On a pleasant summer afternoon I lay sprawled out on a blanket in a field of wildflowers, a lovely woman by my side.
Songbirds serenaded us, joined by a chorus of insects. All was well with the world.
Distracted by movement at the edge of the meadow, I rolled my head to the side, my left ear pressed into the blanket. Then it happened — something devastatingly unimaginable; Godzilla snatched up my lady friend. He tilted his head upward, defiantly tossed her into the air, then swallowed her in a single gulp.
Actually, it was something far worse. With the left side of my head pressed against the blanket, my world went silent. I couldn’t hear anything in my right ear.
It didn’t happen suddenly. I’d known for some time that I was hearing-impaired but tried to ignore it — or write it off as male pattern deafness. I was aware that my hearing had gradually gotten worse. But not to that extent.
I got tested. The results — significant hearing loss in both ears. At that point, I still had some hearing on the right side, mostly in the lower frequencies and muffled. Kind of like trying to hear underwater.
Thanks to a federal program — designed to help people whose livelihood depended on their ability to hear — I was able to get free hearing aids. As a newspaper reporter covering government meetings and court hearings (appropriately named), I qualified for the program.
Over time I lost what little hearing I had in my right ear. My “good ear” wasn’t functioning particularly well either. Once diagnosed with 35 percent hearing loss, I’m sure it’s now more than 50.
If I had 10 bucks for every time someone asked why I didn’t get a hearing aid for my good ear or look into getting cochlear implant surgery, I could afford to spring for one or the other. Or both.
But what’s the use?
I’m nearly 75, retired and no longer cover meetings and court hearings for a living. These days, in my freelance work, I conduct most interviews via text and email. It’s far more accurate that way and allows interviewees time to reflect on their responses and fine-tune their answers.
On the other hand — or other ear — I do miss social interaction. I’m in no danger of hogging the conversation over a holiday dinner or in a restaurant. (Restaurants are notorious for horrible acoustics.)
I can make out about every fifth word spoken and, on rare occasions, an entire sentence. In lieu of responding, I nod and pretend to hear.
I’m not proud to say that. As someone who’s hearing-impaired, I resent it when I ask people to repeat themselves and they respond by saying, “That’s all right; it’s not important.”
What I hear them saying is, “That’s all right; YOU’RE not important.”
It’s no better when I nod and pretend to hear what’s being said. It feels like I’m snubbing my friends and relatives, that I don’t value their company.
I also miss watching movies and TV programs without having to speed-read closed captions.
I’ve learned to adjust the audio on my TV set by increasing midrange frequencies and reducing the bass and high-frequency volume. This isolates the dialogue and makes it easier to decipher.
Unfortunately, most of the folks who mix sound for movies and programs don’t seem to give a damn about the hearing-impaired. They insist on keeping background music in the foreground. Even on nature shows. (Which are one of the few things worth watching on TV anymore.)
I get it; they bring the music to a crescendo to build a sense of drama.
Which could come in handy in real life if you happened to be lying on a blanket in a wildflower meadow. It might give you at least some inkling that Godzilla was about to come trundling out of nowhere and snatch up your girlfriend.
