Deaf, But Not Really: My Story

As a career educator, I have gotten accustomed to the rhythm of children’s voices with their missing teeth that causes softer sounds to whistle, their butchered developmental /r/ sounds that rival my own Boston accent, and screeching high decibel increases and fast rate of speech when they’re especially excited or agitated. I have the advantage of often having the same students as they move through the grades year after year which minimizes the need to always have to train my ear to new voices, pitch and prosody – but as I have aged and my hearing has continued its inevitable decline, I would be remiss if I didn’t say it was getting more difficult, more exhausting, and more emotional. 

I have noticed an increase in moments where I struggle to hear some of their stories, told excitingly and rapidly. I find myself smiling and nodding, not wanting to interrupt their narratives to remind them to face me and speak a tad louder. I can’t bring myself to always ask for an accommodation from these kids who are among the most important people in my life – even though I know I need to, for their words are important and I want to be present for them as they share parts of themselves with me, their teacher. 

I absolutely relish the rushed, disordered, and sometimes hard-to-follow narrative of their weekends – “Mrs. Lane I made it to a new level in Fortnite and got some sneakers and then my brother colored on the wall with a crayon but it was ok because, you know, we went to a birthday party.” 

I thrill when a former student shows up at my door to discuss our shared love of sports – “Mrs. L., did you know BU is playing BC in the Beanpot final? And you know my Dad played hockey at BU? I’m watching you..oh – and you like my Notre Dame sweatshirt?” utters one of my 5th grade alumni.

My absolute favorite guilty pleasure is what I term “The Recess Report” – my own personal version of “The Daily Show” – when I get caught up on the playground gossip, shared by a few particularly chatty friends that pop by my office on their way back from lunch, delivered in rapid fire speech – “Oh my God, Mrs. Lane, did you hear that (student name) fell OFF the spinny thing on the playground? Do you know the spinny thing? Well – they fell on the wood chips but they’re ok and THEN – Oh my God, guess what? You’ll never guess – well let me tell you…” (and on it goes until I remind them they need to get to class and that this is not tea time with Mrs. Lane). 

I do advocate for myself more often than not, starting on the first day of school. We do the necessary setting of routines, creation of classroom expectations, signing of our class contract and several “getting to know you” games. I then launch into a presentation – featuring me, of course – where I share a few facts about my life, my family and my interests building to the crescendo of self-identifying my hearing loss and hearing aids. We break down the mechanics of the hearing aids, how they work, my history of hearing loss, and we end with discussing tips and strategies to help me in the classroom. The kids are amazing in their compassion, curiosity, and willingness to make accommodations for me, but it is still hard to ask them to change tactics  when they are bubbling over with stories. 

For now, I will request repetitions and rephrasing when the moments feel right – and if not, will revel in the sounds of their voices and the smiles on their faces as they engage with me and bring me into their world for even the briefest of moments. 

It is my pleasure and privilege to be their teacher – and no matter how old they get, even when they have children of their own, they will always be “my kids”.

This blog post is dedicated to the absolute best post-surgical hospital roommate anyone could have ever asked for – the one and only Rita G.

The day finally came where walking, standing, sleeping, sitting, driving, running, and even a well styled sashaying down the hallway became completely unbearable. I was strapped into a custom made brace to hold my crumbling knee together in the weeks leading up to surgery. A contraption I was told to wear “all the time except sleeping – because you are at risk for permanent structural damage”. 

The time had come for a knee replacement. 

On the run up to surgery I was a mess of nerves – both excited and anxious. I was elated at the prospect of being free from this crippling pain that kept me from moving at my standard frenetic pace, but terrified at the thought of surrendering complete control over to the surgeon and operating room staff. I tried to lean into faith, happy thoughts, and acknowledge that if something went wrong on the operating table and I didn’t wake up…well…I probably wasn’t going to know…small comfort, I suppose, in those moments of pervasive thoughts. 

The big day arrived, Mark dropped me off at the hospital, I limped in, and turned it all over to the amazing hospital staff and medical providers. I could not have been more comfortable and at ease on what could have been an angst-ridden morning – they were fantastic. My friends and family sent positive thoughts and funny memes – and one dear friend who shall remain nameless (but those that know him can probably guess) sent a message that ended with “See you on the other side”. As morbid as that was, it was the laugh I needed – and his way of wishing me luck in a language of sarcasm that we share and no one else understands. 

