Hard of hearing, hard of listening aided by acceptance

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 06/08/2024 (808 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Hearing aids. I did not want to get them. I looked at the increasing number of medications redefining what had been my junk drawer, the health-care appointments spreading through my daybook, felt the fatigue that is part of conversations with third-act friends facing the not-so-delicate disintegration of various internal systems.

In resisting aids, I noted my immaturity, for had I not watched a partner of unbounded merit slowly dissolve through the stages of a chronic illness that took his life? Or sat bedside with dear ones in the midst of their departure into an unknown I am not inclined to reckon?

Yet, while I had not suffered in these ways, adding one more “aid” seemed “too much.” The feeling persisted even as I observed how “What?” and “Sorry, I didn’t hear that” permeated my every conversation, a pattern underlined by the rolling of eyes, the sidelong, knowing glances among friends and family no longer amused by my mishearing.

In truth, I wasn’t amused either. I had read the variety of articles sent to me about the isolation of seniors reluctant to tackle hearing loss, but I countered these articles’ insights by assuring myself that I was not “ready,” not yet within that demographic called the “hard of hearing.” I want to be soft, “fleet of foot” and “twinkle-toed,” agile of mind and body, secure still within the ship I had sailed through my early and middle ages. Within my third act, in the face of its seemingly increasingly swift evolution toward extinction, I desired more time, a quickness of recall, a deft ear.

And yet, I reconsider. If I am “slowing down,” no longer sailing within the standards of earlier times, more vulnerable to a culture besotted with youthfulness, genetic engineering, cosmetic intervention and anti-aging philosophies, surely I am growing old enough to know better than to measure myself within those equally fleeting, superficial frames of reference.

Am I not becoming aware, as time advances, that my inner and outer lives are informed by a different means of transport on a course fuelled by experience and deepened by both euphoria and adversity? Am I not being awakened by ever-widening spheres of understanding given that we are all in some form of a temporarily-abled process?

In catching sight of these frames once more, I recognize that while I am hard of hearing, it is as important to acknowledge that I have been more hard of listening — unwilling to listen to observations of others frustrated by having to repeat themselves too often. If there are medications, routines and devices that assist, why not embrace them with gratitude rather than lament those losses that, so often and of necessity, increase with age?

Accordingly, I make an appointment for a hearing assessment. I am told that I have moderate loss in both ears and the cost will top out at around $6,000 for a pair of hearing aids.

I opt for a second opinion at another location.

I am told I have moderate hearing loss in one ear and that the cost will be just under $1,000. I appreciate the difference, more so once informed about a government-sponsored program that will offset some costs if I am eligible.

The second appraisal I think is more responsive to my actual hearing-loss experience. I will re-evaluate with experts as necessary over time, but as I wait for the arrival of the aid, I am surprisingly enlivened by an unexpected enthusiasm.

At the office, I am given an impressive and thorough introduction.

Driving home, I hear car sounds at a frequency I had forgotten. I study the manual. I am fastidious about the care of the ear piece, proud of myself, proud to tell family and friends that having finally listened to their commentary, I am restored to hearing and listening levels that benefit us all.

I think about the next assistance measures I may need: how I might respond to a difficult diagnosis, for example; how friends have managed such realities; and how profound are the palliative and medical assistance in dying options available in our society.

I am both sobered and light of heart. Holding two seemingly contrary emotions simultaneously is one of the gifts of my older age, a time tuned increasingly by how certainties accompany uncertainties. While I do not know how or when I will depart this galaxy, I am certain I will, and thus moments expand in significance, a single blade of grass ripens my sense of the miracle of growing things; babies born through the winter months paraded in prams by proud parents thrill; and grandchildren calling me Baba shimmers as sunlight can sparkle water bodies.

My hearing aid encourages me not only to listen more attentively, it improves my understanding of what support looks like as I develop and thus complete the cycle of life into death afforded my being.

fparts@freepress.mb.ca