Another Day.

Another Day. 

The sweet anticipation of That Moment begins to rise within me about 30 minutes before I approach my official bedtime. All day long, I await with patience and grace for That Moment of pure, unadulterated bliss – when I get to take my hearing aids out, and turn off the world. The sensation of cool air rushing onto my skin and folds of my ear when I pop out those heavy, clunky plastic molds that have been suctioned in my ears tightly all day long. The click of the battery door as it swings open and pushes the aids to power off and rest, and the removal of the heaviest hook that is draped above the top of my ears provides a relief so immense it is often momentarily breathtaking. I feel my shoulders drop, my head falls forward, and for the first time in 16 hours I feel a sense of freedom and normalcy.

I feel a little jolt of victory within me – a celebration of the fact that I made it through another day as a hearing aid wearer. 

Another day survived in a world not designed with me in mind, when I have had to live as a “less than” in the eyes of many that do not understand physical disabilities. 

Another day gone where I have loyally played along with conversations that I may not have completely understood, but adjusted my facial expressions appropriately to feel like I am “part of the group”.  

Another day where I had to gear up to ask for an accommodation and be accused of “playing the Deaf card” – even jokingly – by those familiar to me in both my personal and professional lives. 

Another day of asking someone to repeat something to me, and being told “It’s nothing, forget it” – but to me, it IS something, and let me decide if it is worthwhile or should be forgotten. 

Another day of listening to songs without lyrics and singing along loudly – inserting my own best guesses at words that may or may not be correct.

Another day of constant jockeying my body around to make sure that I can have a clear sight line to the person that is speaking so I can read their lips, facial expressions, and body language.

Another day where I am making a self-deprecating joke to cover my embarrassment at a social gaffe or not hearing someone call my name down the hallway. 

Another day where I’ve had to be on the receiving end of a stranger jostling and glaring at me in aisle 6 at Stop and Shop because apparently they were asking me to step out of the way so they could get by – but I continued to examine the oatmeal because I didn’t hear them. 

Another day of someone seeing my hearing aids and flocking to me like a moth to a light source to tell me about their mother’s-cousin’s-neighbor that is also Deaf, and do I know them?

Another day of praying that the batteries survive a little bit longer because the extra battery pack is not in my pocketbook today, but instead at home on the kitchen table.

Another day of crossing my fingers that the hardness I feel in the plastic tubes will not lead to cracking and thus render themselves useless because I do not have time to get to the audiologist for a repair until next week.

Another day with a headache after a long day at work brought on by eye fatigue and over stimulation from a variety of noises at loud volumes that I cannot always control. 

Another day of turning on the washing machine and the dryer and realizing that I can no longer hear those machines even though I am one room away – which leads me to set a timer to alert myself to the end of the cycles, and realizing that I can no longer hear the timer, either.

Another day of wondering just how in the hell I’m going to have the strength, fortitude and courage to get up and do this all over again tomorrow.

I put my precious aids in their own little bed – snugly nestled inside a plastic sanitizing machine complete with a UV light and charcoal brick for sterilization and moisture removal. I wish them a good night’s rest and thank them for their faithful service.

I set my alarm clock that shakes the bed and screeches at a decibel that could raise the demons of hell. 

My head hits the pillow, my left ear always down first because, as a kid, it was my “good ear” and I wanted to protect it at all costs – a habit that has carried on with me through adulthood. 

I drift off to sleep, simultaneously world weary and wild, and give in to the physical and mental exhaustion that comes at the end of each day of relying on my eyes to support my ears. 

The morning comes quickly. 

Another day.