I was calm, cool, collected (as much as I can ever reach that state) and was in a positive frame of mind right up to the moment that I was about to be wheelend into the operating room. 

This was where things took a sudden turn. 

The nurse asked for my hearing aids and my glasses. 

The bed started rolling right into the open operating room. 

On one hand, I have been rendered completely senseless. 

On the other hand, I had some drugs in my system so I was hoping to be on my way over the rainbow by the time the swinging operating doors closed. 

This was not the case. 

Immediately, once my bed came to a halt, I had a flurry of blurry faces in masks gesturing and touching me and presumably making demands. 

Let’s look at the instant replay reel – my hearing aids and glasses were taken from me just moments before – I am up the surgical creek without a paddle. 

I am a career educator. 

I summoned 25+ years of managing students and their parents from deep within me, and out came the ultimate “teacher voice” – as I loudly (and I mean loudly) issued the following commands in a manner of what I imagined Captain John Parker yelled to his Minutemen on the fateful morning of April 19th, 1775: 

“EVERYONE. STOP!  YOU TOOK MY HEARING AIDS. YOU TOOK MY GLASSES. I CANNOT SEE OR HEAR ANY OF YOU, NOR CAN I UNDERSTAND YOUR DIRECTIONS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

(I pause here for dramatic effect – giving the sense that I am in some sort of control even though with my absence of sight and hearing I actually have no idea what is going on…) 

I continue, “NO ONE IS TO BE NEAR ME RIGHT NOW. THE ONLY PERSON I WANT NEAR ME IS DR. PATEL – DR. PATEL, WHERE ARE YOU?”

(My favorite person at the moment, Dr. Patel, the anesthesiologist)

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and he leaned close so I could see his face – a gesture designed to be comforting and non-startling, for which I am forever grateful. 

I wasn’t done yet, “DR. PATEL IS THE ONLY PERSON THAT IS GOING TO BE WORKING ON ME RIGHT NOW – DR. PATEL, DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO AND PUT ME TO SLEEP!”

I remember nothing after that – and Dr. Patel remains the unsung hero of the operating room that morning. 

And I am confident that I was a topic of conversation at many dinner tables that night as the surgical team recounted their day – but hopefully they learned a thing or two about how to support their hearing impaired patients that rely on assistive listening devices.

I sat there, blurry eyed, and heard a voice telling me over the sounds of clicking wheels that I needed to decide if “1 or 2” was a better fit for my vision in my left eye. Imagine my surprise when wheel 2 was a better fit and it came with the bonus of the incredibly adorable eye doctor coming into sharp focus at the same time. 

That is where the enjoyment of my annual visits for my vision exams come to a screeching halt. 

All appointments are challenging for those of us with hearing loss. We are thrust into situations with people that are unfamiliar and whose voices we have not heard frequently enough to be able to adjust to their personal accents, prosody and tone. 

The necessity of disclosure of my hearing loss is always exhausting on my best day, but having to repeat the canned statement, “I wear two hearing aids, I will let you know if I need anything repeated or rephrased” dulls the senses after the first two utterances. My last eye exam, I needed to disclose my loss to the following people: a) receptionist at the check-in desk; b) medical assistant that escorted me to the exam room; c) medical assistant that did the preliminary eye exam; d) the incredibly adorable eye doctor; e) the contact lens department receptionist: f) the contact lens department medical assistant that did the preliminary exam; g) the contact lens doctor; h) the contact lens sales person; i) the check-out desk receptionist and j) the gentleman in the elevator that missed the annoyed vibes emanating off of me who decided to strike up a conversation. 

Math is not my strong suit – but at last count, that was 10 disclosures in 2 hours. (I challenge all of you to pick a stock phrase for fun, it can be anything – and repeat it at intervals 10 different times in the span of a few hours and then report back to us how you’re feeling at the end of it.)

