Things Unheard.

I’m sure you, like me, posed the “ would you rather be deaf or blind” scenario as a little kid, each of you engrossed in a mere seconds thought, weighing the pros and cons of walking a few miles in one versus the other , eventually coming to a definitive conclusion: deaf, or blind. My memory of this is different. Wavering back and forth, blind or deaf, plaguing me as I would verbalize my list of whys: to be blind meant no longer seeing horses, the sea, flowers, Mom, Dad, and  deaf on the other hand, meant wind would be void of sound, there would be no music, laughter, crunching leaves, familiar laughs. Vividly, I can recall a routine opting out of responding, or voting in favor to “none of the above”-safest to play by my own rules under these circumstances. To think that this scenario is to some degree, in our hands, is naive to say the least. Why? Because life happens.

Four days ago I was ‘diagnosed’ with sudden loss of auditory senses, literally deaf in my right ear. I woke to my right ear underwater, confused, but rooted in a state of  calmness. As the days passed, it only got worse. Trains whipping by, screeching whistles, television channels straining to tune, droning hum. Fear trickled into my presence; something wasn’t right. After a series of sound tests in a telephone booth gone pilot arrangement, the doc discloses “you’ve lost 80% hearing in your right eat.” Cue tears. I am 27 and legally deaf.

Swimming my way about these last days have been a mysterious blessing, frankly, guiding me through acquiring more commentary than the average person on the standard ear plug than I would ever have expected to gain. “I became deaf at the age of twelve,” said Phil, as we connected over mutual deafness at the market Saturday morning. He shared his plight of becoming deaf, showcasing his hearing aid, leaving me in high regards of his hearing contraption, “if I am on the market for one myself.”  Witnessing friends adapting their efforts, candidly,  to situate themselves on my “good side,” all the while being cognizant of noise levels in whatever environment we found ourselves  for their ninety-year old, ear plugged, Morghan. I have connected and had conversations with people never pondered, “my father has a hearing aid but prefers to keep it out-it’s too overstimulating to him to have it in now,”  bathed in stories of beloveds alike, opening my eyes to functioning in reality of this handicap.

I feel blessed.

Leaving my right brains in a constant state of meditation , my left, blundering through the world, overstimulated and shocked by all experienced in one day,  in one moment. I’ve been forced to go inside, a 24 hour mediation if you will, navigating the inner trappings of my existence. Here I have found peace, contentment, silence, love. It is if I have arrived home, tossing my shoes off, and kicking back into the billowing fluff, that adorn this space. I find myself opting to plug up my other ear, yearning for solitude within my own being, whilst functioning in this life.

After ten days logged with 80% hearing loss, she came knocking at my door, graciously, I let her in. Sensitive, delayed, static, gray, muddled, weak. The light has shone at the end of this tunnel. The fear and confusion that gripped so tightly washed away like ocean waves tickling the shore line, it seems paradoxical that delight wouldn’t be the overshadowing emotion. An intruder, stealing me out of my meditation, these sounds foreign languages to my new land.

Blind or deaf? I choose none of the above. I’ve walked a few miles in the latter shoe, gaining a peace and experience I had no control over, never welcomed either. I have emerged in wake of heightened understanding, compassion, and love. I have walked a few miles in this shoe, but it’s sole is worn, tattered.


 It’s job here is done.