9
Rebecca
Four months after Amy was plugged in and tuned on to the hearing word, she vocalized, “Buh-buh, buh,” Her first sounds, were music to my ears. My hands shook with excitement as I telephoned of my parents.
“Mother, Amy’s started babbling!”
“Wonderful!” In the background I hear Daddy ask, “What happened?” Mother repeats the good news. Returning her attention to me, she asks, “When did she start? Tell me all about it?”
“Yesterday was the first time. I thought it was a fluke, but she’s done it several times today. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I’ve done the first John Tracy lesson every day for more than a month. Yesterday, when I put her hand to my throat and spoke, like I’ve done a zillion times, she said ‘buh.’ I was so excited I almost fell off my chair!”
“Perseverance,” Mother says, “that’s the key. I’m sure it seems hopeless at times —”
“It does. Most of the time.”
“What about Jack and his parents? What did they say?”
“Jack never does the lessons with Amy, so he doesn’t understand how frustrating it’s been, but he’s excited about Amy’s progress. As for J.W. and Esther, that’s another story. J.W.’s a lot like Daddy; he doesn’t say much, so I don’t know what he thinks. Esther still hasn’t accepted Amy is deaf, so she doesn’t understand the significance of her accomplishment. Esther always tells me Amy is fine. I don’t see how she can ignore the facts.” My voice is tense.
“Some people can’t accept things they don’t like or understand. Don’t worry about what she thinks. You’re doing what’s right for Amy.”
“I hope so, but sometimes I wish she’d … oh well, it’s pointless.” I snort my frustration. “I almost forgot the other good news. Jack and I bought a house. We’ll be moving later this month.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far from where we live now. It’s new. Has three bedrooms, two baths, and a basement door I can lock. That was my number one priority. Since Amy’s learned to walk, I can’t let her out of my sight, and since I can’t yell to warn her about anything, I have to have a lock on the basement door.”
“Tell me more about the house.”
“I can’t talk longer, I need to start supper.” A persistent tug on my tee shirt interrupts my farewell. “Wait a minute. John wants to talk to you.”
Mother’s voice cracks as she says good-bye, but this time I know her tears are the result of joy. I give the telephone to John.
“Hello, Granmere,” John says. “I’m going to have a new bedroom. One all by myself.”
Saturday is moving day. John is standing by the front door holding his cardboard suitcase that contains his most valuable possessions: his stuffed dog, Pooh bear, and his blankie.
“Before the movers arrive, Jack, you need to take Amy’s crib apart.” I call from the kitchen where I am removing the last food items from the cupboards.
“Okay. By the way, Amy needs her diaper changed,” Jack replies.
“Am I the only person in this house who knows how to change a diaper?” I shout.
“I’d do it, but you told me to take her bed apart,” Jack hollers.
“Yeah right,” I mutter as I pick up Amy in the hall and take her to the bedroom. After changing her, I reach for her hearing aid. For the past few weeks, as soon as I put on her aid, she babbles, but this morning she is silent. I turn her face toward me. “Amy, can you hear me?”
Amy shakes her head, but not in response to my words. She pulls an earpiece from her ear. I reinsert it. She pulls it out again. I inspect the earpiece, clean off wax and examine her outer ear. In the ear canal is a small red area, rubbed raw by the earpiece. It’s always something. I’ll have to have a new impression made Monday. I rub Vaseline on the mold to reinsert it, and then I realize the earpiece is not squealing as it should when the aid is turned on and the earpiece is not in her ear. The battery must be dead. What next?
The spare batteries are in my dresser, which is wedged between our mattress and box springs in the living room against a wall. I weigh the effort of moving the furniture against Amy missing six hours of sound. Jack and I haven’t had an evening out since Amy started wearing hearing aids. I can’t enjoy a movie knowing I’ve left the expensive aids in the care of a teenage girl who’s more interested in talking on the phone to her boyfriend than watching Amy. I believe Amy hearing for three hours is more important than Jack and me having a night out, but today I decide six hours of sound for Amy is not worth moving the heavy furniture when my back already aches. I take Amy from her changing table, stand her on the floor, and put the aid in my pocket. As I gather scattered toys and toss them into a box, Amy’s eyes fill with tears.
“Amy, I’m not taking your toys away.” I drag the box to the living room. “We’re moving.” I place the box on the couch, ignoring her worried expression.
The movers arrive and I return to help Jack who is struggling to remove the last bolt from the crib. Before I enter the room, he pulls the bolt free and the crib collapses near Amy. She cries.
“Amy, are you all right?” A quick scan of her body reveals she is unscathed, but her crying continues. “What’s wrong?”
Amy stands among crib pieces clutching her pink, cat-shaped pillow. She watches with frightened eyes as everything is stripped from the room. My words of explanation literally fall on deaf ears. The enormity of our inability to communicate overwhelms me.
Four hours later, our sparse furnishings are distributed throughout the rooms of our new home. Assembling Amy’s crib is the first order of business. She watches with interest as we erect the familiar brown crib. Minutes later, she toddles from her room, clutching her stuffed cat pillow and sucking her fingers. The moving crisis is over.
I locate the spare batteries and install a new one in her aid. As I insert the earpiece and turn on the aid, Amy babbles, “Buh-buh bub. Muh-muh. Eye-eee.” She runs off to find John.
I survey a stack of boxes in the living room. I might as well start with these. My most precious possessions: books. I rip tape off a box and remove the lessons from the John Tracy Clinic. I stack the manila envelopes on a bookshelf within easy reach and think, if Amy can make sounds, she should be able to speak words. The rest of the box is filled with my college textbooks.
The Psychology of Behavior. Why did I keep this book? I hated that class. Without an ounce of guilt, I toss the psychology book aside and withdraw several sociology books. Shelving the books is timeconsuming, because I must adjust each one so its spine is aligned on the edge of the shelf. I don’t know why I take the time to make everything perfect. No one cares but me, and it makes me crazy most days because nothing remains that way for long, but still I do it. While mulling over what motivates me to be a perfectionist, a hopeless pursuit since I have two young children and a husband who are not neat, I gain a flash of insight. Motivation! That’s the key. If I can figure out what motivates Amy, I can use that to teach her to speak.
Amy is a stubborn, strong-willed child, not easygoing like her brother. A stern look from me will make John comply, but Amy is unfazed by my scowling face. She’s too young to be bribed with money, toys, or clothes. Denying TV time is no incentive since the talking heads are meaningless. By the time the bookcase is filled, I realize what I can use to motivate Amy.