I don’t remember ever passing a hearing test. Or, at least, the very first hearing test I remember in elementary school was one I failed. And I remember failing several others in later years which typically resulted in one follow up test where I would try and raise my hand at a reasonable interval two or three more times past the last beep I actually heard to mask any perceived deafness or handicap. As with most crutches, it worked until it didn’t: on my junior year abroad in Paris, I realized I had real issues with my hearing when people would repeat themselves because I hadn’t heard and they thought I didn’t understand — a fair assumption given how terrible my French was but an incorrect one. I sheepishly came home from the year and told my parents I needed to see someone.
When I first went in for testing and my hearing loss was confirmed, my mother broke down crying in the car “this was the one thing I hoped not to pass down to you.” I made some kind of wildly insensitive comment in response listing other features/traits of hers I was grateful to have not inherited because they were so much worse but it never really landed: for her, masking any issues with hearing was key and deeply rooted in a lot of cultural norms that, frankly, still exist today.
Incidentally, if you think you might have issues with your hearing, I highly highly recommend going to an audiologist for testing even if you have no intention of getting hearing aids. At the worst, you will have a baseline to which to compare future hearing loss and, at best, you will learn helpful things about particular bits of your hearing that help you navigate the world. For example, my hearing is way worse in my left ear and my frequency of maximum hearing loss is “the average male speaking voice.” I learned all of this prior to getting married so now I sleep on the right side of the bed so my left ear faces Jeff meaning I have not one, but two, iron-clad excuses for missing anything he says with which I don’t want to engage.
Getting my first hearing aid at 22 when I moved to New York was jarring for a host of reasons but primarily because I suddenly learned things about the world I hadn’t known before. I truly never knew that when you wear flip flops, they make a sound when they hit the bottom of your foot. I didn’t know just how loud construction in New York City was and, last but not least, I’d missed the high volume of average men using their speaking voices to provide running commentary on me, other women who passed them and the world at large. The early weeks were filled with constant headaches — both physical and metaphorical.
I didn’t consider it to be a defining aspect of my early 20s but it must have been to those around me since one well-intentioned brother of mine suggested I join a support group for the deaf to find a boyfriend because it was “such a big part of my life.” I absolutely did not do this both because it was not a big part of my life and because it was objectively a terrible idea. To that brother: this is why I don’t ask you for advice to this day. (And to my other brother: I don’t ask you for advice either, but not because you had such a bad idea 20 years ago, just, you know, because). If I had been seeking a support group to find a boyfriend, it would have been for tall people who are asleep by 10 PM, a highly desired peer set I struggled to find in the city the entire time I lived there.
In the years since, I’ve learned many other pros and cons of hearing loss.
Pro: we saw Aaron Sorkin’s “To Kill a Mockingbird” and there was something wrong with the sound system so no one could hear the dialogue well (bit of a buzzkill for any Aaron Sorkin work) but I opened my app, cranked the volume and did just fine.
Con: constant paranoia over whether someone is a chronically low talker or whether my own hearing has degraded.
Pro: when Jeff is playing Radiohead and I don’t want to hear it, I just discreetly turn on some T-Swift and he thinks I’m enjoying his music. (Jeff thought it important for me to note that he never thinks I’m enjoying his music).
Con: Amber Alerts blast directly in your ears like you’re living in London during the Blitz.
I do think back often to my mom crying in the car and saying this was the one thing she never wanted to give me and realize two things: first, it ended up being something that bonded us in a way I never expected. There were specific experiences I had that she was the only person in my life who understood (to this day, in fact). Second, the number one thing I didn’t want to get from her was and is breast cancer.
Since I have, what has been kindly called, an active imagination, I live in constant fear of many things, but breast cancer stays towards the top of the list due to being, as is always stated in exactly these terms: “at much greater risk than the average woman.” While I did confirm I don’t carry the BRCA gene mutations that would increase this risk further, the risk comment is always said in an ominous tone. (Although as I type this, I’m not sure I can think of a preferable tone to speak to risk of disease so who am I to judge?) Insurance begins to cover mammograms in the month you turn 40, so I have the great fortune of being on an “every July” schedule which means two things:
The only activity I participate in that requires not wearing any deodorant takes place in the hottest and most humid month of the year.
In the month when I most want to be focused on celebrating life (or, more specifically, my life), I’ve got a recurring event that causes existential anxiety.
Minus the clammy feeling and lack of antiperspirant, this year my mammogram was off to a great start. I sat in the waiting room with an 86-year-old woman named Beth who looked at me and said “are you here for the big squeeze too?” She then proceeded to describe all of the ugly clothes her grandkids wore to look cool and together we agreed that Gen Z doesn’t know what they’re doing with all their middle parts. She had some conspiracy theories to share about Whirlpool appliances and complimented my skin and then started telling me about a “Vicky” who lives in her community who she thinks might be stealing. I assured her if she thought Vicky was stealing, she definitely was. I didn’t think to get Beth’s contact info but wish I had so that we could potentially be best friends?
I won’t bore you with the details of the “big squeeze” since it was so underwhelming after everything Beth shared but, unfortunately, 48 hours later, I got the call from Doylestown Hospital indicating I was “invited back” because they “found something.” This is now a tradition, like an unfortunate and unavoidable birthday present. This time, however, the woman on the phone chose to editorialize. When I replied “oh yes, there was a benign cyst last year,” the woman on the phone responded “yeah but it’s bigger so now we’re concerned.” I have no proof that this superior customer service experience was driven by our hospital’s recent acquisition by a large university health system, but, like Beth, I don’t always need proof to know where guilt lies.
So now I wait.
I know that all odds are that this is not an actual thing to worry about but I am not able to stop it from constantly being in the back of my mind until I get a better call in the next week or two. And I really do wish I could go back to that moment in the car and have my mom acknowledge that if the choice is between missing out on what the average male is saying or cancer, the former is definitely preferable.