“Do you hear what I hear?” rang out the song in the mall as I was shopping on Christmas Eve 2002. On that day, for the first time in over 25 years, I could answer, “Yes!”
In October 2001, as I prepared for cochlear implant surgery, I thought back to my childhood and pondered my personal tragedy. I began to lose my hearing at the age of ten and was later diagnosed with nerve deafness – completely deaf in one ear and two percent residual hearing in the other. Getting no real benefit from hearing aids, I learned to lip read. I didn’t know sign language well enough to communicate with the Deaf and I could hardly communicate in the hearing world either. I felt caught in a place between the hearing world and the Deaf world – a place of isolation. I slowly retreated into solitude. While I liked the silent world and found tranquility in it, I realized there was so much that I missed hearing, such as a cricket on a warm summer night and the little nothings my baby brother babbled. These were my cherished memories of sound.
Finally, an audiologist recommended a cochlear implant for me. After several years of deliberating whether to proceed with the surgery, I realized a cochlear implant was the only hope I had to be able to hear again. I decided to proceed with the implantation.
On the day of the surgery, I vacillated between doubt and hope as I waited for the doctor to arrive. The surgery went well.
I could hardly wait for the five-week recovery period after surgery to return to the clinic to have my processor programmed and turned on for the first time. When the day finally came, Jane, my audiologist, helped me put on my processor and turn it on. I heard some very low-sounding beeps and tones in my deaf ear. I knew from my presurgery consultations that I should not have had high expectations, but I still had anticipated hearing a little more. Jane told me that it would take time, that hearing again would be a process, not an immediate change. I was grateful for what I did hear that first day and I made a follow-up appointment for two weeks later. I began hearing many more sounds as the days passed and I dared to hope.
Two weeks went by. One night after I had already taken off my processor and was getting ready to retire for the evening, I began hearing excessively loud ringing, then a sudden loud, popping sound. I was used to some ringing in the ears but this was unlike anything I had experienced before.
The next morning, I clipped on my sound processor and turned the power on. There was no sound at all. The processor was working – lights and sensors all flashing normally. I hoped that the power was simply getting low but changing the batteries did not resolve the problem.
After several tests, Jane could not find anything wrong with the processor. She called on a team of audiologists, but to no avail. Finally, the team called a representative from the manufacturer to test the implant. An electronic test detected abnormal radio waves. The rep said, “I’m sorry, Cheryl.”
I had a failed cochlear device.
While I sat in shock, Jane tried to comfort me. But there was little comfort in learning that my implant fell into the rare two percent failure rate. Self-pity started to sink in deep. “Why did this happen, why me?” I thought.
My team asked me to come in for another surgery to replace the failed device. I wasn’t willing to do that. I was discouraged by the little benefit during the brief time the device worked. I was also afraid of another failure. I went home and began to sink into a deep depression, a hopelessness that lasted months.
I had only two choices: go in for another surgery or become intimately acquainted with Deaf culture. After weeks of uncertainty, I finally mustered the willpower to do something to better my situation – namely, to get more information and some support. I started an expedition – first in cyberspace and then to five different cities. I attended conventions, classes and support groups and acquainted myself with Deaf culture at Gallaudet University. I made a lot of personal progress and wonderful friends along the way. My journey gave me the strength, courage and support I needed to make that final decision – to finish what I started. I was going home for another implant surgery.
When I returned home, my mailbox was full of letters of encouragement from all the friends I had made on my trip. They continue to fill my mailbox even today. I now have more than 1,100 letters and they are all keepsakes to me. I feel truly blessed to have found the support I had initially sought.
On December 23, 2002, I had an appointment for one additional test before my implant replacement surgery and I was supposed to bring my processor along with me. The doctor called and rescheduled the appointment for the next day – Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve Day, I took my processor out of the closet where it had sat on a shelf for one year. I wanted to feel what it was like to wear it again. I wanted to see the lights on and blinking again and get used to the feeling of the magnetic piece on my head, for I deeply believed the surgery was going to work this time. I turned on the power and, standing in shock and frozen by amazement, realized I was actually hearing sound – my breath, my words!
I ran to my appointment – two hours early – and excitedly shared with everyone in the office what had just happened to me. The doctor saw me immediately. He could find no explanation for it and simply suggested I be happy that my implant was working. To that he added, “Merry Christmas.” And remarkably, I could understand what he was saying without reading his lips.
It was a merry Christmas, for sure. I left my doctor’s office and headed to the mall for last-minute gifts. There I heard Christmas carols – a joy I had not experienced in years. I also heard little nothings in the mall, just like my baby brother used to babble. And the next morning, I heard the bells on Christmas Day. I’ll hear them this year, too. Hearing will forever be my special Christmas gift.