Aside from disclosure to multiple people in the course of a few hours, the hardest part of the annual eye exam is that my eyes are compromised, leaving me to rely exclusively on my ears to help me navigate this appointment. I have lost the ability to rely on lipreading, eye contact, scanning facial expressions and interpreting nonverbal cues to support my processing of the world around me. A situation that was already stressful has ratcheted quickly, and my anxiety has flown upward right along with it. 

“Take out your contacts, look into this hole and tell me what you see.” is an easy enough direction. I close one eye, peer into the viewfinder, explain that I see a red barn at a distance in a pastoral scene, and then wait. And wait. And wait a little longer because I am hearing nothing at this point, and am unclear if I should remain here staring at the barn with the other eye shut in a position that is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I finally move back, open both eyes, and wait another beat longer until I speak and say, “I do not have my glasses and that makes it harder for me to hear you – please be louder and clearer with what you need me to do next”. And the appointment continues – lean forward, close the opposite eye, have a glance at the barn, wait until it’s almost uncomfortable, sit up again and start the interaction again – while being completely bewildered at how someone could forget in a matter of seconds that I am hearing impaired and require additional accommodations. 

I am moved to an exam room, sans glasses and contact lenses, and am confronted with the next layer of the annual appointment – the evil drops. The horrific liquid is dispensed a few drops at a time into each eye for the purpose of dilating my pupils – critical for eye health – but the stinging and staining of yellow on my skin is a special form of torture. I am escorted – once again without glasses or contacts – back out to the waiting room, where I shall sit and wait for approximately 20 minutes. 

I stagger to a chair in the waiting room, hoping that I am in a spot that will be sufficient enough for me to hear my name being called for the appointment with the eye doctor once my interlude with pupil widening comes to a close. I sit and wait quietly, while trying to adapt a facial expression that is somewhere between unapproachable and a sneer to discourage others in the waiting room from making “small talk”. I remain seated very still, letting my mind wander, and strain to hear any ambient noises that may provide a clue when I will be summoned for the next part of the exam. 

I miraculously hear my name on the first try, and rise to follow the medical assistant to a different exam room for the active eye exam. This is where my own personal romantic comedy “meet cute” plays itself out from the first paragraph of this blog – which adds a positive spark to this very stressful appointment.

My visit to the contact lens department is easier because I am able to put my glasses back on before being fitted for contacts, and that back end of the appointment moves a lot quicker, bringing the entire experience to an exhausting conclusion for another year.

I reach the heavy door, take a deep breath, and then push it open while humming the theme from “Rocky” to myself as I step into the “ring” – in this case, the office of my primary care practitioner. 

I am about to navigate my own personal title match – the bobbing, weaving, and level of attention required of me to make it through several rounds of battle is exhausting. I have no choice but to face my opponent head-on as it is critical that I keep up with my overall health – particularly as I muddle my way through middle age. 

Round 1: The Check-In Window

I approach cautiously and position myself in front of the plexiglass pane. I stand in a loose fighting stance – feet shoulder width apart, standing with confidence. The panel slides open with a creak, and I face opponent #1 – the secretary without a mask, which is a small victory, but alas she is eating and slurping her drink at the same time. I am asked a question – through a combination of catching some of what was said and employing my excellent context clues I determine that she is asking my name, date of birth, purpose of the visit and all other manner of things that you encounter when you are checking in at a doctor’s office. I accept the clipboard and cheap pen that is handed to me, nod in understanding that I need to complete this and bring it with me into the office, and am waved away to find a seat in the waiting room. Round 2 has now begun. 

Round 2: The Waiting Room

I move carefully side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, carefully eyeing my opponent and determining my next move. I need to select a seat so I can rewrite all of the information that is in my electronic records on this yellow paper attached to the junky blue plastic clipboard. I’m already aggravated, this navigation of finding a seat is not helping my mood, but I’m channeling that energy and saving it for the battles ahead. 

I run through a quick mental checklist of seating options and quickly eliminate the following: 

1. Next or near the office door – too risky, too much noise with the door swinging open and people walking up to the window to check-in, will make it hard to hear my name called 
2. Corner seat – located under the wall mounted TV which is on at a low volume but just loud enough for me to hear if I am seated too close, so forget that spot. 
3. Corner seat away from the wall mounted TV, facing the office door – seems like a perfect choice until I realize that this puts me with my back to the door where the nurses come out and call the names of patients. Hard pass. 

