12
Rebecca
Amy has worn her “ears,” as we call her hearing aids, for six months. The squealing demon has the power to make or break my hectic schedule. I can tolerate an occasional squeal, which occurs when Amy turns her head, but a long piercing squeal sends me running. That means the heavy earpiece is no longer in her ear and is swinging on the fragile Y cord. Rarely a week goes by that I do not visit Laverne, our hearing aid dealer, for a new Y cord, batteries, or to have minor adjustments made to Amy’s earpiece. In the past six months I have amassed a collection of broken cords, dead batteries, and old earpieces.
“Jack, listen to this.” I read a section of “Hints from Heloise” from our local paper. “Some woman has saved hundreds of those cardboard tubes from rolls of plastic wrap, tin foil and paper towels. She wants to know what to do with them. I’d tell her to ‘Throw ‘em away.’ I can’t believe the junk some people save.”
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” Jack turns on the TV. “What about you? You have a box of broken hearing aid stuff on your dresser. What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know, but I hate to throw away all that expensive stuff.”
“Yeah, but none of it works, does it?” Jack flips the TV to another station.
“No, but I might be able to use it for something.”
“Like what?” He props his feet on the coffee table, content to watch an old movie.
“I could use the cords for wire to hang pictures.” I refold the newspaper, smoothing the creases.
“If Amy can break the cord, I don’t think it will work for hanging pictures.”
“You’re right. It’s stupid. I should toss —”A high-pierced squeal interrupts me. I’m off and running. Moments later I sink on the couch beside Jack. “I know what I can do with all those worthless cords.”
“What?”
“Bundle up my frazzled nerves.”
The following week Amy, John, and I return to the university for Amy’s six-month hearing test. Dr. Zimmer is his usual brusque self. He pulls a paper out of Amy’s file and compares it to the one he holds. “The audiogram I just plotted indicates the hearing aid is helping. She responded to some sounds at a lower volume than she did three months ago.”
“I knew she was hearing better because I’ve noticed …”
“Your daughter still has a severe hearing loss,” he interrupts. “That has not changed. Since she’s benefitting from one aid, buy her one for the other ear. Come back in six months and I’ll test her again.” He tosses Amy’s chart into a basket of items to be filed and leaves his dingy office. “Who’s next?” I hear him call as he goes down the hall.
On the drive home, I refuse to let Dr. Zimmer’s surly mood diminish my joy that the hearing aid is helping Amy. If one aid helps her hear, then two aids will help her hear more. I’m spinning off into a delightful fantasy about Amy speaking when the realization of the cost of maintaining two aids hits me. I’ll need twice as many cords and batteries.
Her hearing aids are expensive. I’d planned to deduct their cost on our income tax return as a medical expense, but IRS regulations state hearing aids are an elective purchase, the same as cosmetic surgery, hence not an allowable deduction. “Since when is wanting your child to hear a cosmetic choice?” I argued with an IRS agent, to no avail.2
We can afford to buy the aid, by dipping into our savings, but I decide to explore the possibility of having a charitable organization help us with this expenses.
My brother-in-law, Rick, in Beatrice is in Sertoma. I know Sertoma promotes hearing awareness, so I contact our local chapter. A member tells me, “I’m sorry for your loss, but currently Sertoma does not provide assistance to individuals.”
Strike one.
Next I try Easter Seals. After minutes on hold and being referred to several people, I am told, “Easter Seals rarely gives grants to individuals. I’ll send an application, but the process is involved and lengthy, and in your case it would probably be futile.”
Strike two.
The area March of Dimes representative responded, “No,” before I finished my request.
“But your literature states your main focus is on birth defects. Amy was born deaf,” I countered.
“I’m sorry, but our donations are allocated to research. The March of Dimes’ goal is to prevent birth defects.”
“Great, but what about the children already been born with birth defects who won’t benefit from your research?” My voice took on a peevish tone.
She mumbled an apology and hung up. Strike three.
Thank God Jack and I can afford to buy the aid, but I wonder what happens to deaf children who have the misfortunate to be born into families who can’t afford this expense?
“Mother!” I scream into the phone. “Amy said a word today! A real word!”
“What did she say?” Mother’s voice is full of excitement.
“‘Eye.’ We’ve been looking at pictures of faces and pointing out facial features for weeks, and today when I did this Amy pointed to her own eye and said, ‘eye.’”
“I’m at a loss for words,” Mother says. “And you know that rarely happens!”
We laugh. Both of us are known for our quick wit and our love of talking.
“Charmaine said Amy’s language development is at least a year behind a hearing child since she didn’t hear sound for thirteen months. Hearing children start babbling at about six months, so Amy’s right on target. She’s worn her aids for more than six months now. Charmaine said a child has to hear the same word a bazillion times before they try to say it. It’s a good thing I like to talk.”
“Yes, but don’t talk so much Amy can’t get a word in edgewise.” We chuckle. “Have Jack’s parents heard Amy speak?”
“No. Esther’s still in denial, and she and J.W. both work all the time. I rarely see them except on special occasions, like holidays and birthdays.”
“I bought a surprise for Amy months ago. I planned to send it to her for a special occasion. I’ll send it now. Having my namesake say a word is very special.”
“What is it?”
“Wait and see. It won’t be a surprise if I tell you.”
