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Clarity Now: My Cochlear Implant Journey
At the age of 9, I was diagnosed with severe hearing loss in both ears.
For 22 years I rejected accommodations and often pretended to hear when
I couldn't. In April 2012, I could no longer ignore my declining
hearing. I FINALLY shared my truth, and made the life changing decision
to get a cochlear implant. My journey began as a quest to hear, but
it's so much more. This is my self-acceptance story. This is my search
for CLARITY.
Showing posts with label cochlear implant. Show all posts
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Life Whispers
Life has been whispering to me over the course of the last year.
I've known that I have been holding my truth too closely. I've known I
hould share my stories once more. But like many of life's journeys,
the longer I let it go, the stronger the case was for me not to return.
It seemed too hard, too much, to write any more about my hearing
journey.
My life, and its inclusion of progressive hearing loss, has offered its
hare of intense frustration. Then there was the introduction of my
cochlear implant in 2012, and the shiny hope attached to it that life
would quickly get better. And then... there was its aftermath with its
own frustrations, and the disappointment when I didn't hear the way I
assumed I would.
Through the tears and tantrums, the pity parties, and the anger over
not being able to hear “normally,” I have never doubted that this
journey is exactly the life I am supposed to be living. From the time I
was a child, I instinctively grasped that while I often resented my
circumstances, it was a journey meant for me. I suspected purpose
behind it all.
When I started this blog almost three years ago, that purpose became
more clear. Sharing who I was- the good, the bad, and the vulnerable-
eemed to strike a chord in people. I began connecting with family,
friends and even strangers in a more meaningful way, and because I
opened up, I found others did the same with me.
In 2013, I remember my husband, kids and I driving to the ocean for
ummer vacation. I received a message from a mother whose son was born
with a developmental difference. She shared her hopes that in spite of
his challenges, he would be able to confidently approach his life and
accomplish his goals. She revealed she was also printing my blog posts
and saving them for her little boy to one day read. Slumped in the
passenger seat, I read her message over and over again. I was so
incredibly moved, crying quietly to myself for miles as we drove down
the coastline.
I felt as though my journey- and the sharing of it- was making a
difference. It energized me. It freed me. It encouraged a greater
acceptance and self-potential than I knew I could reach.
And then I stopped. A busy life got in the way.
[Pam%2BSkydiving%2B2.JPG]
Skydiving, Lake George. August 2013.
Those whispers-- they would come to me in life's more interesting
moments. The time I jumped out of an airplane and couldn't hear a
thing. The first time I saw a play and understood everything. The time
I finally mustered enough courage to ask for closed captioning glasses
at the movie theater, only to have them NOT work (resulting in free
tickets- much to my kids' amusement- for a future visit). The time I
tried again, and for the first time in ages, actually understood and
enjoyed a movie. The time I was accepted into a research study at
Vanderbilt University, and worked with the best in the audiology world
to achieve better hearing. The time my sister, also living with
progressive hearing loss, pursued a cochlear implant and how her
results differed from mine.
[Vanderbilt.jpg]
Enthusiastically posing during Visit 1 at Vanderbilt University,
Nashville.  July 2014.
Each time, a quiet thought would pass through: You should write about
that, Pam.  And for a moment, I thought I would, only to distract
myself with life's busy excuses once more.
Then 2015 introduced itself rather loudly.
I had a lovely reunion with my childhood friends, one who hadn't seen
me since I received the cochlear implant. It's always fun to gather
others' feedback as to how they perceive I am hearing, and I was
pleased she commented on how much better I seemed to speak and
understand. But she was also mad at me. She had loved the blog, and
felt it had helped people. She was pissed at me for stopping.
The whispers were growing louder.
Immediately following the start of the new year, a dear friend of mine
revealed a truth that was a long time in the making, plaguing this
person's life with unnecessary exhaustion and secrets. Remembering my
own big reveal, and the anxiety as to how people would respond, I can't
even begin to express how happy it made me to see someone I love
finally choose a life of greater authenticity. And then I questioned if
mine was still in that category, or if I was masking my disability once
more...
A couple of weeks later, I learned a college friend had tragically lost
his life in a car crash. I didn't know Jason especially well- we shared
a few classes at Syracuse, and lived near one another in our freshman
dorm- but I knew enough to know he was a nice person. Through Facebook
and mutual friends, I knew he had a good job, a beautiful wife he
adored, a sweet 1 year old baby... he appeared to be a good guy living
a good life. He was just 4 days older than me, a fact I did remember
from the drunken birthday celebrations during college life. In the week
following his death, I found myself wide awake one night, mourning for
his wife, son, and parents, acknowledging the fleetingness of this
life-- how often we save things for another time, only to never get
there. I knew I wanted to write again, and I also knew I should.
A few days before my 34^th birthday, I received an email from a
tranger named Joan. She had found my blog about a month after
receiving a cochlear implant, and was struggling with painful “zapping”
following activation, as if someone was flicking her head each time a
noise presented itself. It actually took me a minute to remember my own
experiences with this-- those moments a coworker would cough and it
felt as though someone was snapping a rubber band at my temples.
Reading Joan's pleas to provide her with hope, I felt grateful. I had
come so far. If all other instances were whispers, this occurrence was
a loud smack in the face. It was a blessing to connect with Joan. I
needed to write again, to share again, to connect once more.
I have yet to determine what will come from this post, and any
follow-ups to it, but I trust that sharing these thoughts with you is
what I should be doing at this point in time. My life has always been
richer when I share it. And I nod to my whispers- my dear friend
tarting fresh, Jason, Joan, and all the others leading to this exact
moment.
When life whispers, it can be tough to listen. But I should in this
journey, and I commit to trying harder.
-  This post is dedicated to Jason Anderson.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 4:35 PM 7 comments:
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Labels: cochlear implant, cochlear implant results, concealing hearing
loss, Pam Fisher, self acceptance, truth, Vanderbilt University
Cochlear Implant Study
Thursday, May 23, 2013
HEAR THIS: Vote for VET HELP!
Have you noticed the Aprons in Action/Home Depot logo that keeps
appearing on your facebook newsfeed?
[aprons-copy.jpg]
It seems like every day someone is voting for something, so recently, I
tarted to pay closer attention to what this meant.
It meant a lot.
The Aprons in Action contest is through The Home Depot Foundation, an
organization dedicated to improving the homes and lives of U.S.
military veterans and their families through volunteerism, grants and
product donations.  They select a monthly winner, and based on online
votes, an organization wins an incredible $25,000.   Then the winners
go on to compete for first, second and third prizes-- winning up to
$250,000.  It all depends on daily votes from the public.
And in April, we had a local winner!  Saratoga County Rural
Preservation Company- VETHELP, is an organization based out of Ballston
Spa, NY providing transitional housing for veterans and employment and
training assistance.  As the $25,000 monthly winner, VETHELP was able
to provide additional living space in a transitional home for homeless,
female veterans who are trying to rebuild healthy lives and regain
their independence.