I am left with the necessary but unappealing seat against the left side wall. It faces forward, has a clear sight line of the door where patients are summoned, and my back is to the wall which will help with the acoustics and give me half a shot at winning this round. The problem? It’s a tad too close to a sniveling child. 

I barely survived Round 2 – and am now at risk for some disease thanks to my seated neighbor who enthusiastically and frequently drags his sleeve across his nose with alarming frequency.

Round 3: It’s Getting Physical Now…

I train my eyes intently on the swinging door, waiting for my next opponent to step through and call my name. The door opens, the nurse steps out, and she’s wearing a mask. I’m now fighting handicapped (literally) – and resort to hyperfocusing on the number of syllables being uttered and training my ear to pick up an “oo” and an “ee” together, to have a better chance at identifying my name. I hear what I hope is my name, jump to my feet, and take confident strides towards the nurse, ready to go back to the exam room. 

I am strong, standing and ready to keep rolling with the punches when I have to get knocked back momentarily by the neverending “disclosure” speech that I inevitably need to give to every new person that crosses my path. I am following the nurse down the hallway and it is time for me to employ my seasoned right hook – dropping the hearing impairment. I start with “Excuse me” and continue with “Just to let you know, I wear two hearing aids and I will let you know if I need something repeated”. I’m met with either a smile, a verbal acknowledgement or the ever dehumanizing blank stare – but that’s another topic for another day.

I am let into the exam room, necessary questions are asked and answered, which I seemed to have handled correctly as no follow-up questions were posed. I am rewarded for my efforts with an exam gown crafted out of cheap paper towels. I don this tacky garment, and scramble up to a seated position on the exam table, feeling like a spider monkey because the little step hasn’t been pulled out for those of us that need an extra bit of height. I perch on the edge, my legs swinging around in midair, and my ankles are cold.

In comes the doctor, the disclosure happens again, and as the exam continues the doctor grabs the tool to look into my ears – and has the audacity to appear shocked that there are hearing aids blocking their ability to peek down the ear canals. The words that escape their mouth are “Oh. Please remove your hearing aids”.  No kidding. Thanks for the direction. 

The rest of the appointment goes relatively smoothly, I hear everything (as far as I know) and escape unscathed. 

I have won the round, but not the match. One more dance around the ring awaits…

Round 4: The Knockout Punch 

The paper towel gown has been discarded, I am once again back in my cute clothes, slightly worse for the wear. I am exhausted and mildly aggravated, but am drawing deep from my reserves to deliver the final blow and ensure victory. 

I step back out into the waiting room, and am once again faced with the plexiglass panel. 

It’s checkout time. One more bob and weave, and I’m clear from the ring. 

I approach the counter, bracing for the punches that are coming because the secretary handling the check-out process is in a mask. Time to take control of this fight.  I gain her attention and the second the panel slides open, I unload all of my rolling punches in one pass as I say, “Hello – Julie Lane, checking out from my annual physical, I will call and schedule for next year and I would like to be billed for the copayment. I have no prescriptions that need to be filled, and I do not have any referrals to any specialists.”  A cursory nod is issued in response, and I briskly walk to the exit door. 

Round 5: Victory 

I exit the medical building, and raise my fist high in the air in victory, imagining the voice of Howard Cosell excitedly yelling, “Down goes the annual physical! The Bronx is burning!”. 

I slump into the driver’s seat of my car, both thrilled and dejected, that this is a hard won fight that will be replayed over and over again with every medical appointment. 

As much as I’d like to hang up my gloves, I can never retire from boxing. 

Mr. Connelly was a kindly, older gentleman with watery blue eyes and an impressively smooth bald head with wisps of white hair.  He had the air of a storybook Grandpa – in his presence you felt compelled to walk to a park bench and throw crumbs to the pigeons.  Mr. Connelly, to me, was the wizard at the helm of an empire – he was the master of the machines and the maker of the molds.  Those molds – the most necessary and simultaneously irritating part of my hearing aid wearing experience. They carry the sounds and create discomfort, all at the same time.  They are uniquely mine, for molds are custom made to precisely fit the wearer of the hearing aids.  

