It's been 84 years
It feels like the scene from the start of 'The Titanic,' you know, the bit where the old lady utters, "It's been 84 years.' Well, it's been almost four years since I saw this blog and a lot has changed. I'm married, I live in a house with a garden and it's only six minutes drive from a school where I work. Yes, I made it! I made it as a qualified primary teacher! I absolutely love my job and have worked bloody hard to keep myself going in my career. It's hard, but it's hard for all teachers as we have so many demands made of us. I wouldn't change it for the world, nor would I know what I would do instead.
So, no faffing here.... I'm a candidate. It finally happened! I didn't hold out any hope of anything changing but following my first rejection, I regularly revisited Manchester for hearing aids check-ups and formed good relationships with the audiologists there. They have been fabulous. They really care, and have listened to me as I have vented my frustration at my hearing aids. They have updated them, and tweaked them and tried everything but..... the same problems loomed beneath the surface and as I approached my 30th birthday, I questioned whether my life was destined to be one long struggle.
Don't get me wrong. It's not all doom and gloom. I have things in my life which make me happy, but I am so constrained by not being able to take part fully that I feel like a bit player in my own life. I feel like an observer, constantly watching things happen and trying to make sense of the things said around me. I have coped by gritting my teeth and working to exhaustion to keep up. It's worth it for the satisfaction of working with colleagues who are similarly motivated and passionate about helping children to fulfill their potential. It's just that, my life is teaching. I am missing so much socially that I can't pretend anymore that I'm not bothered, like I like my own company or that I don't mind when people have parties and gatherings I cannot attend because I can't hear. I can't pretend that it doesn't bother me that I can barely hold a conversation in the staff-room at work, or answer random and strange comments from children without asking then to repeat themselves. I do mind. I mind very much. I mind that at my own wedding I got a transcript of the speeches given by my husband and his best man. I mind that at my one year anniversary meal, that I couldn't understand most of what was going on. I mind that I cannot hold confident conversations with people around me because I am so unsure of what I am hearing. In the middle of all this is Peter. He's my constant. Without him and his unwavering faith in me, I'm not sure where I would be.
So I had the assessment appointment as a result of attending Manchester in the summer. My speech perception scores were retested at that appointment and the audiologists there asked if I had reconsidered CIs. I replied that I had no hope of it after such a clear cut dismissal the first time round. The response suggested otherwise. I didn't dare dream of being positive or even interested. I investigated the scientific literature, found people in real life with cochlear implants and tried to inform myself to a greater degree than the last time round. It's too easy to be wooed by the tear jerking activation videos, and to forget the significant risks involved.
On Tuesday, I saw a new audiologist. He was lovely, and had a Spanish accent so it was quite tricky to focus on his voice. He asked me lots of questions about myself and I shared all the things about my life that I find crap. I shared all the situations in which my hearing lets me down and he listened. As I heard myself speak, I realised how bleakly I came across. And it hit me. It's shit and for four years I've tried my best to be grateful for the hearing I have but it's not enough.
I cried during the speech perception assessment from sheer tiredness and nerves. I thought I would find it easy. It was anything but. It was similar to last time except I was tested with no lipreading cues in addition to the visual. I had to listen to sentences with both ears and then left and right separately. I could hear sounds, but I couldn't say what they were. The overwhelming feeling of failure to understand was awful. My heart pounded and my mind raced. I couldn't remember the first parts of sentences to make sense of the whole, it was useless. I knew again that most of the sentences started with 'the' but the rest of the sentences made no sentence, it was like hearing a monotone, morse code like string of gibberish words.
After going through the assessment, the audiologist explained that based on my audiogram information and my performance that day, that it would be likely that a cochlear implant would be of benefit to me. I was stunned. I didn't dare breathe and I sat and listened as he carefully went through the steps and what to expect. It was surreal, and still is.