This month, I had the opportunity to meet a professional from Saratoga
County VETHELP, and she was telling me about the female veterans and
their struggles in seeking employment.  We also talked about this blog,
and the subject of hearing loss came up.   It's a subject veterans know
very well.
According to the Department of Veterans Affairs, about 60% of deployed
military service men and women have noise induced hearing loss,
tinnitus (ringing in the ear), and other hearing injuries.  In fact,
impairment of auditory activity and tinnitus are more likely to occur
in Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans than post-traumatic stress.
I recently talked with a veteran, and he explained that while soldiers
are given ear plugs to protect their hearing, in combat, they want to
keep their senses working at full capacity.  He went on to tell me that
muffling sound can be a dangerous circumstance.  Upon returning home,
this young man lost 60% of his hearing in one ear, and 40% in the
other.
My research also led me to an article about a retired army captain,
Mark Brogan, who served in Iraq six years ago.   He had been near a
uicide bomber who detonated his weapon; as a result, the captain lost
his right arm, suffered from brain injury, damaged his spinal cord, and
returned home with great post-traumatic stress.
In an interview, he stated that of all his injuries, his hearing loss
was the worst of his physical traumas.  It impacted almost every
activity in his life.
Recently, I happened to meet a woman through an online cochlear implant
upport group.  The woman is not in the military.  However, she has
been hearing impaired since her teenage years, and only now- at 55
years old- is she considering treating her hearing with a cochlear
implant.
The reason?  After 40 years of significant hearing loss and straining
to understand those around her, she's at the point where she doesn't
feel she is able to work anymore unless she does something.
I get that.
I know from personal experience how depressing it can be feeling that a
disability hinders job performance.  I know how painful it is to avoid
an opportunity because a circumstance beyond your control causes
frustration and doubt.  I know the strength it can take just to carry
on with a challenge, let alone persevere with one.
Let's face it: Work is a big part of all our lives.  "What do you do?"
is one of the first questions a person asks a stranger.  How we make a
living is a defining factor in all of our identities, and employment-
and our ability to support ourselves and our families- highly
determines how we feel about ourselves.
So, based on all I've told you: I've certainly become emotionally
invested in the Aprons for Actions contest.  I want the women supported
by VET HELP to not just carry on, but to rise far above the challenges
they've been handed.  We can help, but it's not going to be easy.
The big cities have a substantial lead, but I have faith in the power
of social media.  Share, share, share-- with your friends, your
coworkers, your cousins.  It takes 2 seconds to vote.
Log on to facebook and please vote for Saratoga VET HELP today, and
every day.  Then share on Facebook, on twitter, via email.  Keep
voting.
They deserve it.
[ApronsInAction-slider-May.jpg]
CLICK TO VOTE FOR SARATOGA VET HELP.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 7:13 AM 2 comments:
Labels: Aprons in Action, cochlear implant, Home Depot Foundation,
military and hearing loss, Saratoga, Saratoga VET HELP, veteran
assistance, veterans and hearing loss
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Simple Summer
This past week, my cochlear implant was re-mapped- AGAIN- and once
more, I'm growing accustomed to different versions of sounds in each of
my life's situations.  I've experienced restaurants, baseball games,
car rides, and backyard fires.  In fact, the fires happened twice: once
at a friend's home, and once in my own backyard.
Backyard fires go hand in hand with living in upstate New York.  It's
part of the Adirondack experience.  If you've been surrounded by the
tranquil mountains in Lake George, or caught a sprawling view from the
high peaks, I suspect you know the feeling of such events.
An easy, simple peace.
Though I've lived here a decade, I've only recently come to appreciate
these benefits, mainly through seeing the awe in my children's faces
when they experience them.
Growing up in northern Jersey, I was not exactly a nature-girl.  Funny
looking back, because many of my friends vacationed in Lake George, and
I'd question their families' reasons for purposely choosing to sleep
under the stars.  From a young age, I was accustomed to vacationing in
places like Atlantic City, consuming flashing lights, seafood buffets
and variety shows, ending the days sleeping to the air conditioned hum
of a Trump-owned hotel room.
But times have changed.  Don't get me wrong-- I love dressing fancy and
pretending I belong in a VIP section.  Still, I'm in a phase in life
where following over-scheduled days, I want nights to be as simple as
possible.
I don't think it gets any easier than wearing old sweatshirts, playing
ome music, consuming cocktails, and sitting around a backyard fire.
[fire.jpg]
My backyard firepit, 2013
It's blissfully uncomplicated-- the air gone cold following a hot day,
the hypnotic trance that comes with staring into orange flames.  And
the best part- the story-sharing- when in the night's darkness, sudden
memories emerge so hilarious the group roars in laughter, revealing the
pure stupidity of the people they used to be.
But for me, with my hearing loss, these simple fires have been anything
but.  With little light glowing on the faces around me, it's often hard
to read lips, and also to identify who is speaking.  Background music
often swallowed the conversation, and within seconds, I'd be lost.
I've felt bored, ignored, and often angry during such an easy
activity.
Easy, yes, because most people don't have to worry about hearing around
the fire pit.  But also easy in that backyard fires are relaxing.
Mellow.  Enjoyable.  Of all of life's activities, THOSE are the types
of experiences I want with my cochlear implant-- the moments that are
eemingly so easy to others.
I crave the simplicity.
Sometimes I have to stop myself to notice there's a difference, to
consciously acknowledge things are going well.
And that's exactly what happened this past weekend at the fires: I
noticed I was relaxed.  I noticed I felt content.  I noticed, for the
most part, I was following conversation.
Is it easy yet?  No.  But it's easier.
And for now, that's the focus.  A little less complicated, and a bit
more peaceful, moment by moment by moment.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 5:01 PM No comments:
Labels: adirondack, cochlear implant, easier, hearing problems, high
peaks, Lake George, lip reading, remapping, what is cochlear implant
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
The Hearing Impaired Hostess
[lemonafe.jpg]
On Sunday night, Jeff's parents, brother, and sister-in-law came over
to celebrate Colin's 9th birthday.
It's always a bit chaotic- and certainly much louder- when company is
over.  The control freak in me loves to be the hostess, the cook, and
the event planner; in fact, I even planned a gala fundraiser in my
professional life, and while I did a good job, the task nearly sent me
into complete mental deterioration.  This is mostly because of the
hearing responsibilities that came with the role- directing people to
appropriate places, handling questions thrown my way, and being able to
maintain a conversation while usually doing ten other tasks
imultaneously, which is very hard to do, by the way, when you need to
LOOK at people to understand them.  My at-home events are not as
tress-inducing (I can sense my husband rolling his eyes).  Fine,
Jeff.  I admit, once in awhile, my lack of hearing leaves me wanting to
pull my hair out before a meal even begins.