To experience the making of the molds as a child was a wonder…and no one did it better than Mr. Connelly with his air of performance and swooping about his office, retrieving the baubles and bits he needed, showing them to me each step of the way with a hint of reverence.

There was a cotton swab reserved for each ear with a string trailing behind. This bit came first, and was snuggly and neatly tucked into the depths of each ear canal. First, the tickle and then the pressure of it being plunged forward to serve as the protective plug warding off any drippings or dribbles of the modeling materials.

Then, it was time for the creation of the compound, the height of the mini theatrical production being staged by Mr. Connelly, the showman of all things hearing aids. Out came the flask, the glass stirring implement, and the magical pink powder.  He would gently, carefully and so precisely tap this pink powder from its teeny packet – much like knocking the sugar out of a Pixie Stix straw.  He added a clear liquid and then the clinking began in earnest.  The happy, tinkling, clinking of the metal stirrer going round and round inside the vessel, mixing up this magical elixir.  I would watch in utter fascination as the color changed from a pale peach to the most magnificent bright, neon pink.  And the smell – that sickeningly sweet and sugary smell reminiscent of the mighty Hubba Bubba bubble gum. 

Mr. Connelly would then empty the sticky and doughy mixture into the palm of his hands and he alone would have the utter privilege of manipulating, squishing, squashing in all matters of formation until it reached its peak malleability.  Oh, the envy I would feel at not having the chance to mush that magic dough in my own little palms!  My little creative soul would hope beyond hope that one day – maybe one day – Mr. Connelly would let me have a chance with this glorious goo.  Sadly, the day never came, but I cherished my vicarious sensory experiences of compound manipulation.

Lastly, he would stuff it into a large plastic syringe – the final step of this magical science production.  He would gently tip my head to one side, and squirt the compound inside, outside and all around my ear.  The shock of it would make me shudder each time, for it was surprisingly freezing cold!  The ritual would be repeated once more on the opposite side, the freezing insertion expected for the second ear. 

Now it came to be my time to shine – for I needed to sit absolutely perfectly still for the two flip flops of the mini hourglass timer.  I would sit and stare at the sand sifting through with laser like precision, willing myself to not move an inch lest I disturb the melding of material to my ears.  When the last grain of sand had filtered through, Mr. Connelly would gently pop out the now hardened impressions which would have sadly faded back to a lighter shade of pink than I found acceptable.  They were gingerly placed into their shipping boxes, my hearing aids were placed back into my ears, and I turned on the world once more – eagerly awaiting our next visit to Mr. Connelly in six months time when we would once reenact our play in one act.

I regret that the process for mold impressions has become much more streamlined as time has marched on due to the mold clay being already mixed and ready to be inserted into the plastic syringe – which is nowhere near as large as I remember as a child. The hourglass timer is no more due to the fast hardening of the compound, though the sensations remain the same – that jarring feeling of icicles being thrust into your ears with no warning.

I require impressions less frequently now as an adult, as my ears no longer require increasing sizes of molds, but each time I sit in the chair and am asked to tilt my head, I remember fondly the kindness of the gentle soul that made my very first pair of hearing aid molds.  Thank you, Mr. Connelly, for being there for my very first step on this journey – peace to you, wherever you may be.

I have never been one to seek out or excitedly participate in sitting around a fire due to my general disdain for camping, which has historically been a more common place to gather around a roaring flame. I love a toasted marshmallow on a clean and sterilized skewer – no off the ground sticks for me, thanks – so long as that sweet treat is followed by me bidding my companions adieu, and retreating to a luxurious, many pillowed bed in a clean, well appointed hotel. 

The peak of fire pits seemed to be during the pandemic as it offered a socially distanced option, especially during the long nights when everyone has had their fill of sourdough starters, craft projects, and Zoom cocktail hours. It provided a great option for folks to gather and quell some of the loneliness that came from the forced isolation, but for those of us with hearing loss it is not an equitable, accessible activity. 