A week later a beautiful porcelain ballerina musicbox arrives. I place the ballerina on the palm of Amy’s hand so she can feel the vibration of the metal roller playing Lara’s Theme. Tears well in my eyes because Amy will never experience the wonder of music. As Lara’s Theme plays, I realize I need to bury my “hearing dreams” for Amy. Listening to Fats Domino or Beethoven will never be a part of her life. As I ponder the significance of her loss, I fail to notice her bright blue eyes are mesmerized by the ballerina twirling on her hand.
Sunday, August sixteenth. Today is Esther’s birthday. I baked a cake, and John and Amy decorated it. This evening when they arrive to celebrate, J.W. looks more tired than usual. His skin is ashen, and his breathing strained after ascending the four steps to our door. Once seated, he extends his arms to Amy; she runs to him. With effort, he lifts her to his lap. He doesn’t speak, just smiles. Amy grins.
Amy with her mother feeling the music from the musicbox, about January 1971.
“Momo,” John tugs his grandmother’s hand. “I made you a birthday cake. Amy helped.”
“It’s gorgeous, John. Almost too pretty to eat,” Esther replies.
“Come and see my room.” John pulls Esther toward his bedroom. Amy follows.
Esther picks up Amy, dislodging an earpiece. It squeals. “You should take these things out of her ears,” Esther says as I replace the earpiece.
“Let me show you the wallpaper I bought for Amy’s room.” I change the subject, not wanting to have another discussion with Esther about “these things.”
“These things can’t be comfortable. They probably hurt her ears,” Esther says.
I’m being sucked into another pointless discussion. “What do you think of this?” I unroll the wallpaper.
“If she has to wear them for therapy fine, but when she’s at home …”
“She needs to wear them all the time if she’s ever going to talk,” I state.
“She’ll be talking before you know it. I don’t know why you’re so worried. All children talk. She’s just a late bloomer.”
“No, she’s not. She’s deaf.” My words shoot from my mouth like bullets.
“You should have another doctor examine her, and then you could stop all this needless therapy and worry.”
“Come on Momo, look at my room.” John’s persistent tugging allows me to escape.
“Esther, you better look at John’s room before he pulls your arm out of the socket. I’ll get the ice cream ready. Don’t be long, John. It’s almost time to sing Happy Birthday to Momo.”
Ninety minutes later Jack’s parents leave. I put John and Amy to bed and sink onto the couch beside Jack. “Your dad looked really tired tonight. I’m worried about him.”
“He’ll be okay after a night’s sleep.” Jack opens the sports page of the paper.
“I hope so.” Two blue eyes peek around the corner. “Amy’s out of bed.”
Jack stands, and Amy runs to her room.
“Your mother wants me to have another doctor examine Amy?”
“I don’t think there’s much point in it, but you know my mother. She won’t …”
“Amy’s out of bed again.” I’m exhausted, in no mood for our usual two-hour bedtime ordeal. Amy’s laying in the hall, resting her chin on the palms of her hands. “Amy! Go to bed!” I know she can’t hear my words or read my lips; my command is one of habit and frustration. Amy notes my scowling face and takes a few steps toward her room. She’s out of my sight, but not being able to hear, she doesn’t realize I know she’s still in the hall.
“Jack, put Amy in bed, please.”
“Why? She’ll be back out here before I can sit down. Did you write the Tracy Clinic about her bedtime behavior?”
“Yeah. I received a letter today, but haven’t had a chance to read it.” I locate the letter on the coffee table and use fingers with gnawed off nails to rip it open. “Nancy suggests leaving a light on in her room, because ‘when a deaf child goes to bed in the dark, the child theoretically becomes deaf and blind. Removing her sight, her most vital link to the world is frightening and confusing for Amy.’ Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s worth a try.” I refold the letter and stuff it in the envelope. “Do you want me to take Amy to another doctor?”
“Might as well, Mom won’t quit harping on it until you do. She mentioned a doctor in Hastings to me who is supposed to be good. Dr. Shin. Call him?”
“Are you kidding me? An ear doctor, named Dr. Shin.”
“Nope, that’s his name.”
I sigh with exasperation and weariness at the thought of one more thing to do. “I’ll call him tomorrow. Amy’s in the hall again.”
“It’s late. I’m going to bed.” He chases Amy to her room on the way to our bedroom.
As we prepare for bed, Amy creeps from her room and leans against our bedroom door-frame. I wonder how many more times I will return her to bed tonight before I give up and let her sleep in the hall again. Then I remember Nancy’s suggestion. I don’t have a night light, but our porch light is outside Amy’s bedroom window. I turn it on, open her drapes, and tuck her into bed. “Good night, Amy. Sleep tight.”
I return to bed, snap on my bedside lamp and pick up a book. I’m anxious discover why everyone is talking about a seagull named Jonathan. I expect to be interrupted by Amy, but thirty pages later I realize she hasn’t disturbed me. The porch light worked a miracle.
In the middle of the night, the persistent ringing of the telephone awakens Jack and me.
“Hello?” Jack mumbles.
I watch as Jack’s eyes, heavy with sleep grow wide with fright. “What is it?” I ask.
“My dad. He’s dead. Mom found him on the bathroom floor about five minutes ago.”
“Oh, no.”
At age sixty-one, J.W., the gentle giant, is dead. Sorrow fills my heart for Jack, Esther, and my children who will only have vague memories of their Grandpa. I’ll miss J.W. He was an honest, hardworking, soft-spoken man who loved his family and accepted people as they were.
2. The IRS now considers hearing aids and their batteries a deductible medical expense.