Up in the Cascade mountains there is a bike path with a crumbling old two-mile tunnel called the Iron Horse Trail. Even on the most beautiful summer day, the tunnel is cold, dank and pitch-black. Once inside if you hold your hand in front of your face you can’t see it. After riding about the three-quarters of the way through, just when you lose all hope of ever seeing light again, a teeny bright pin-prick twinkles up ahead. As you ride towards it, blackness gives way to gray, the dimness of the tunnel fades, and soon you’re out in the warmth of daylight again. The views on the other side of the tunnel are glorious!! Much more magnificent than when you entered. Here, you’re on top of a mountain clearing looking out over miles and miles of the Cascade Range. Just you and the mountains. It seems like you‘ve gone through hell to get there.Few people ever make that trip.
Many times I’ve thought of that Iron Horse Trail as a metaphor for my deaf journey. I haven’t been on it since my son was young enough to enjoy biking with me. The last time we were up there, we spent an afternoon riding down the mountainside with some friends, and it was one of those hot summer golden days of motherhood where everything seemed just right with the world. Before he became a rebellious teen. Before our friends were transferred across the country to Florida. Before my hearing took yet another nose-dive.
Late-deafness brings a lot of garbage and grief with it. Many of us spend years wandering around inside a dark tunnel. Few of us enter willingly. I say “few” because there actually are those who destroy their hearing on purpose, but that’s another story for another day. The rest of us end up in the deaf tunnel kicking and screaming. We’re never prepared. We don’t have flashlights or sweaters. We have no idea how we got there or what’s up ahead. We’re cut off from our daily activities, friends, and we feel lost. Trapped.
Eight years ago that’s where I was. And it was there, deep inside the “deaf” tunnel I made some of the best friends I’ve ever met through an on-line support group called the Say What Club. We leaned on each other for help until we made it out the other side. They taught me how to deal with my deafness, and eventually I was able to help others. I’m still learning. Life goes on and it’s good on this other side of the tunnel-- the deaf side.
These past few weeks I’ve been working on a blog so my deaf/ hard-of-hearing friends and I could share our late-deaf/hard-of-hearing experiences with others. I am hoping you will enjoy reading their entries and possibly learn something about late-deafness. Our hope at the Say What Club is to help those struggling with hearing loss. Those who are new to hearing loss or those just wanting some support. We hope to shed light on the everyday challenges people new to hearing loss face and maybe help with coping strategies so we all can get on with living full productive lives. We don’t have all the answers, but we listen. Please stop by.
Say What Club Blog
(Cascades by NateFish3000, Snoqualmie Tunnel above by Ray Fischer)
7 comments:
That is a lovely blog... letting us know about the late-deafened people, reminding us that they are not going away and that we have to accept them, same as we have to accept CI people, etc.
KW, my favorite gall bladderless blogger (wink) After reading this post, I reread it and then when I finished, I decided to reread it again. This really hit me because I come to your blog with the experience of being deaf practically my whole life and having that perspective while reading about a person who is late-deafened. it made me realize how much harder it must be for you. I had spent my entire life learning different ways to accomdate my hearing loss in attempt to keep up to par with the hearing people, but late deafened don't have a lifetime behind them to prepare themselves. Most of them have extreme difficulty learning how to read lips which is a huge part of how I get by day by day. It really is losing a part of your heart, or hand, or leg. The sheer profoundness of the entire post really hit home for me.
I grew up deaf and so never really knew what constituted normal hearing. I wore a hearing aid to aid the residual hearing left in my one ear. Now my eyes are having eye vision problems, and every time I struggle with focusing on something, I realize how much I really depend on them. I sorely miss not having 20/20 vision anymore and I alternate between hating my reading glasses and prescription glasses and giving up on them.
For you, you've grown up knowing sound and then entered a silent world for which you weren't prepared. The tunnel metaphor so aptly describes what you must have have gone thru, lost in the unexpected unknown. By all means, it's time the late-deafened got some blog-time on DR. And who better than you, Kim, to introduce them.
Hi Ann-- I know about the eyes too. Mine are going. I've been near-sighted since age 10. The past few years my eyes have been taking longer and longer to focus between distance and closeup. I tried wearing contacts with two different prescriptions-- one for far-sightedness, one for near-sightedness, but that doesn't work so well. I finally gave up and got trifocals. (sigh) I wear contacts on special occasions, but I'm wearing them less and less because I can see so much better with the glasses. :-)
1 in 3 people over age 65 are hard-of-hearing, did you know that? My husband, in his mid-fifties has developed hearing loss in the past few years. The average person waits seven years before getting hearing aids. Reaching people with positive information BEFORE depression sets in is critical to their overall adjustment to hearing loss and sense of well-being. About 2/3 of the HH/deaf population are late-deafened. Their adjustment SHOULD BE a priority.
Thanks for caring.
Abbie--Thanks and yes you're right. Late-deafened people do not have an entire life to adjust. Sometimes deafness happens overnight. Sometimes it happens along with other conditions that makes it hard to learn lip-reading or ASL. The older you are, the harder it is to pick up new skills and the more of you identity you have to give up.
I was diagnosed with progressive hearing loss at 19, so I lip read fairly well and consider myself lucky. Still--I've struggled with constant loss my entire life. Have never reached a plateau. As soon as I get used to one level, I lose more. The continual state of loss puts you in a constant grief cycle, and may change brain chemistry over time because you continually grieve and adjust to a new low.
Thanks Karen. :-)
God that was beautiful and deep, you are such an inspirational writer. KW, remember, there is always light at the end of that tunnel, we just need to know how to find it and appreciate it. But, it takes the journey to reach it and I think you are getting closer...I kiss-smack you, Jodi
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