Sunday evening's dinner was a typical small family gathering.  There
were people around talking, or loading their plates, and Claire was
coloring in the living room.  I was in the kitchen, the dining room
eparating our respective rooms from one another, when I realized
Claire had not yet specified a drink selection.
"Claire!" I called.  "What do you want to drink?"
She responded, "Lemonade!"
I called back, "Lemonade?  We don't have any lemonade.  How about
orange juice?"
"Okay!" she said.
As I went to get the orange juice, I paused.  I acknowledged the
moment, just for a second, and I smiled.  Thank you.
She was two rooms away from me, and I GOT THE MESSAGE.  Our exchange
was by no means a life-changing conversation, but this example is
EXACTLY why I wanted the cochlear implant in the first place.
Being able to call to your child and receive a response is such a
normal "mom thing" to do.  Calling out to your guests and being able to
offer them what they need is such a normal "hostess thing" to do.  In
the past, I've felt inadequate with my inability to do either in a
imple manner.
In the spirit of Claire's drink order, you know the phrase: "When life
gives you lemons, MAKE LEMONADE," right?  Well, the last few years with
my deteriorating hearing, I've felt as though I was given a truckload
of lemons.   And I've just stared at these rotten, bitter fruits,
damning them, agonizing over what to make out of them.
I'm thinking my cochlear implant journey is my path to a refreshing
glass of lemonade. Cheers!
Posted by Pam Fisher at 4:15 PM 2 comments:
Labels: cochlear, cochlear implant, cochlear implant surgery, event
planning, hearing impairment, hostess, lemonade, motherhood, Pam Fisher
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Colin Turns 9
[Colin+6+days+old.jpg]
Baby Colin
Nine years ago, I became a Mom.
This concept overall should have scared the crap out of me, but it
never did.  I admit I was nervous about becoming a hearing impaired
mom, but what brought me even greater anxiety was the possibility of my
baby being hearing impaired too.
At 22 years old, I lacked understanding of the real world, and I was
greatly unsure of my life.  I was also deeply ashamed of who I was.  I
couldn't speak of my hearing without my eyes welling with tears, and if
omeone else was to speak of my situation, or even ask me a question
about it, I felt violated, embarrassed, and buried in
elf-consciousness.  I also felt guilty for my feelings, because I
knew, intellectually, that my hearing impairment was not that big of a
deal. Still I couldn't shake my damn emotions, and so I marched into
parenthood wrapped in denial, hoping for the best, but deeply worried
for the worst.
I think I've always known that at some point or another, I was going to
have to accept the life God had given me.  I also believed- and still
believe- that my circumstances are no accident, but this didn't
necessarily make me feel better about not being able to understand
people.  Still, as angry as I could be with my ears, I've always
believed I was made this way for a reason.
Now I'm warning you: This might sound crazy.  But I feared God would
punish me for my lack of acceptance.  I feared my baby would be born
hearing impaired or deaf.
Throughout my pregnancy with Colin, and even three years later in my
pregnancy with Claire, I reasoned there was only one way TO FORCE me to
accept my life.  I knew I wouldn't be able to help my child develop
confidence if I could not be confident in myself.  And so I assumed I
would be forced to tackle my truth by having a hearing impaired child.
The presumption of this challenge was so monumental to me that it
terrified me to my core.
At 10:43 AM on January 19, 2004, my beautiful baby boy, Colin, was
born.  He was absolutely perfect,  and through the afternoon into the
evening, my fears melted away... temporarily.
Jeff had gone home for the night to get some rest, and through
middle-of-the-night darkness, a nurse entered my room to let me know
Colin was going to be taken to the nursery for tests.  Included was his
infant hearing screening, and my chest tensed in anxiety.  The nurse
told me to just sleep, but despite the exhaustion that comes with
labor, hospital visitors, and new motherhood, I was wide awake.  I told
the nurse I needed to know the results of the hearing test
immediately.  She was adamant I needed my rest, but agreed she would
lip a note under my door letting me know the results.
She told me not to worry, and to get some sleep.  Yeah right.
I stayed awake, my eyes glued to the clock watching each excruciating
early morning minute pass by.  Occasionally I would tiptoe to the door
of my room (I felt like I was being defiant in rejecting rest, not
realizing yet my role as a parent and my right to be with my child).
So I would sneakily pace my way to the door in hopes of getting the
results sooner, only to feel like I was being foolish and would
anxiously return to my bed moments later.  This went on for what seemed
like forever until finally a sliver of light entered the room as the
door cracked open.
When I got to the door, THIS note was on the floor:
[Connor.JPG]
CONNOR?!  WHO THE HELL IS CONNOR?
I had spent most of the night worrying about this very moment, so I no
longer cared if I wasn't following nurse's orders.  I marched to the
nursery, the note in hand.  When I found Nurse Kim, she assured me she
had mistakenly written "Connor," and that indeed, Colin had passed his
creening with flying colors.  He was continuing his tests and doing
just fine.
And then, finally, I rested.  Next thing I knew, nine years flew before
my eyes.
[Colcooler.jpg]
[Colinbelly.jpg]
[Colin+and+Me.jpg]
[family+pic.jpg]
[Colin+Football.jpg]
As the years went on, I am happy to report Colin continues to pass his
hearing tests.  We were skeptical during grades 1 and 2, but alas, he
achieved a perfect score with the audiologist.  It seems Colin has a
combination of selective hearing and a case of "Fisher Fog," otherwise
known as a genetic condition where Fisher males seem to be looking
through you as you speak to them.  Colin acquired one of the worst
cases.
He's also a wonderful kid: witty, passionate, creative, philosophical,
athletic, and wise beyond his years.  And now he's nine-- the same age
I was when I learned of my crazy hearing.
I'm no longer worried Colin will be hearing impaired, but should it
happen, I know I'm a hell of a lot more equipped to support him than I
would have been when he entered this world.
Today I can say, I am who I am... and I'm okay.  But I'm not just
aying it; I believe it.  And I hope my kids can see that no matter
what, they'll be okay too.
[Pam+with+kids.jpg]
Claire, me, and Colin
Posted by Pam Fisher at 6:39 PM 4 comments:
Labels: baby boy, born deaf, cochlear implant, cochlear implant
urgery, hearing impairment, hearing test, infant hearing screening,
made this way, mother and son, motherhood, nine years old, Pam Fisher
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Pay It Forward
[I-love-coffee.jpg]
On the evening of November 27, 2012, I was depressed.  I was trying to
recover from the exhaustion of my day that had come from once again,
trying so hard to pay attention to everyone around me so I could
understand the world.
I was going on seven months with the cochlear implant, and I miserably
acknowledged that I was still in such an early development stage
regarding my hearing.  It really pissed me off.   I questioned if I’d
ever hear normally, thinking I might just be the one person that
wouldn’t achieve success through the surgery.   That night, I slouched
on my couch, dividing my attention between crap TV and Facebook.
