Juliet England: My deafie diary part 19 – life in lockdown

Continuing Juliet’s experiences of daily life with a hearing loss – in lockdown.

Lockdown Part 3 the trequel (and if that wasn’t a word before, it is now) continues, both as necessary and as ghastly as the previous two.

Somehow, though, if anything, this one seems harder. Maybe because of the weather, maybe because we’re all sick of staying home, maybe because all the news is so unrelentingly grim – who knows?

Anyway, it’s certainly meant that, with limited opportunities for interaction, I’m taking longer to get used to the cochlear implant.

I also decided to cancel my most recent follow-up appointment in Oxford, a tortuously difficult decision to make, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to make the trip (by public transport) as it didn’t seem classable as ‘essential’ travel, important though it was.

However, I’ve managed one or two online rehab sessions, which continue to be helpful. Emma, the speech therapist gently (and justifiably) chides me for not wearing the thing more, and does little listening exercises with me, at which my success is admittedly somewhat patchy. I’ve agreed to keep a diary of my implant use, in a bid to shame myself into action. (Whether I’ll actually do this is another matter entirely.)

However, there was something of a breakthrough when my bubble buddy came over on the first Saturday evening of 2021 for some plumble (home-made plum crumble; another new word for you).

With one hearing aid worn along with the implant, I listen intently. And his voice sounds amazing – nuanced, as layered as any geological find, richly textured. At the risk of sounding unbearably icky, it is almost like hearing it for the first time.

“Wow,” I say. “It’s nasal, quite a learned-sounding voice. Almost posh.”

“Posh?” he splutters.

For radio and TV, I’m still mostly hearing beeps and whistles, which dance a jig in time to the rhythm if I’m listening to music.

Some other daily sounds – the swoosh of water tumbling into the kettle, the clatter of a pen falling onto the desk – sound different, unnatural, as does my own voice. Still, I know I need to up my game with the thing, and, probably, to increase the volume, although I am proud to report being on the highest of three programmes on my current set-up.

I’ve taken to getting my daily walk in by the river as dusk is falling, and it’s odd being able to catch snatches of sound from passers-by, right in my ear, even if I can’t make out what is being said.

Inevitably, people are asking me how I’m getting on with the implant. The only sane response, normally, would be to ask them to repeat and say you can’t hear, but that old gag doesn’t quite work for remote communication.

And remote is indeed how most communication remains for now. I recently did a Zoom call with some old college mates, and, lovely as it was to see their shiny little faces, it was all but impossible, not only to hear, but even to know when one of our number was speaking, so that I was unsure when to contribute without rudely butting in. I relied on the instant chat facility to catch up with one friend, and had to content myself with the pleasure of a virtual tour of another’s new home in the Canadian wilderness, complete with views of the forest and winter sunshine.

Some responses from others have been bewildering, if well-meaning. “So glad your hearing is cured!” wrote one person. Um … Cured? “It must be wonderful to be able to hear!” wrote another, who is themselves hearing. Er … I could hear some things before.

“I’m really pleased you can hear more” was probably one of the more sensitive, intelligent sentiments.

Perhaps my hardest experience in recent days, however, was a jaunt to the local vaccination centre to help out as a volunteer steward while folk were being jabbed against the dreaded Covid. I should have known it would be challenging. And, indeed, after I rocked up, it was incredibly hard to catch the instructions that were being issued, not least because of the face masks being worn even outside. Indeed, I came close to giving it up as a bad job and just going home.

Eventually, though, I buddied up with someone called Sam, who was willing to pull down her mask to communicate, and she spoke to arriving patients while I merely directed people, lent an arm to those who were too frail to manage the few steps inside the massive marquee that had been erected, and scuttled off now and then to fetch a wheelchair. It did get very dark for the last hour or so of the afternoon slot, making lipreading impossible.

Best of all, I got jabbed myself, and with no ill effects to report. I even put my name down for more shifts, although I’ve not heard back. Funny, that.