The act of hearing, for me, is hard enough in broad daylight or brightly lit rooms, where I need to reposition myself multiple times in the course of a conversation to ensure that I have the best view of people’s lips so I can study the word formation as a backup to the spoken word. I am jockeying for the best location within a group of people to be able to interpret body language, nonverbal signals, and facial expressions especially when the inevitable happens – crosstalk. I’m now challenged further to follow multiple streams of conversation, choosing which thread to follow and contribute to, if any. It ultimately ends with me sitting back, exasperated and exhausted, nodding and smiling and punctuating the empty air with laughter, taking my cues from the others, even though I have absolutely no idea what is amusing. (Ironically, this very situation is what started “Hearing Things With Julie and Brad” as we were sitting next to each other in the corner of a room, amidst cross talk, simultaneously lost and the rest is history, but I digress…). 

And now let’s introduce the concept of a hearing impaired person participating in a conversation around a fire pit. Basically, see the above paragraph and turn off the lights. It is made that much more difficult by my complete inability to see anyone or anything in the fading light as it transitions to complete darkness. On the rare occasion where I am around a fire pit (in a domesticated area, not a campsite – that just gives me the shivers) I am usually with enough friends or family members that are accommodating and patient, and are used to repeating or rephrasing things to help me participate and socialize. I am relieved when I am with familiar faces because I know the tempo of their voices, their regional accents and their speech patterns. I am also much more at ease because I do not need to engage in my most hated activity (aside from outdoor, nature-based pursuits) – disclosure. 

The act of disclosing my hearing loss to people I do not know is exhausting, annoying and necessary. I have written at length about this in prior blog posts, but to summarize, it is ongoing self-advocacy in ensuring that those that do not know me are aware of my hearing loss and are educated in what I need to successfully engage in a social situation. I am already saddled with this inconvenience, and to encounter unfamiliar people around a fire pit makes this almost unbearable as I now need to engage in my “friendly-neighborhood-disabled-person” routine in a darkened environment.  At times, it just feels like it’s too much effort for little reward. 

I do enjoy the fire pit gatherings with my wonderful friends and neighbors up north during the summer months, but most of the time I’ll leave this largely inaccessible activity to others. 

I’ll be inside with my books. 

I annually curse my family for making it all the way from Italy on a disease ridden, treacherous boat ride only to stop in New England, where the weather is horrendous. You made it this far, you couldn’t have gone a little further south where it’s warm?

Yes, I’m being an insolent, bratty, privileged little beast.

I hate the winter. 

I hate every single solitary thing about it – let me count the ways: 

• the bitter wind
• the drop in temperature
• the ice that poses a fall risk every single time I step out of the house – made more dangerous post-knee replacement
• the amount of clothes I have to layer on my body whilst being a “woman of a certain age”, therefore causing my internal temperature to be completely dysregulated
• squeezing my feet into uncomfortable boots and having to change my shoes when I get to school
• the slippery hallways at school after the kids tromp through with their wet boots, posing an indoor fall risk – nowhere is safe
• my bouncy hair falls flat and static attacks, which may be winter’s biggest offense 

Shall I continue? 

It’s bad enough as an adult – but as a kid, it was not only a rite of passage but an expectation that core memories be made frolicking in the snow and engaging in such active, fun-filled activities such as sledding, ice skating, and skiing whilst screeching with unbridled exuberance!

I was a bookish child, who has grown into a bookish adult. As social and outgoing as I am, it may surprise many that my preference is to be alone with my books, my dog, and a cup of hot coffee no matter the season but especially during the cold winter months. In an effort to broaden my experiences beyond the pages of Lois Lowry’s Anastasia series or the many biographies I ferociously consumed, I was booted out the door to play in the snow. Ugh. 

Winter activities made an already despised season even worse due to the mandatory navigation of a myriad of landmines all in the name of fun. The level of vigilance I had to employ to protect my hearing aids plowed over any freewheeling, boundless and carefree enjoyment of outside winter play – because water, even in its frozen form, is the enemy. 

