible for lobbing this ball over an impossibly high net.  I recalled that when other players were in my current position, they yelled out some numbers. I frantically searched my mind, trying to decipher if there was a pattern to the numbers that I had (sort of) heard being yelled aloud.  I came up with a thinly veiled and wildly inaccurate theory that everyone yelled out their own numbers – numbers with personal meaning! These numbers must be an individual expression, a rally cry of sorts, to embolden you to move this ball in a perfect arch over that imposing net!  

I took a deep breath, geared up, and yelled “87 serving 92” with such gusto – my own perfect numbers – the year that it was (1987) and the year I would graduate high school (1992).  I whacked that ball, it made it over to the other side, and I felt pretty damn proud of myself for once again “faking and making it” in the hearing world!

I was met with silence, stares, a few giggles …and the ear-splitting screech of a whistle.

No one told me I was supposed to be keeping track of – and then yelling out – the score of the game.

The barrage that then flew out of the mouth of my already disgruntled teacher, who believed that I was put on this earth for the sole purpose of raising her blood pressure, was nearly indecipherable – and, to be honest, one of her best fits yet:  

“DEMATTEODEMATTEODEMATTEO!!! WHAT WAS THAT?! WHATWAS THATWHATAREYOUDOING! DEMATTEOTAKEALAPANDANOTHERLAPANDANOTHER! IT WAS THE SCORE, DEMATTEO – WE NEEDED THE SCORE! STARTRUNNING!!!”

This time I took off running at a faster pace than normal, eager to escape the prying and judgemental eyes of fellow students, and desperate to be on my own once again – because at least when I was running I knew what was expected.

You miss a lot when you’re hearing impaired.