Juliet England: My deafie diary part 15 – life in lockdown

The date for my cochlear implant operation has come through. More accurately, it’s the second date. I had two immediate reactions on hearing the first one offered, November 5. One was that at least I’d remember, remember it. The second was that that was far too flipping soon.

So, thanks to the unflappable, kind and professional flexibility of the team at Oxford, I’m now going for a new D-Day or CI-Day, of December 3. I know that, next time, there can be no more extensions, no more chickening out. Of course, I’m excited. But there’s a real fear, too, at the realisation that it’s time to stop talking and thinking and time to start inking dates in the diary.

What about the general anaesthetic? (I’ve never had one before.) What about this procedure’s irreversibility? What if something goes wrong? What if I hear no better afterwards? What if, what if .

Yet personal pride also has a part to play here. I know that, if I wimp out again, while I am within my rights to do so, sympathy and further opportunities are unlikely to be very forthcoming.

With some routine surgery set to be cancelled this winter, of course, there’s still the chance that it could be postponed, giving me the chance to combine very loud outward moaning with the inward dancing of a Rumpelstiltskin-esque jig of delight that it can be put off a bit longer.

I veer between ignoring the event completely, even as it approaches with the thundering inevitability of a juggernaut, and thinking I should be doing more to prepare at this stage, without knowing exactly how. I receive an email from the hospital saying some of the post-op appointments can be done by video call if I want. That seems to make sound sense, as long, obviously, as I can follow the calls.

Since lockdown began, I’ve become an expert in which video platforms work best for us deafies. I’ve got live captions on Skype, and keep meaning to try calling clients rather than making them type out every single  thing, although at least with the chat function you have a record to return to.

A short-ish run of a short play I’m doing online with my local theatre (called F***ing Feminists if you’re interested) is coming to an end. For that, with Zoom webinars there are live captions which have helped no end. In the more primitive versions of Zoom, we’ve coped with the director dialling me on Skype, and then having subtitles at the side of the screen to provide a version of what is being said.

It’s never perfect, but I’ve long ago given up expecting that. And I’m not even sure I’d give up the comforting hilarity of the bungled captions now if I could. (‘Have a baby and then sit down’, one direction was transcribed as. Needless to say, no one gives birth in the play, but it made my snort and honk with laughter until tea ran out of my nostrils.)

Zoom Webinar also seems to provide much clearer audio and a higher quality picture, meaning that with headphones and hearing aids and vastly clearer lipreading, I can catch some of the words, making for an all-round happier experience.

But using lipreading to know my cues has been a unique challenge that has, on occasion, verged on the terrifying. My poor fellow cast members have had to endure countless interruptions as I’ve barged in with completely the wrong line, or lengthy pauses where I’ve failed to realise that it is my turn to speak. When their faces blur, lipreading becomes a guessing game.

It was only right at the end of the rehearsal period, when the text became embedded in my brain, that I was able to stop making so many blunders. And, overall, while it has required more effort from everyone, the experience has been a positive one.

It’s true that I’ve missed some of the social chat that is the glue in the bonding that gives being in a theatre group such a powerful sense of belonging. But the online work has gone a long way to reduce the sense of loss we’ve all felt at not being able to perform in person thanks to the pesky pandemic.

In other news, I had a couple of routine appointments at a large hospital in central London recently. That was a trip like no other, with London having a post-apocalyptic feel. I sat on the tube convinced the coronavirus was about to slide out from under the seat and rugby tackle me to the floor.

Anyway, I really like my Sicilian consultant, but her thick Italian accent, as with all accents, can but a strain on comprehension. She removed her mask to talk to me, sliding her chair backwards, then forwards again to return to the computer, in an awkward dance. Somehow, we managed.

At a routine scan I attended that day, communication was all but impossible, almost as though neither of us spoke the same language. Hand gestures and writing had to get us by.

Oh, and I’m worried about a close family member, clearly losing their hearing but refusing to do anything about it, despite my entreaties to visit the GP. Sigh.

Still, life goes on, fast as ever. I can’t even remember what the ‘old’ normal was like now. Play, done. Next stop, CI surgery.