There's a waiting list of a year and in the meantime I will have an appointment to see a therapist who will discuss expectations/outcomes. I will have a CT/MRI scan to check the cochlea and then attend an information session. It hinges on the multidisciplinary team agreeing on my suitability as a candidate. Should there be an agreement, an appointment to see a surgeon is made and then surgery is booked. And then that's it. Maybe I'll get a new lease of life. Maybe I'll be able to order a drink without having to turn to Peter for help. That would be something.
So, no faffing here.... I'm a candidate. It finally happened! I didn't hold out any hope of anything changing but following my first rejection, I regularly revisited Manchester for hearing aids check-ups and formed good relationships with the audiologists there. They have been fabulous. They really care, and have listened to me as I have vented my frustration at my hearing aids. They have updated them, and tweaked them and tried everything but..... the same problems loomed beneath the surface and as I approached my 30th birthday, I questioned whether my life was destined to be one long struggle.
Don't get me wrong. It's not all doom and gloom. I have things in my life which make me happy, but I am so constrained by not being able to take part fully that I feel like a bit player in my own life. I feel like an observer, constantly watching things happen and trying to make sense of the things said around me. I have coped by gritting my teeth and working to exhaustion to keep up. It's worth it for the satisfaction of working with colleagues who are similarly motivated and passionate about helping children to fulfill their potential. It's just that, my life is teaching. I am missing so much socially that I can't pretend anymore that I'm not bothered, like I like my own company or that I don't mind when people have parties and gatherings I cannot attend because I can't hear. I can't pretend that it doesn't bother me that I can barely hold a conversation in the staff-room at work, or answer random and strange comments from children without asking then to repeat themselves. I do mind. I mind very much. I mind that at my own wedding I got a transcript of the speeches given by my husband and his best man. I mind that at my one year anniversary meal, that I couldn't understand most of what was going on. I mind that I cannot hold confident conversations with people around me because I am so unsure of what I am hearing. In the middle of all this is Peter. He's my constant. Without him and his unwavering faith in me, I'm not sure where I would be.
So I had the assessment appointment as a result of attending Manchester in the summer. My speech perception scores were retested at that appointment and the audiologists there asked if I had reconsidered CIs. I replied that I had no hope of it after such a clear cut dismissal the first time round. The response suggested otherwise. I didn't dare dream of being positive or even interested. I investigated the scientific literature, found people in real life with cochlear implants and tried to inform myself to a greater degree than the last time round. It's too easy to be wooed by the tear jerking activation videos, and to forget the significant risks involved.
On Tuesday, I saw a new audiologist. He was lovely, and had a Spanish accent so it was quite tricky to focus on his voice. He asked me lots of questions about myself and I shared all the things about my life that I find crap. I shared all the situations in which my hearing lets me down and he listened. As I heard myself speak, I realised how bleakly I came across. And it hit me. It's shit and for four years I've tried my best to be grateful for the hearing I have but it's not enough.
I cried during the speech perception assessment from sheer tiredness and nerves. I thought I would find it easy. It was anything but. It was similar to last time except I was tested with no lipreading cues in addition to the visual. I had to listen to sentences with both ears and then left and right separately. I could hear sounds, but I couldn't say what they were. The overwhelming feeling of failure to understand was awful. My heart pounded and my mind raced. I couldn't remember the first parts of sentences to make sense of the whole, it was useless. I knew again that most of the sentences started with 'the' but the rest of the sentences made no sentence, it was like hearing a monotone, morse code like string of gibberish words.
After going through the assessment, the audiologist explained that based on my audiogram information and my performance that day, that it would be likely that a cochlear implant would be of benefit to me. I was stunned. I didn't dare breathe and I sat and listened as he carefully went through the steps and what to expect. It was surreal, and still is.
There's a waiting list of a year and in the meantime I will have an appointment to see a therapist who will discuss expectations/outcomes. I will have a CT/MRI scan to check the cochlea and then attend an information session. It hinges on the multidisciplinary team agreeing on my suitability as a candidate. Should there be an agreement, an appointment to see a surgeon is made and then surgery is booked. And then that's it. Maybe I'll get a new lease of life. Maybe I'll be able to order a drink without having to turn to Peter for help. That would be something.
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