I Am My Mother's Daughter

 

I hang up the phone and a coworker pops her head over the partition dividing our desks. She has overheard my conversation and has a comment about how I might find an answer to the caller’s question. “Oh, you heard me?” I ask, dismayed, as I was trying to keep my voice “office discreet.” “I didn’t realize I was talking so loud.” “Oh, you weren’t loud,” she is quick to assure me, “I just have really good hearing.” I smile, thank her for her help, and after she returns to her seat, I fall into a silent funk. I vow to be quieter on the phone. And in talking with my coworkers. I vow to pay closer attention to the volume of my voice. But truthfully, I can’t tell how loud I’m talking; it’s just one of the side effects of being hearing impaired. But if being overheard by coworkers at the office is annoying, there is another side effect that is much more demoralizing: Being excluded.

 

My team at work sits at a desk arrangement where each workspace is at the perimeter of a small circle. While we work with our backs to each other, the configuration allows us to meet in the middle, or at someone’s workspace, for impromptu collaborations, which I’m certain was the whole point of the arrangement of teams and desks in my department. Often, one of us will have a question or situation that they wish to discuss, and we meet in the middle and talk about it before turning our backs on each other to resume work. But, just as often, I will be working and gradually become aware of conversation and laughter coming from behind me, and when I turn around, I find a group of coworkers have gathered and are deep into floating ideas about an issue or sharing some hilarious story, and I have once again missed out. It didn’t matter that the conversation had nothing to do with me, and I know they weren’t excluding me on purpose. No, what saddens me the most and makes me feel the loneliest is that I didn’t know they were there, and now it’s too late to join the conversation.

 

I tell people I miss being able to eavesdrop, and I say that as if it were a joke (I also miss being able to hear music at the grocery store, whispers from a loved one, the sound of rain, and most bird song, but that’s another column). And even though I don’t need to actively overhear conversations, I do miss catching snatches of conversation about interesting topics I could join in on. I miss overhearing someone describe what their dog did and being able to turn around and share a similar story. I hate relying on someone to recap a joke that everyone has already heard, laughed at, and moved on from. And I hate not being able to engage in the fast, back-and-forth quips that I love and used to be so good at. I want to tell people, “I actually have a very good sense of humor! I love to laugh; please include me!” But the evidence of my silence, blank expressions, and constantly asking someone to repeat themselves belies those statements. The other morning, I met a coworker at the coffee machine, and I asked how her morning was going. She smiled and answered, then asked a question. I had no idea what was said. “I’m sorry, again?” I asked and she raised her voice and repeated the question. I still had no idea. Not one word. Frustration creeped in and panic as well. “I am SO sorry,” I apologized and she said, very deliberately, “Are…  you…  ready… for… the … weekend?” Now I felt stupid, but managed to laugh, trying to diffuse the awkward moment. “Oh! Oh yes, definitely!” I responded. “I have been since Tuesday, I think!” We both smiled in relief, and then I fled, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. I’ve never hidden the fact that I’m losing my hearing, and my coworkers are, for the most part, accommodating and forgiving. But I know that it takes a considerable amount of effort to have a conversation with me, and not everyone is up for that. I understand when it’s just easier to “tell me later” than to invite me into a group discussion, and I also understand the awkward silences at the coffee machine or in the elevator, when it’s easier to smile at me without comment than to talk about, well, anything. I tell people I’m hearing impaired, and, in that moment, they understand. But it’s an invisible disability, one that is easily overlooked and forgotten, even by friends and family.

I often think of Mom, who struggled with gradual hearing loss for over 60 years, until she finally became--for all intents and purposes--deaf. As I recall, she rarely mentioned it, and I often wonder if things would be different for all of us if she had. Growing up, I knew she had a “good ear” that I should speak into, and that she had a hard time understanding fast talkers or high-pitched voices, but until I found myself in the same situation, I just never understood the daily struggles she endured. How many times did she do what I do, smile and hope her response was the correct one? How often did she weigh the choice of asking for someone to repeat themselves or just go on and try to catch the thread of conversation as it went on? I have flashbacks of holiday dinners, where Mom is sitting at the end of the table, silently eating and letting the conversation and laughter wash over her. I think of us exchanging amused looks when someone has asked a question that she hasn’t heard. I remember her spark of anger when an adult grandchild made a wisecrack that Mom suspected was about her hearing, but at the same time couldn’t understand what was said. How I wish I could talk to her again. She was the one person who completely understood my frustrations, anger, loneliness, and fears.

 “Are you okay?” a coworker messaged me after my shamefully juvenile act of storming out of work without saying goodbye. I wasn’t proud of my actions and resolved to quit acting like a girl in middle school who didn’t get invited to eat lunch with the popular group. After all, I’m not the only one who has had to adjust, to work a bit harder at things others find easy, or who felt misunderstood or excluded. The responsibility for how I deal with my evolving life, however, is mine alone. I can feel sorry for myself or continue to advocate and educate, taking advantage of the technology available and refusing to let my disability define me. “I’ll be fine,” I messaged back. “Just letting things get to me.” Fortunately, I had a courageous and spirited woman who showed me what it meant to never give up. And because I am my mother’s daughter, I never will, either.