Deaf/Hard of Hearing Infusion

Listening to the Unspoken Question

By Melinda Ray, Texas H&V

I crouched under the Christmas tree, pressing my warm cheek against the cold pane of the front window, and looked out into the darkness. I heard my mother calling me. I turned my head to locate the direction of her voice. The sticky needles of the evergreen tree sharply scratched my face, bringing sudden tears to my eyes.

“Melinda Diane, I know you’re hiding,” my mother said with a touch of impatience. Uh oh. I was really in trouble when she said my name that way. I crawled out quickly, being careful not to disturb any of the homemade ornaments that graced the tree. I would have to make sure to point them out to Amanda.

My mother found me as I walked through the French double doors. “Here you are playing hide-n-go-seek and Amanda and her mother will be here any second. At least go to your room and put on a clean shirt.”

My mother who was a registered nurse was friends with the nurse at my elementary school. The school nurse had asked my mother if we would talk to a family new to hearing loss. Their first-grade daughter had recently lost her hearing and the family was desperate for information and support.

Rummaging through my messy closet, I found my favorite neon green shirt with the multicolored tie. I was adjusting the tie when the faint chimes of the doorbell echoed up the stairway. This was it. It was time. I could no longer avoid it.

My mother knew that I was hiding. She playfully called out my name, but I heard the ominous undertone. I walked into the room and introduced myself properly. I could sense my mother’s smile behind me. Amanda looked up at me from behind her mother’s teal wrap-around skirt that she grasped in her tiny hands. I saw wide questioning green eyes and a small frowning face.

My mother asked me to go with her to the kitchen to get some hot choco. As I walked through the hallway back to the front room with two plastic cups of hot choco, Amanda’s mother reached out to me. “Melinda, my husband and I really appreciate what you’re doing. Amanda is still shocked. She hasn’t had time to adjust.” Amanda’s mother paused. “I left her by the Christmas tree. She seems comforted by it.” She spoke in a subdued tone.

Amanda was sitting under the Christmas tree exactly where I had hidden earlier, only she could fit better because she was smaller. I handed a red Santa cup to her and tried to sit as close as I could. We sipped our hot choco and played with the shining silver tinsel that dangled from the tree.

After a long silence, Amanda scooted out from under the tree and asked, “How come you call it hot choco?” I laughed. “When I was young, younger than you, I couldn’t figure out why sometimes I heard cocoa and other times hot chocolate. Somewhere in my mind, I figured if I said hot choco, I would always be right no matter what I heard.”

A little pink smile spread briefly across Amanda’s face. I studied her. Looking at the freckles that dotted Amanda’s nose, I realized that she was just like me – same straight blond hair, same honey freckles, same challenges.

I showed Amanda the silly ornaments I had made. I was proud of my ornaments because they were unique like me. And her. I pointed out to her the odd shaped clay bell that could not be rung because I had not left enough room for the clapper. Amanda poked it with her small finger. I showed Amanda the green macaroni wreath that I had made in second grade. I had accidentally gotten green paint in my hair and got to walk around at school all day with the other children looking at me in awe. She smiled and looked at my hair. I pulled down the egg carton jingle bells that I had made in Girl Scouts. I had painted them with glitter so they would glisten among the flashing Christmas lights. Amanda shook them. Red and green glitter sprinkled on the soft carpet.

I thought about what I should tell Amanda. I looked over at the pale green eyes staring at me. “Amanda, things are going to be different.” I started over. “Amanda, the other kids can be mean, but it gets better over time.” What else should I say? I could tell her about the time both of my hearing aid batteries had run out and I had had to wait in the nurse’s office until my father came from work with spare batteries. The silence I endured was horrifying because I could see everyone bustling around me. I knew the sound was there; I just couldn’t hear it. I could tell her about the time I had become absolutely terrified after one particular hearing test. They had accidentally left me in the padded soundproof room. After waiting a long time crying in empty silence, the door opened. Somehow, I had been forgotten in the hustle and bustle. I could tell Amanda about how the audiologist had cut my ear when she was trying to fit the tubes into my new hearing aids. I had cried so hard that day. I could tell her about the days I had come running in from the school bus, tears in my eyes, throwing myself on my rainbow canopy bed, crying about the unfairness of the world. It was hard growing up with a hearing loss.

Looking at those questioning eyes, I knew I could not tell her those things. Instead, I told her, “Amanda, you are unique no matter what anyone says. Others might tease you but don’t let it bother you. One day, all the teasing will go way.” I paused. I did not know what else to say. I wanted to tell her the truth, but I did not want to scare her.

Suddenly, I knew what I had to tell Amanda. I told her that I heard what the hearing often took for granted. I heard the soft whisper of the wind rustling through the red and brown leaves in late fall. I heard the tiny “tick tock” of the grandfather clock that commanded attention in in the foyer. I heard the steady stream of clear water as it trickled out the shiny silver faucet in the half bath. I heard the faint buzz of the air conditioner as it struggled in the deep heat of a Texas summer. I heard the whimsical whistling of the bluebirds outside the kitchen window. Even though I could not hear perfectly, I had learned how to listen, how to pay attention. Somehow, I had to show Amanda how to overcome the difficulty of growing up with a hearing loss. I wanted to help her learn how to really listen. I blew on the tinsel that dangled between us. A faint rustling was heard. Amanda heard it and smiled. I smiled, too.

After Amanda and her mother left, my mother gave me a hug and said “It must have been hard for you to talk to Amanda. I’m really proud of you.” I put my cold hand into her warm, comforting one. As we walked back to the kitchen, I heard the subtle shuffling of our shoes against the wooden floor, the faint creaking beneath our combined weight, and the kitchen windows popping as the house settled for the night.

Who knew that this opportunity was the seed in me becoming an advocate for children with hearing loss? Decades later, I am still letting parents know that their fears are okay to feel, that their child will have the same opportunities, and that I am there to help them to navigate their journey with their child.  ~

Editor’s note: Ray is an ASTra Advocate and trainer with the Texas Hands & Voices Chapter

H&V Communicator – Winter 2022