A post from one of my favorite local coffee shops caught my eye, and as
I read the story, my mood shifted.  Then, I was crying, but in a good
way.  I was so excited that I wanted to share this with the world, and
I felt my blog was a good place to start.  I drafted a post rather
quickly, re-energized and uplifted by what I had learned.
And then I hesitated.  The two people from the story knew me in the way
professionals in the same community know each other- maybe through a
Linkedin profile, or through a hello and a smile at a function- but
what would they make of some hearing impaired girl talking about them
on a blog?  I wasn’t sure, and I didn't feel brave, so I stored the
post as a sweet memory.
That is, until today.  This morning I happened to be at that very
coffee shop, and the man from the story, John, stood ahead of me in
line.  I was tickled to see him talking to Sue, the coffeeshop owner,
because these two are the stars of the story I so wanted to share.
I patted John on the arm, said hello and we re-introduced ourselves to
each other and chatted.  We followed up with one another by email, and
I revealed to John that  I had written about him but never shared it.
Little did I know John already knew a bit of my story, (He read the
ever-so-popular Fitness Barbie!) and encouraged me not only to keep
haring my stories, but to SHOUT them.
So here I am SHOUTING WITH JOY.  Here, my friends, is my post about
John and Sue.  Prepare to be inspired!
[PayItForwardLogo.jpg]
Written November 27, 2012
Today is Giving Tuesday.
In the past, I’ve failed to acknowledge the significance of this day,
certainly placing a greater emphasis on Black Friday and Cyber Monday.
Today, however, I learned of an act so heartwarming and magical that
free shipping and doorbuster deals paled in comparison.
In the nearby city of Glens Falls, NY, there is a gem of a coffee shop
called North Country Coffee Café.  Also in town is O’Brien Insurance
Agency and today, these two small businesses partnered to create Giving
Tuesday magic.
In observance of the day, all purchases made at North Country Coffee
Café were compliments of O’Brien Insurance.  They only asked that in
return, the customer “pay it forward” by giving in his/her own way to
omeone else.
Can you picture the joy?  The surprise?  If I went to pay for my
cappuccino and found out some stranger had taken care of it for me, I
would have happy danced out of the shop!
Over and over today, I’ve imagined smiling customers leaving the North
Country Coffee Café  full of inspiration, their hearts equipped with a
tad more trust in human kindness.  Some customers wrote down how they
planned to pay it forward and posted their ideas on the cafe’s wall.
Others started a Hurricane Sandy donation jar.  And there are people
like me who through the power of social media, learned of this great
act and then asked myself, “Well, what can I do?”
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I sometimes struggle to
acknowledge the small victories in my journey, failing to recognize how
miraculous it is to hear a certain sound that I have never heard
before.  I’ve also realized that when I fear I’ll produce something
less than magnificent (such as when I blow off my rehab exercises
because I don’t want to score less than perfect), instead of doing
omething, I do nothing at all.  And THAT is the biggest failure there
is.
Today’s kindness at the coffee shop reminded me that even one small act
can be truly meaningful.  And when you combine a bunch of small acts
together… well, that is absolute magnificence.
So I march onward, inspired by today’s acts, and gratefully taking each
mall whistle, beep and buzz with me in my journey toward clarity.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 6:25 PM 1 comment:
Labels: cochlear implant, cochlear implant surgery, Giving Tuesday,
Glens Falls, North Country Coffee Cafe, OBrien Insurance, Pam Fisher,
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Golden Globes
[Golden_Globe_Trophy.jpg]
For as long as I can remember, I've loved The Golden Globes.
I have always thought of it as the ultimate award show, a
champagne-fueled room full of film and television elite, where amongst
the glitz and glamour I could discreetly hold hands under the table
with Justin Timberlake.  It's been a long-term fantasy of mine.
Well, the JT part is more of a recent development, but otherwise I've
enjoyed this fantasy since I was a little girl.   I spent hours
dreaming of having the best dressed hair, makeup, and gown, practicing
my surprised and humbled expression as a nominee, and perfecting a
peech that would bring the audience to hopeful tears.
As a child, I was a performer.  A dancer and singer.  An actress.
Somewhere in storage is a black and white headshot of me as an aspiring
child star, my name beneath my chubby-cheeked smiling face.
[Dancing+little+Pam.jpg]
In a leotard and ballet slippers: TADA!
In fact, it's a shame most of you missed my critically acclaimed
performance in a play I also wrote.  It was a modern adaptation of The
Ugly Duckling in which I played the girlfriend of the lead character,
Snoop Ducky Duck.  My role even included an alternate version of On My
Own from Les Miserables featuring the following lyrics:  "On my own, I
love a duck with a beauty.  That lies within him oh so truly.  And even
though the other ducks they say: He's ugly, oh I hate him, he's
disgusting... how they rate him."
I know.  I can't make this stuff up.
I had a passion for show business until probably my early teen years.
That's when I started to hesitate.
I remember thinking I could never audition for a show because the
director might be seated at a distance and ask me a question.  This was
an imaginary scenario, of course, but in my mind, I pictured myself
unable to hear him, leaving me frozen in embarrassment and running
offstage in tears.
I didn't ever want to take that risk.  And so I pushed my starlet
dreams aside.  I let go.
Since my surgery, and since the blog, my eyes have opened to the many
times I've failed to even try something I might enjoy-- not because of
fear I would fail, but because I have been so scared of the
vulnerability that accompanies revealing my true self in the process.
That fear alone was debilitating enough to keep me from embracing what
I truly love in this world.
I vow the future will be different.
Therefore, without fear, should I one day receive a second chance to
perform, I accept.  And if this performance merits an invitation to a
future Golden Globes, so be it.  Just know, Foreign Hollywood Press,
that you'll get my true JT-stalking self in attendance.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 5:19 AM No comments:
Labels: Acceptance Speech, cochlear implant, Dreams, Foreign Hollywood
Press, Golden Globes, Hearing Impaired, Justin Timberlake, Les
Miserables, On My Own, Pam Fisher, The Golden Globes Awards
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Fitness Barbie
It's the beginning of 2013, and with a new year comes new year's
resolutions, usually taking the form of masses of people running to the
gym in January. I am no exception to the trend, and typically exercise
vigorously post New Years Day, only to stop in February and then panic
and run like a madwoman in May when bathing suit season too quickly
approaches.
This year, however, I wasn't burning calories on January 2nd; instead,
I had a coupon that enabled me to join a new gym on January 10th for
$1.  So I refused to work out until the 10th, because I knew I would be
cashing in on this sweet deal and sweating off the massive amount of
wine and cookies I had ingested over the holiday season... which in my
case, started pre-Halloween.
