Juliet England: My deafie diary part 21 – life in lockdown

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

It is mid-afternoon when the message on Facebook comes. Through a mutual acquaintance, I learn of the death of a former friend.

Former because the friendship was so intense, so all-or-nothing that it was perhaps inevitable that we should have a falling out of epic proportions.

And I knew she was ill, although I was probably naïve about just how seriously. Anyway, the worst thing about it is having to let another friend know by email because I can’t phone, or indeed see her in person.

It is one of the most appalling tasks I’ve ever had to do. Of course, you just have to stick to the simple facts – there’s no possible softening and I can’t bear ‘passed’ or ‘passed over’. But what am I supposed to say? ‘She’s snuffed it, innit, lolz?’ Ultimately, there are no other words than ‘Julia died. This morning’.

Despite the last few years without contact, the news still crushes me. I have to abandon work and walk along the river path and in the gardens, where we sat so many times, though I can’t quite bring myself to walk past our favourite caff, where afternoons would be spent over pots of peppermint tea as we cackled about our ‘hard-living lifestyles’.

By the Thames, I blag a slice of bread from someone carrying a loaf and feed some swans. Unaccountably, I want to sing to myself, Missing from Everything But The Girl. And I miss you, yeah – like the deserts miss the rain. This is unfortunate when I have no idea how loud my voice sounds to the bemused passers-by.

Other ‘fun’ in recent weeks has included a tooth extraction. Hard to know which was worse – trying to make out instructions behind masks, the bill, the fact of losing a tooth permanently or the realisation that a dental appointment constitutes an actual social engagement of the highest order these days.

At least I am able to arrange a routine blood test and get the results by email, although not without a certain amount of faffing. The results document is confusing to someone like me who’s not medically trained, and it takes three emails rather than one quick call finally to understand that all is OK.

Also, whiIe I am in the surgery, the Rottweiler of a receptionist just snarls when I ask if there is any chance of knowing when my second jab might be. (I am too scared to say ‘Pardon?’)

Somewhere else I have presented myself recently is the local deaf centre, who were kind in organising a refund I was due from a Well Known Department Store. It has only taken two months to sort this matter out – but it’s amazing how quickly things move when you can simply pick up the phone.

Equally positively, it’s full steam ahead with the old cochlear implant, its various components and associated paraphernalia (dry box, battery charger) now as familiar to me now as my toothbrush. I even impressed Emma the lovely audiologist and got away with skilfully hiding how few of her listening exercises and recommended websites I had studied. Next week I’m back in Oxford for only the second time since switch-on, and hope they’ll pump up the volume a bit.

I’m still gagging for more opportunities to try it out in the wild, and have already completed one hour of government-mandated exercise with a friend, and she (admittedly somewhat doubtfully) said she thought I was hearing better. A similar sortie with another is planned for this weekend.

Such social meet-ups have been a long time coming. The other afternoon in Superdrug, I think I have misheard.

“Did you just call me ‘my love’?” I ask the woman behind the till. She nods, smiling, and I am practically blushing – it feels so long since I have heard anyone use a term of endearment on my account.

It seems there is little else to do but wait for (literally and figuratively) sunnier days ahead. The local theatre I’m in is putting on Romeo and Juliet this summer, outdoors in a ruined abbey. We had a pre-audition online read-through the other night. Again, I kicked myself for my appalling organisation in not having thought the thing in advance. It meant my fellow luvvies had to scrabble around setting me up on Skype so I could see the captions. But looking at the script and captions and trying to hear the words mean I miss my cue for the part I have been told to read. That does not bode well for a flawless actual audition next month – and I am (no dignity left and I don’t care) desperate to have a part in this production, however small.

I’ve also done some online recordings, one an audition for a potential local radio play and one a volunteer voice guide for a museum-style exhibition. These have proved challenging in terms of playing pieces back and assessing whether my own voice sounds OK or not. The museum curator is, I think, just happy to have anyone help out; the audition is I am still waiting on tenterhooks to hear about.

Still, one lives in hope – that All This is finally, finally coming to some sort of end. And that one day, one day, Tesco will remember to text and not phone to announce they have rocked up with my food order. I think, however, that the latter is unlikely in my lifetime.