Tag: deaf

I Do Not Hear, and He Does Not Listen

A deeply personal essay about sudden hearing loss, marriage, and the invisible gap between sound and understanding.

I like to say that my left ear is for decorative purposes only. It holds my glasses and I can put beautiful jewelry in it — beyond that, nothing more. I simply have no other use for it.

Five and a half years ago, I lost my hearing overnight. I went to bed with severe ringing and woke up to silence.

I saw doctors. I had a brain MRI. They found nothing wrong with my brain — contrary to what my husband thinks. I got the typical solution when no clear diagnosis appears: a virus.

I love the virus diagnosis. It encompasses everything and yet explains absolutely nothing.

My left ear has five percent hearing, which in reality amounts to nothing. Hence, decorative purposes only.

My right ear is slightly better — but only slightly. I wear hearing aids. Good, expensive ones. And yet my hearing will never be the same.

I love it when people say, “But you wear hearing aids — can’t you hear normally?”

No. I can’t.

Hearing aids are not glasses. They do not fix the problem 100%. If anything, they sometimes create more noise.

The world is a very loud place. Very loud.

My brain does not always tolerate the constant sound. In loud places, it takes enormous effort to figure out where sounds are coming from and what people are saying. Sometimes I just want to go home, take out the aids, swallow two painkillers, and sit in silence with the migraine that follows.

Those around us who have not experienced this often don’t understand — even the ones who walked through the hearing loss journey with us.

My husband and I were planning dinner with friends. He suggested a restaurant.

“Yes, it’s nice,” I said. “But I can’t hear anything in there.”

“It’s great,” he replied. “I don’t think it’s loud.”

He is lucky I did not hit him.

I looked at him and asked, “Did you not hear what I just said? I am, after all, the deaf one.”

He repeated himself.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s not loud for you.”

For me, the acoustics are terrible. There’s loud music, dozens of conversations, clattering plates — and I hear everything and nothing all at once. I just sit there, feeling like a decoration. Me and my ear.

I explained myself again. I’m not sure he fully understood. But we’re going somewhere else — somewhere that won’t leave me with a migraine and screaming tinnitus.

It’s funny how I do not hear, and he does not listen.

Maybe funny. Maybe a little sad.

Adapting to Hearing Loss: My Personal Journey

At my last Pilates class, my instructor told me that I am quick to follow directions. I didn’t think much of it at first—after all, I’m naturally fast. But as I reflected on it, I realized that my speed isn’t about being prepared. It’s because I can’t hear.

You’d think that losing my hearing, wearing hearing aids, and not enjoying background music in a class would make me slower to follow directions. In fact, it’s the opposite.

I suffer from SSHL, or sudden sensorineural hearing loss, which took away my hearing almost overnight in 2020. It happened during the height of the pandemic, and securing an in-person doctor’s appointment was difficult. By the time I saw an ENT, my hearing loss was permanent.

Losing my hearing isn’t just about the absence of sound; it involves my brain, too. Comprehending what’s being told to me, processing information, and responding appropriately all require more effort and concentration than they did before.

We all cope with losing a vital sense in different ways. Some retreat into themselves, others embrace their new reality, and some, like me, find ways to adapt. After the shock wore off and I realized that my life would never be the same, depression set in. I was consumed with fear about how I would continue living. It’s hard to work in customer service when you can’t hear what people are saying, especially when masks and barriers were mandatory.

At first, I avoided crowds, restaurants, and most social interactions. I thought I was doing the right thing, but in reality, I was isolating myself. As an introvert, I found it strangely comforting to be alone. But then I realized I still enjoyed being around people. So, I developed a kind of “superpower”—anticipating what people were about to say or do. Not being able to hear forced me to watch and observe. I learned to read body language, facial expressions, and subtle cues. In noisy environments, I became a silent observer, finding the smallest gestures fascinating and, oddly enough, entertaining.

When my Pilates instructor complimented me on my quickness, I just smiled. People don’t need to know that my brain is constantly processing, predicting, and observing. It’s my way of adapting to a world I can no longer hear in the same way.

We all have our coping mechanisms, this is mine and I hope that everyone finds their own way.