At around 4 PM on the 10th, I stepped into my soon-to-be new gym and
approached a young girl in a tracksuit who appeared to be a staff
member... and a Barbie doll.  I held up my coupon in triumph, excited
to embark on my 2013 fitness journey for only ONE DOLLAR.
[fitness-barbie.jpg]
The real life Barbie Doll didn't wear this outfit... THANK GOD.
Barbie Doll was elated and quickly ushered me to her office to start
paperwork.  She left the office door open, and I tried to understand
her as she was explaining that I would be paying $1 today... but, um,
$450 soon after.   Sure, I had been scammed by a flashy postcard
promotion, but I still wanted to join.  I had procrastinated to the
10th of the month, after all.
Barbie's squeaky voice was competing with the surrounding echo of
treadmills and elliptical machines, and while I was following most of
what she was saying (like that she called me ma'am repeatedly... am I
really old enough to be ma'am?) I'm also a much better advocate for
myself than I used to be, so I stopped her and explained my hearing
ituation.  She asked if it would help if she shut the door and I
agreed that would allow me to understand her better.
As Barbie shut the door, I guess she explained to a fellow staff member
outside of her office that she was dealing with a hearing impaired
customer, and news of my situation- exciting, I know- must have spread
like wildfire.  Probably thirty seconds later, a staff person entered
the office to retrieve some paperwork.
She looked at me and smiled in a rather phony and uncomfortable way.
"Hiiiiiii!"  she said loudly, her one word taking way too many seconds
to say.
"Um, hey," I responded normally, disliking her immediately.
Another thirty seconds passed and the gym's owner decided to stop by my
meeting with Barbie.
"Hi, I hear you have some trouble hearing," he stated right away.
He could have said, "Hi, I'm the owner, and I'd like to tell you about
our gym."  Or "Hi, I'm the owner.  What kind of fitness goals do you
have for yourself?" But no.  I don't even know his name, but I know he
knows I have trouble hearing.
By this point, I'm fired up.  Do they make this similar introduction
with say, a gay person?
As in, "Hi, I hear you're gay.  Thanks for stopping by."  What if the
customer was scratching his head, and then admitted to Barbie he had a
dandruff problem.  Would the owner stop by and say, "Hi, I hear you
have dandruff."  NO... because it's TOTALLY UNNECESSARY.
Meanwhile, Barbie was fine.  She identified my concern, she asked what
to do to make it better, and she helped by closing the door.  But I
classify the follow-up from the other staff members as borderline
ridiculous- actually, scratch that... it WAS ridiculous...  and
certainly not the way businesspeople should address a prospective
customer.  I could justify the behavior if the staff wanted to ask
about how to best communicate with me, or if they were concerned about
afety,  but there was no mention of any of these issues.  I'd like to
think maybe they were considering these thoughts and upon hearing my
response, their concerns were alleviated.
At this point, I tell the owner, "Yes, I am hearing impaired but I got
a cochlear implant this year and I'm re-learning to hear.   You don't
need to yell... I may ask you to repeat yourself sometimes, but for the
most part, I do very well.  And I don't talk to people when I work out
anyway."
And that seemed to end my conversation with the owner.  He left.
When I told this story to my husband, he reasoned, quite simply, that
this particular gym staff was not normal.  But I beg to differ.  This
is not my first awkward hearing moment at a gym; in fact, there was one
encounter at another gym that was even worse, and I vowed never to
return... but I'll save that story for another blog post.
To make this a teachable moment, I'm asking readers to consider this
thought.  When encountering people with differences- whatever it might
be- try to learn how to help the person, and focus on the act of
helping them, not on the difference that constitutes the help.  Having
worked in human services and in education for more than a decade, I've
encountered many adults with limitations of some kind, and more often
than not, they KNOW what accommodations they need to live
uccessfully.  They also know that they don't need people identifying
their limitations just for the sake of saying the name of their
disability out loud.  Letting someone know that YOU KNOW they have a
disability does not make you a caring person.  It makes you a DUMBASS.
So, while I'd never thought I'd advise this, here I go: Be like Barbie.
[Barbie+Face.jpg]
Happy to help, MA'AM!
Posted by Pam Fisher at 2:47 PM 6 comments:
Labels: Advocacy, Barbie, cochlear implant, Disability, Fitness Barbie,
Gym, hearing impairment, New Years Resolutions
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Kindergarten Critics
[Me+and+Claire.jpg]
Me and Claire-December 2012.
“Look at my mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!” chimed my daughter Claire as she
reached to the right side of my head.  Surrounded by her friends, she
was trying to brush my hair away to reveal the sound processor behind
my ear.
We were in Claire’s kindergarten classroom where I had just finished
volunteering.  Forty five minutes earlier, I had sat in front of 25
little faces, their bodies seated criss-cross applesauce on a colorful
carpet.  Before opening my storybook, I explained I first needed to
tell them something.
I had trouble looking at the teacher or the teacher’s assistant as I
began my speech, completely aware I was avoiding eye contact with
them.  Maybe because if I had looked, I would catch a glimmer of
ympathy in their eyes, or even a silent small smile-- the “I know this
is hard, disabled one, but good for you” acknowledgement that would
leave me off-balance and overly emotional because they knew the truth.
It was hard giving this speech.
I was scared a group of five year olds would somehow lessen their
respect for me if they knew of my truth.   And despite a brave front, I
questioned if Claire, seated smack in the middle of the group, would
feel any wave of embarrassment, sadness, or shame that her mother was
different.
“I have something special about me,” I began.  “I used to have trouble
hearing so in the spring, I got a surgery to help me hear better.  It’s
called a cochlear implant.”
I then lifted my hair to show them the processor. “I’m still trying to
learn to hear, and there are some things you can do to help me, like
peak loud and clearly, and to raise your hands before you speak.”
Right away, several of the kids’ hands popped up.
“And LOOK at you while we’re talking,” chimed in a little pony-tailed
angel in the front row.
“And take turns speaking,” added the second child I called on.
“Wow!  You guys are smart!” I commended, and I meant it, though I admit
that initially, I didn’t give these kids the credit they deserved.
Later, when I spoke with Claire about the day, I asked her if there was
a hearing impaired child in her class, figuring someone at some point
must have gone over communication strategies with the kids.  But Claire
assured me she knew of no child who wore a hearing aid (or a big
earring as she called it).
She didn’t offer much of an explanation, simply stating, “Even the kids
who normally misbehave looked right at you, Mommy.  I guess they must
have liked you.”
Here were kids, some unable to write their own names or tie their
hoes, and yet they knew how to communicate with me better than many
adults.  There was no unnecessary increase of volume in their voices.
