Juliet England: Why does sorry seem to be the hardest word?

The friend turned to me, sighed and said, quite casually.

“I know you can’t help it.”

That crash you may have heard a while back was my jaw as it slammed into the floor. Not my fault? Not my fault? In what universe, ever, could a loss of hearing be equated with blame, with responsibility? With fault?

What if (sorry for the stereotyping, kids), someone spends their youth with headphones clamped around their ears, and then loses at least some of their hearing – what then? Is that their ‘fault’?

If a soldier goes to war and loses their hearing, are they to blame, if the roar of gunfire turns them deaf in the line of duty? After all, it could be argued that they knew the risks before signing up. (A tough gig but someone’s got to do it.)

What if you’re at a party and can’t join in, or have to ask someone to repeat something?

But I don’t think my friend is alone in, instinctively, associating deafness with blame or the need (or otherwise) to apologise.

It also happens quite often, and it frustrates me, that people say they’re sorry when I explain that I can’t hear. ‘Oh, sorry,’ says the shop assistant, the passer-by I’ve accosted for directions, the person I’ve just met at a party. (Remember them?)

When you explain that you have a hearing loss, even replies like ‘That’s fine’, or ‘No problem’ can jar  slightly, however well-intentioned. Er, is there any reason why deafness should not be just fine?

But, then again, at the same time, I’ve probably, reflexively and instinctively, apologised on countless occasions. I can’t hear you. I’m sorry. I’m partially deaf. But why should I be sorry for or embarrassed about a biological quirk in whose existence I have never played any part?

And I’m having more of these conversations than ever these days, what with what will henceforward be known as The Facemask Thing. Admittedly, some explanations can lead to quite pleasant chats, with people saying they have a deaf family member and can sign a little, or even those who can hear admitting that they can’t hear behind a facial covering either.

But I confess I don’t really want to be apologised to. Equally, I’m not certain what the person is saying sorry for, exactly. My hearing loss is hardly their fault, any more than it is mine. So, unless I’ve actually trodden on their toes or something (admittedly, with me that’s always a strong possibility), I don’t think anyone should apologise to anyone for a straightforward, ordinary and unavoidable fact of life.

I don’t want to get deep into face mask politics here, I know they’re needed as much as the next woman, so don’t @ me. But maybe the person could just lower their face covering if they’re happy to, long enough for me to be able to lip-read and communicate. Maybe they could also speak more clearly and slowly, and possibly a tiny bit more loudly (without shouting, obvs.) Such things would surely be worth a million apologies.

Of course, that’s not to say that a deaf person doesn’t have certain responsibilities, in the same way that anyone does. If I got out without my hearing aids (it happens, sorry), can I realistically expect still to be shown the same level of patience and understanding that could be expected if I was wearing them?

Likewise, when my theatre group goes out of the way to accommodate my needs, or when someone goes the extra mile to make an online meeting accessible, I’m keenly aware of the extra effort involved, and the need to play my part in working with people to arrive at solutions. They certainly deserve to be thanked. But sorry? Hmm, not so much.

If a client wants to phone me, and I have to patiently explain that I can only use instant chat or email, I might feel a pang of regret that I can’t just pick up the phone and converse away, as a hearing person can.

I may, unthinkingly, even apologise for a phone call not being possible. But I don’t think I should. In truth, if anything, the client is more likely to respond with an apology of their own, saying of course email is fine. Then I will feel bad that they feel bad, and so it goes on, an endless vicious or virtuous circle of apology.

A Facebook post for our community caught my attention. It said:

Has anyone else found that they are apologising all the time?

The post received a slew of comments affirming that yes, they were indeed always saying sorry. And, as one respondent remarked, ‘all this apologising isn’t good for our mental health.’

Clearly, saying sorry is simply a basic, instinctive human response, and sorry is a word we probably use daily without giving it too much thought. But I’m increasingly determined to make a conscious effort to stop apologising for my hearing loss unless I haven’t done something I should have done, again always a strong possibility, or something which is genuinely my fault. So, apologies be damned. And now I’ve written too much, for which I am truly sorry.