A New Way to Hear

This all happened five months ago. I'm now profoundly deaf in my right ear. And nobody has been able to tell me why, beyond speculating that I contracted some sort of strange virus. If the doctors are right, I'll never regain my hearing. All that is left is to learn to adapt to life with one good ear and nothing but a vicious buzz in the other.

As disabilities go, this isn't such a bad one. I can still hear, as long as I angle my head properly. I can walk, I can talk, I can see my kids every day. And my fourth child, the one kicking inside of me, was untouched by this mysterious virus of mine. So I maintain that I am blessed, despite the fact that I lost one vital ear.

My family is having more trouble adapting than I. My parents, far away in the States, call to see if I've experienced any improvement (I haven't) or if there is anything they can do (there isn't). My kids persist in calling to me from the next room, not realizing that I can't make out what they're saying. My husband gets frustrated when I can't decipher his words.

But me? I'm getting used to it. Sure, I'm running late most mornings, because if I roll onto my left side I can't hear my alarm clock go off. And it's embarrassing at parties, when people around me are laughing at some joke that I can't quite catch. It also makes my effort to learn Chinese even harder—I strain to hear my soft-spoken teacher.

Some things about this partial deafness of mine actually work quite well. When the kids are fighting over a toy, I can tune it out more easily, leaving them to resolve it for themselves. When my husband calls to me from the next room, needing my help with some project, I can continue reading my book, pretending I didn't hear him. When confronted by a boring guest at a party, I can plead deafness and move right along.

Sometimes, admittedly, I sit around bemoaning my fate. I'm too young to go deaf, I think, and this deafness of mine makes me feels as though I've suddenly aged. I needed to buy lotion the other day, and the sales lady, eager to please, commented on every product I picked up. I kept cupping my hand over my ear, asking her to repeat herself, until at last her eyes lit up with recognition, and she beckoned me to the back of the store. There, on the shelf, sat a product that proudly proclaimed, "for mature skin!" I stared speechless at the bottle before fleeing the store. I'm deaf; I'm not old.

For this thirtysomething mother, it seems somehow worse to be old than deaf. After just three months I'm learning to live without my hearing. But I'm starting to obsess about those crow's feet.

Gorman lives in Beijing.

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© 2008