No E-NUN-CU-AT-ING EACH SLOOOOOW AND PAIN-FUL SYLL-A-BLE to make sure
the deaf lady understood.  Within 30 seconds, it seemed the kids made
ense of the situation, offered some suggestions so that we’d better
understand one another, and that was that.  After my speech, I glanced
at Claire, wondering if she would smile in my direction or give a small
nod of approval.  There was none of that, either.  Her face carried the
ame expression as if I had told her the weather condition outside-- an
expression that says, “That’s nice, so what are we going to do next?”
The volunteering continued, and after a story, some crayons, and a
nack of the Dunkin Donut munchkins I had brought just to make sure I
could win the kids over (totally worked, by the way), the class lined
up for lunch and I decided to walk down the hallway with them as I left
the school.  It was then that my daughter looked up at me and smiled,
and while most of the kids were too preoccupied to hear her, I did.
In her signature high pitch singsong voice, she exclaimed, “Look at my
mom’s COCH-LE-AR IMPLANT!”
And you know what I realized?  She’s proud of me.
After years of worrying that my situation would somehow embarrass my
kids, Claire looks at my cochlear implant as some kind of badge of
honor.  In fact, sometimes when I’m not wearing the processor, I catch
her by my bedside table, placing the processor behind her right ear and
then looking in the mirror, cocking her head from one side to the other
as if she’s trying on a headband or experimenting with eye shadow.
In moments like that, my heart smiles… and heals.  And when she decided
to show me off to her friends, well… my heart just swelled with
enormous gratitude that I get to be this little girl’s mother.
Because of Claire, I am learning to wear my “big earring” with pride.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 2:09 PM 5 comments:
Labels: cochlear implant, cochlear implant surgery, hearing, hearing
impairment, kindergarten, motherhood, Pam Fisher
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
The Bright Side
I like to think I am an optimist… that I try to see the good in even
the bleakest of situations.  However, when I’m in a Dayquil-fueled fog
accompanied by head-buzzing misery, I struggle to see the bright side.
Prior to Thanksgiving, I caught the dreaded stomach bug.   A week later
I replaced my condition with a never-ending sore throat and sinus
headache.  I’ve had two colds since my surgery, and both times, it
eems my cochlear implant’s functionality is compromised during cold
and flu season.  For me, a simple cold now coexists with head pressure
urrounding my implant site, and more annoyingly, a constant buzzing
that remains ringing through my head regardless of whether I am wearing
the processor or not.  That’s right; even when the implant is OFF, I
till hear noise—a condition common to people with cochlear implants
known as tinnitus, also known as “ringing of the ears.”  Some people
have this without being hearing impaired or having an implant, and it’s
my understanding that deaf or not, it sucks for everyone.
Additionally, certain noises seem to be even more obnoxious than normal
when I’m sick.  Head-buzzing is one of them.  Another is the high pitch
queal of Claire’s screams when she plays with her brother.  This has
always annoyed Jeff, but pre-surgery, I was oblivious to its
occurrence.  Well, I hear it now and OH. MY. GOD.  Little girl screams
are the WORST.
As you can probably tell, I’ve been grumpy, and though I should
probably focus on my blessings during this
most-wonderful-time-of-the-year, I admit I haven’t been feeling very
thankful.  I thrive to hear voices, after all… clearly and
effortlessly; I didn’t get this surgery to hear squeals and buzzes.
And so, I’ve spent the last few weeks pretty pissed off toward my
cochlear implant progress.
Today, however, and in more ways than one, I was lucky to see some
light.  It appeared during an all-day training held in a large, hotel
banquet room.  The majority of the training was lecture-style, and the
peaker was great—charismatic, interesting, and to my luck, he spoke
loudly and clearly.  Even better, I realized I didn’t have to work to
understand him… that is, until I slid my processor magnet off my head
to see what he would sound like without the implant.
He wasn’t clear.  And he wasn’t loud.  I had no clue what he was
aying.
It would be a disservice to the implant not to acknowledge its value to
me when I’m attending presentations and lectures.  In that setting, and
with the right speaker, it is working.  Upon realizing this, the room
brightened.
The training, incidentally, focused on cultural diversity and social
identities, and considering my 23 years of experience with a
disability, I felt I could contribute to the discussion.  After sharing
ome of my story with the participants, one woman added that when she
first heard my voice, she wanted to know “where my unique accent was
from.”
There it was—the reaction to my speech that I try to make sound as
normal as possible.  Sometimes I get the “Where-are-you-from question,”
and other times, and especially from kids, I get the frank
“You-talk-funny” statement.  On occasion I’m asked if I have my tongue
pierced.
Then there’s my favorite-- when a daycare parent once looked at me
inquisitively while I spoke and then commented, “You’re so exotic.
Where are you from?”
To which I replied, “New Jersey.”
If ten years ago, a colleague had pointed out I talked differently in
front of 50+ professionals, I most certainly would have been
embarrassed.  I might have cried.  And I definitely would have wanted
to wring that lady’s neck for spotlighting the fact that I was
Today, however, there was no bitterness.  I realized she wasn’t trying
to hurt my feelings, but that she was curious—that’s all.  Just.
Curious.  What a difference from a decade ago…  Hell, even a year ago!
My progress in self-acceptance continues to surprise me and truly
brighten my days.
I realized today that the bright side is there, but it is my choice
whether or not to let the light in.  Moreso, when the journey seems
foggy and dark, it is up to me to remember those moments of
brightness.  During the 2012 holiday season, my first Christmas with
the implant, I choose for my days to be merry and bright.   I wish the
ame for all of you.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 6:36 PM No comments:
Labels: bright side, Christmas, cochlear implant, cochlear implant
urgery, deaf, diversity, flu season, gratitude, hearing impairment,
Pam Fisher, self acceptance, speech, tinnitus
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Our Hometown Tree
[Flanders+Tree.jpg]
The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree beginning its journey from my
hometown of Flanders, NJ
Last night started like most other weeknights: I was hungry in bed
trying to convince myself NOT to have ice cream (FAIL), Jeff was in the
living room reading about nineteenth century Russia, and I tried my
best to maintain optimal focus between concurrent games of Draw
Something and Bravo reality shows.  Then something magical happened.
Lighting up my facebook news feed like a Christmas tree, was just that:
a Christmas tree, but this was no ordinary tree—THIS was a 10 ton
Norway Spruce from my hometown of Flanders, New Jersey, selected as
this year’s iconic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.
My parents still live in Flanders, while many of my classmates from
high school live in or nearby the suburban town located in northwestern
New Jersey.  The town and its surrounding areas were not spared from
Hurricane Sandy’s destructive path, and while my parents were extremely
fortunate to lose electricity for only 48 hours, I learned through
facebook that many of my old friends went up to almost two weeks
without power.  Many also waited for hours to fill their gas tanks,
uffered through long trips at the grocery store and were unable to
return to their schools, workplaces, and businesses.  In fact, many
friends had their power restored just the day before the wondrous news
of the Rockefeller tree.  I imagine that going from heartache and
exhaustion to civic pride was a real morale booster for the Flanders
residents.