The primary level of protection was the pom-pom winter hat, shoved down over my ears tightly in an effort to keep me warm, but more importantly to provide a safe, dry haven for my hearing aids to not be splashed with any form of snow, ice, or water droplets. Albeit necessary, the complications arose due to the knit hat completely blocking the hearing aid microphones – thus emitting a high pitched, unrelenting screeching sound as they wailed in fury at being covered. (I have to laugh at the sheer irony that I can hear the high pitched screams of hearing aid feedback while not being able to hear birdsong in the trees).

I am now miserable knowing that I have to endure this noise, make repeated adjustments to the hat to desperately relieve some of the whistling, and – worst of all – have to go out in the snow. 

I never lasted out there long, looking for the first opportunity to wrestle my way out of the snowsuit, the boots, and the godforsaken hat to get back into the house, back to my books, and back to my childhood choice of hot beverage – a cup of hot cocoa with mini marshmallows. 

There was only one activity that would keep me out for hours in the snow – only one thing that would allow me to seek adventure, take uncalculated and ridiculous risks, and forget for a little while that I wasn’t like all of the other kids – and that activity was sledding.  Not just any sledding, but sledding with my brothers and cousins on the epic hill out back of my Uncle Tony’s house. My childhood memory serves up that the hill was equivalent to the steep slope of Mt. Washington, where in reality it was probably a modest backyard hill – but to us it was heaven. I loved every minute of flying down that hill in the red plastic sled with the yellow handles, with my cousin Sheri in front or behind me, picking up speed. I loved making “sled trains”, flying down the hill at breakneck speed while lying on our stomachs (minus the time the boys all let go and Sheri and I crashed into the thorn bushes). It was the best part of winter and I’ve never had as much fun before or since those years hurtling down that hill, feeling free, and risking broken bones and potential maimings. It was worth every single minute spent together, and I cherish each and every moment. 

But I still hate winter. 

If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be inside with Cher’s Memoir Part 1, Rocky on my lap, and a cup of coffee. 

It usually starts with a mildly irritated but quickly escalating sore throat – that’s typically the first symptom that tips me off that a virus has taken hold and is about to wreak havoc on my entire system. (Although, admittedly, this last round I was convinced that the sore throat Brad and I both had was due to the consumption of entirely too many ghost pepper potato chips…that hypothesis was woefully incorrect when within 24 hours we were both slobbering, sniffly messes.)

My hearing immediately becomes muffled which is incredibly unfair considering that I am already compromised with exceptionally poor hearing abilities. The layer of further sound suppression is not a welcome development. I am already struggling to “keep up” with the auditory world – this new development has made that even more challenging. 

The sheer feeling of putting my hearing molds inside my ears is one of near pain. I can barely tolerate the snug fit and the material pressing up against inflamed, sensitive skin – the sensory input is borderline unbearable. 

Any illness typically causes an increase in fatigue, with sleep serving as a restorative act to promote healing from the inside out. I’m already exhausted from trying to hear during a typical day when I’m in good health – adding illness on top of an already tired state of being is completely miserable. My body craves sleep, but due to the stuffy nose that is running faster than I will ever be able to – sleep is elusive, even if I’m sitting propped up in bed or in a recliner. 

The buildup of mucus in my sinuses creeps into my ears. I constantly worry about developing ear infections as it is near impossible for me to detect the presence of an infection as I typically do not feel any type of internal ear pain. I vigorously attack my ear canals at least twice a day in an effort to check for any nasty discharge that may tip me off to an ear infection. Technically, you’re not supposed to insert anything into the ear canal – much less Qtips – but desperate times call for desperate measures, and the urgency of detecting an ear infection throws all caution to the side. 

If I allow myself too much idle time, where my brain is not occupied even though I am sick and miserable, I begin to slowly spiral into panic mode at the thought that this cold is causing hearing loss. Intellectually, I know that the muffled sounds and the increased straining to hear is caused by buildup of fluid in the middle ear, making it difficult for sound waves to vibrate to the eardrum. In a panic state, I become convinced that permanent damage has occurred and this level of hearing will be my new and unpleasant reality. I then manage to convince myself that I have a debilitating ear infection that has caused permanent loss because I am having symptoms that include the following: mild ear discomfort; muffled hearing; loss of hearing; tinnitus; and ear sensitivity. 

I am sick of being worried sick about my hearing loss every time I get sick.  Pass the tissues.