Juliet England: My deafie diary part 16 – life in lockdown

Here we go again, then. Lockdown Part 2, the sequel, has ended in tiers – Déjà Flu, as some wags would have it. Anyway, no sign of very much changing anytime soon, and no immediate prospect of a return to normality, whatever that may be.

It’s a curious business, the Facemask Thing. Good citizen that I am, I wear mine and kind of expect others to do the same, unless they have a good reason not to. And the wearing of facial coverings is still relatively new, yet by now somehow so established that I’ve long since abandoned any expectation of communication in a shop.

Like a dyslexic person conserving effort in only reading something they really, really want to, if I run into some casual acquaintance, I avoid conversations that I know will be fruitless, raising a hand in a way that greets but also says Please. Leave. Me. Alone.

It’s stressful, and sometimes I worry that my reactions are a bit knee-jerky. A hospital sent a letter about an appointment for next spring, telling me not to attend in person, but to await a phone call. I went into immediate overdrive, emailing to wail that such appointments were no good to me.

But the telephone arrangement turned out to be just a stopgap, in the hope that I will be able to make the relevant appointment face-to-face by the time March rolls round.

Meanwhile, I’ve been wondering how deaf people are feeling about a more muted Christmas season this year. Personally, I’m not that big on the ‘festive’ period at the best of times, and these are far from the best of times. No noisy parties or loud pub gatherings? Bring it on.

In other news, I’ve had a right old time of it trying to follow captions and instructions while making a short online film with the local theatre group I’m in. (Written by one of our number and called A Christmas Karen, if you’re interested.)

I’d not filmed myself before, and although my two parts were both small, amounting to just a few lines apiece, getting camera (phone) angle, lighting, sound and background spot-on proved a task of near-Herculean difficulty taking hours. Skype calls pick up captions which help follow an unsubtitled Zoom meeting, but trying to follow these while, say, rigging up a background screen brought the director and me to the very edge of our respective sanities.

I’ve used the same technique for captions with a big meeting held with my housing association, from which I rent part of my flat. We had to think of something, not least because presentations were involved, meaning screen sharing wouldn’t be possible. And this was the best we could come up with – as it happens, it’s not a terrible solution.

But it was good fun winding up Marie from the association when the captions weren’t quite correct. (“Marie, are you calling me baby again?” “Nooooooo! I’m not … !”)

At one point, she offered to ‘ring the rain’ for me – er, OK. Well, Adele set fire to it, so why not give it a call? Oh, ring Lorraine? As you were.

I also briefly rejoined a former writing group as I fancied entering their competition (I came second, thanks for asking, second of approximately three.) Anyway, I cursed my lack of organisational skills. It’s held on a platform with no captions, and I failed to make any provisions in advance.

Luckily an old scribbling buddy helped me out by giving me the gist of proceedings via a private chat, which had the added advantage of allowing us to be wickedly catty about the others. What happened in private chat, mercifully, stayed that way.

Meanwhile, the days are slipping away, one by one, to the big cochlear implant or CI Day. It feels like the Eve of Battle as I write this, three days before my scheduled surgery date. The waiting is nearly over.

If anything, I’m see-sawing more violently than ever between feelings of abject fear and intense excitement. I keep reassuring myself that of course it will be safe, that there are almost no risks involved. And yet. And yet – on the other hand, why would you allow someone to drill a hole in your skull unless it would actually save your life? The whole thing just seems so massive. So scary.

Then I’ll read a Facebook post, someone saying they are hearing more clearly than ever, and how wonderful that is, just five days after their CI has been turned on, and detailing the sounds they can make out, even if those don’t yet include speech. And it will make me feel better. (Birdsong, though. I do apologise, but what is it with the bl***y birdsong all the time?)

Anyway. My Eve of Op B&B is booked, I’m down for the pre-surgery assessment and Covid test the day after tomorrow and have plans to be looked after in the immediate aftermath. I am unsure as to what else I can do, other than wait. And try to remain calm. See you the other side.