It was for me too.  Four hours north of Flanders in my upstate NY town,
I had been feeling kind of glum.  And to make it worse, I felt guilty
for feeling this way because I knew my troubles were minuscule compared
to those trying to move past the hurricane.  When the weatherman warned
of Sandy’s potential damage,  I absolutely went out and bought an
extensive supply of bottled water and groceries, but Sandy’s presence
in my town was nothing more than a somewhat windy rain shower.  There
was no damage-- aside from what I was viewing as an ongoing catastrophe
on the right side of my head.  Now in November, I had reached a plateau
with my cochlear implant progress, and even more embarrassing is that
in recent weeks when I struggle to hear, I have suddenly burst into
tears, a totally unfortunate and unprofessional occurrence.
But how can you be sad when an 80-foot tree from your hometown will
oon be the most famous Christmas tree in the world?  You can’t. Upon
haring the excitement in my own facebook status, I started daydreaming
how amazing it would be for all my friends of Flanders past to come
together in Manhattan to view the tree- OUR tree.  Then I took the
daydream to the next level, imagining that I would sing “O Holy Night”
at the tree lighting.   And then I started laughing at the thought of
us all ice skating together beneath the spruce, similar to how we had
kated in middle school at a place that I hold near and dear to my
heart: The Hackettstown Roller Rink.
During my middle school years, I spent many Friday nights at this
establishment.  For a boy-crazy pre-teen like myself, it was heaven.
Sporting a kickass bodysuit or perhaps a hooded baja shirt,  I would
glide around that rink to tunes by Ace of Base and Crash Test Dummies,
trategically positioning myself to grab a nearby boy for the much
anticipated couple skate.  Young couples would demonstrate their love
to each other when the rink dimmed the lights, skating hand in hand to
“I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston, or “I Swear” by
All-4-One.  And sometimes, we would use this opportunity to exit the
rink and kiss by the video games, fulfilling all of my dreams of middle
chool romance.
I then started thinking about my hearing in relation to the rink.  It
was certainly a noisy place with all the kids, and the loud music, and
uch environments are usually not my favorite locales because of the
background noise.  Maybe it was because I was skating (or kissing) more
than talking, or maybe my hearing was just so much better than it is
now, but I can’t remember even thinking about my hearing at the roller
rink—a much different situation from today, as I rarely go an hour
without silently acknowledging and damning my disability.
Thanks to facebook, another wave of nostalgia washed over me. My high
chool boyfriend, Andrew, had liked my status about the tree from
Flanders, and my thoughts shifted from middle school years at the
roller rink to high school years when he and I had dated.  Andrew was
in the class ahead of mine, played on the varsity soccer team and drove
a sweet Grand Am.  He had earned the nickname Rico Suave, I think
because he would unabashedly sing the god-awful song on demand
(fortunately he did not look like Gerardo), and also, because he grew
up in an Italian/Spanish household and acknowledged women with
over-dramatic charm and flattery.  And I loved him.  For being 15 and
16 years old, we thought we were so mature, not knowing at the time
that adult relationships rarely include constant love notes, dramatic
marathon sessions on the telephone (YOU hang up first.  No, YOU hang up
first!), and the hormonal drive to touch one another as often as
By the time I was in high school, I had developed a greater awareness
of my hearing impairment.  It didn’t interfere all that much with my
teenage activities (I spent hours on the telephone, for example), but
there were minor instances when I assumed my hearing was obvious to
everyone, and I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and totally uncool.   As
Andrew and I grew closer, I one day mustered the courage to tell him
about my hearing, which of course led to a crying fit despite Andrew’s
reaction of absolute indifference.  Looking back, this might have
marked the first time I honestly revealed my truth to someone.
Sixteen years have passed since then, and I now recognize that any time
I “come out” to someone, it never results in the person not liking me.
Still even today, even with this blog, I still fight the shame that
comes with revealing my true self to people.
Some more about Andrew: I’m surprising myself by even including him in
the blog.  Our breakup was just as dramatic as the relationship that
preceded it, and up until meeting my husband, I mourned that Andrew and
I would likely never speak again. Though I have not seen Andrew in more
than a decade, he and I have started to reconnect in the last year via
facebook, and it's an unforeseen joy to read posts that he is advancing
in his career and look at pictures of him and his adorable wife and
feel genuine happiness for the boy that shaped so much of my teenage
experience.   When I started the blog, he sent me an encouraging
message wishing me the best.  He also gave me his blessing to include
tories of him in the blog (he was never very shy, after all) and
assured me my hearing had always been a non-factor for him, a sentiment
that the insecure teenager in me truly appreciates.
Cut down today and shipped to Manhattan, the heavy tree from Flanders
will soon be admired by millions of people.  It will serve as a symbol
of joy, and of tradition, and for many looking up at its white lights
this holiday season, it will serve as a symbol of hope. Whether or not
I get to view the hometown tree in Rockefeller Center, I am grateful it
has already reminded me of my roots and how far I’ve come.
Posted by Pam Fisher at 6:10 PM 2 comments:
Labels: Ace of Base, All 4 One, cochlear implant, Flanders, Hurricane
Sandy, Pam Fisher, Rico Suave, Rockefeller Center, Rockefeller Center
Christmas Tree
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Lessons From Jamaica: A Six Month Update
[Kathryn+and+Pam.JPG]
Kathryn on her wedding day and me in Montego Bay, Jamaica
Hi there.  Remember me?  I realize a long time has passed since I last
posted.
A week ago, I drafted an apology for the lack of updates.  I started by
explaining how “insanely busy” I’ve been throughout September and
October.  It was similar to a recent talk I had with a personal trainer
at the gym.   First you should know this guy was not my trainer- I’m
not that cool or rich.  Rather, I was waiting for someone at the gym,
and the trainer was nearby, so I chatted with him.  I initiated the
conversation by telling him how I really want to make it to the gym
more, but I am just so busy with this, and that, and this…   He
listened to the tales of my complicated life, then shrugged and said,
“If you want to be here, you’d be here.  There are many people busier
than you and they get here.  You have a lot of excuses.”
I guess I could have been pissed off, but I tend to appreciate
traightforward people.  And he was right.  I was making excuses.
The same goes for writing… I love it, and I love this blog.  If I
really wanted to, I’m sure I could have posted an update.  Lord knows I
pend enough time on Facebook commenting on photos.  So what has been
holding me back?
When I started the blog, I wanted to inform my family, friends, and
colleagues of my decision to get a cochlear implant.  I figured it was
easiest to update everyone all at once as social media carried my news
from person to person.  It worked, but once I published, I also
realized the weight of my shame as a hearing impaired person, its heavy
presence on my shoulders day after day, and the constant voice
whispering, even in the presence of success, “You’re not good enough.”
Sharing my feelings via the blog was an incredibly freeing experience,
an occurrence I credit for changing my life.  I wasn't just ready to
hear, but also to heal.
Following surgery, my activation and initial weeks in rehabilitation
proved to be challenging, and as frustrated as I was with the new
cochlear implant, I at least recognized as a writer that my experiences
made for a good story.  I was also generally optimistic.  I figured in
the months that followed, I would persevere through my trials and
tribulations.  I predicted that one day I would say to you: Yes, the
beginning of this journey SUCKED, but LOOK AT ME NOW!   I’d be sharing
tories of how I talk for hours on the phone with my friends, or how
when driving in the car, I pick up all the lyrics to a song, or how my
new hearing makes me feel fully competent, completely included,
connected and whole.
I tend to describe my cochlear implant success based on how well I
communicate in “bigger” milestone events as opposed to everyday
occurrences.  I realize this analysis might not be the most accurate,
but I can’t help but put more emphasis on the significance of hearing
during special occasions.  Post-activation, it was my son’s communion
and my daughter’s birthday party—two events surrounded by a storm of
unrecognizable noise.  NOT a great hearing weekend.  Then came my first
family vacation with the implant, and the reality that life with a
processor was often inconvenient.  I mourned the loss of natural
hearing I once had in my right ear.  I was also saddened by the
difficulty I experienced trying to understand multiple voices in a
ingle setting.
With each milestone that passed, I hoped the next big event would be
better.  May events were difficult, I still struggled in June, but with
the arrival of summer, and a few different mappings, I thought I was on
a better track. Though I still wasn’t where I wanted to be, people
around me were noticing a difference, saying I was more relaxed and
eemed to understand more than when I was without the implant.
My BIGGEST event of 2012, the one occurring a whole six months
post-activation, was the wedding of my best friend, Kathryn.  She and I
talked about the occasion before I even went through surgery, and I’d
ay things like, “I’ll be able to HEAR at your wedding!  YAYYY!”
This was NOT just any wedding.  Oh no.  This was a full five-day event
in Montego Bay, Jamaica, complete with all-inclusive cocktails, a trip
to the spa, uninterrupted, child-free time with my husband, and more
than 70 guests joining for what would be a once-in-a-lifetime
occasion.  In my airplane group alone were four sets of parents
collectively leaving seven children ages 8 and under with trusted
babysitters.  This does NOT happen every day, friends, and I promised
to embrace every second of Jamaica to the fullest.
And I did.  The wedding was beautiful, the resort was amazing… but it’s
not a complete story if I didn’t admit to the cochlear implant
frustrations.  First, before I even made it to LaGuardia Airport en
route to Jamaica, the ear hook on my processor broke.   Of course, it
was my last small one.  I was forced to use a large hook for the
remainder of the trip, resulting in an awkward fit around my ear.  I
pent the first two days at the beach feeling my processor dangling
from my head, petrified it was going to get too wet and no longer
work.  But I didn’t sweat it… it was the trip of a lifetime, and in the
days that followed, I didn’t wear it at the pool or beach.  Was it hard
to hear?  Yes, but I was in Jamaica.  No problem, Mon.  Plus there were
endless frozen drinks.
I was able to push the processor frustration aside, but another
remained.  I had anticipated hearing much better WITH the processor
than what was actually occurring.  I expected success in the airport (I
had never been able to hear in an airport before), but I found it just
as difficult to communicate as it had been in pre-implant life.  I also
found group conversations to be more difficult than I expected.
At dinner one night at a restaurant at our resort, I sat among some of
my favorite people in the world—beloved family members, my best
friends, my husband’s best friends.  Conversation was occurring all
around me in various directions, and several times, people had said
omething to me but I failed to understand.  For a few seconds, I let
my frustration show, and admitted to the table I was having a lot of
trouble.  As soon as I said it, I felt the tears coming.
I was NOT going to cry in Jamaica, I had told myself, and I excused
myself from the dinner to shake it off in the ladies’ room.  I later
realized the tears were not just because I hope to do better, but
because I realized, others so wanted it to be better for me too.  I saw
the hope in each person’s face that surrounded me at that dinner
table.  I often cry when I feel loved, and that night I definitely
did.
The next day- the wedding day- Kathryn had gone to her suite to start
getting ready.  It was midday as I sat by the pool when suddenly, those
tears returned.  But this time, there was no shaking it off.  This
time, they flowed freely and uncontrollably.
The few women around me understood I was emotional because my best
friend was getting married.  I blubbered on and on about how much we
had been through together,  how she had been by my side at my wedding,
and a bunch of other dramatic-girl sentences that left all of us in
bathing suits sniffling and hugging while slurping our daiquiris.
But it was more than that.
Perhaps prompted by the previous night at dinner, I had been thinking
about the cheerleaders in my life.  I thought about how Kathryn had
always wanted the best for me when it came to my hearing.  Having lived
together for four years during college, she knew of my situation during
a time when I spoke with very few other people about it.  Her
understanding of me wasn’t just because I shared my feelings with her,
but because she saw it.  She LIVED it.  And in many circumstances, she
was my lifeline, filling in the missing pieces when I didn’t
understand, rephrasing or repeating when I needed it.  Above all, I
knew she didn’t see me as “the hearing impaired friend,” but just as
Pam.  I’ve been blessed to have developed other similar relationships
ince that time, but considering how special Kathryn’s and my
friendship is, and how really, she served as the first person I truly
“came out” to, it was completely justifiable that I turned into an
emotional basketcase three hours before the wedding.  I cried from a
place of gratitude.
So why haven’t I written?  Maybe it’s because the writer in me felt
that the story was not getting any more exciting.  Maybe I felt I was
not only letting myself down, but letting others down, as well.  Six
months post-activation is really no different than three months ago.
Sometimes life with the implant is fine, and other times, it’s
annoying.  I remain grateful I can hear the phone ring, but totally
pissed that I can’t talk on the phone without struggling.
Speaking of phones, I recently talked with my friend Kathryn, now
married and settling into life after Jamaica.  We don’t speak on the
phone though… rather, we text each other for hours at a time, often
providing one another with amazing commentary during Real Housewives
episodes.
In our last texting exchange, we talked about continuing to motivate
each other to work out, to maybe do a half marathon soon… and at the
end of the conversation, she suggested we put a phone call- a REAL
one-  in our schedules.  She followed up by saying, “Who cares if you
can’t hear me?  We can text about it after.”
At this point in the journey, I seem to be at a plateau in the climb.
Still those who love me continue to be patient and cheer for me, and
even push me to try harder.  I am grateful because frankly, I need it.
The challenge continues, but I try to remember what my friend Kathryn
tells me: “You’ll get there.”
Posted by Pam Fisher at 7:43 PM 6 comments:
Labels: best friends, cochlear implant, cochlear implant surgery,
destination wedding, Jamaica, wedding
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