Tharā Gabriel – I Can’t See You – So I Can’t Hear You!

Warning: This article may induce waterworks and outrage; it did for me.

COVID-19 has indubitably brought with it a host of challenges and overall suffering worldwide. For me, it has brought societal isolation and silence – and not the good kind.

Since this life-altering pandemic began I’ve repeatedly encountered hearing people saying that it’s difficult for them to understand what’s being said while speaking to a person wearing a mask.

Well, imagine what it’s like for us deaf and hard of hearing people who don’t only rely on sound, but facial cues and lip-reading as well; we can’t hear anything at all!

Living in a country that doesn’t prioritise good communication practices to begin with, it has all been exacerbated by masks.

We are now forced to rely on other people to run basic errands at the grocery, gas station, church, hospital and bank, where clerks are instructed not to remove their masks even if socially distanced or behind a protective screen.

Instead they become agitated, murmur to their colleagues or spew a host of words and send us on our way while we’re left staring blankly hoping that our business was completed.

See above: A gas station in Trinidad & Tobago: Note that the cashier/clerk window is entirely blacked out so you cannot see (and so cannot hear) the person behind.

I really was taking it all in my stride as this “new normal” unfolded but it became increasingly difficult during the last few months of 2020 and culminated in a heart-wrenching event and mask-related encounters that ultimately pushed me to start writing and advocating here in Trinidad and Tobago.

I will try to keep the devastating bits to a minimum but I am sharing because I want everyone to understand just how crushing it was when those encounters occurred.

I grew up with a hearing dad who took no notice of my hearing loss – I mean this in a good way. After all, he was married to a hard of hearing woman for 44 years. To my father we were always just his 7 beautiful daughters (or “8 beautiful ladies” when he counted my mom) who excelled at everything and were unstoppable.

He taught us everything he knew with no distinction as to any misguided societal or cultural norms regarding the roles of boys and girls (although he did call me his “boy child” and told everyone I gave him the most trouble; a truth I cannot deny).

He came to appreciate each of our unique personalities and abilities and never differentiated between his hearing or hard of hearing children. His confidence in us led us to become a clique of extremely strong-minded and capable women.

He never made mention of our hearing status except inadvertently on two occasions. On the first, it would be when we’d all get together and he’d pass us by, blocking his ears with his face twisted up and lovingly say “allyuh loud eh!”

In retrospect he couldn’t really blame us as he was an artist, designer, drummer and all round musician. We lived with him blasting music daily, running multiple tools when working and beating on his 7 piece drum kit whenever the feeling hit him. Of course, we had to speak even louder to hear ourselves!

The second would be when the kettle would be whistling for minutes on end and we’d hear him shout from wherever he was in the house “allyuh d water boiling!” I should note, this happened multiple times a day as we are a family of avid tea and coffee drinkers.

In 2020, my father was hospitalised 4 times for issues relating to Stage IV Prostate Cancer. The last 3 times were in close succession. After completing 10 rounds of chemotherapy and one debilitating round of radiation therapy, he lost the majority of his muscle mass, weight and mobility and eventually became bed-ridden.

My youngest sister (Sanā, the seventh) and I, both hard of hearing, were his primary caregivers. This meant that we were there with him day in, day out.  You can probably imagine the difficulties of being a hard of hearing caregiver to a hearing person; it meant we basically had to keep eyes on him round the clock and pretty much be on call 24/7.

Every time he was hospitalised we would basically camp out at the hospital and be on rotation with 2 other hearing sisters; Ayanna the first, and Amirah the sixth.

The public hospitals in our country are a hellish nightmare. Abhorrent. Ask any citizen. Apart from having to wait hours on end to be seen in the ER, dealing with non-existent customer service, files being misplaced, information being withheld, inadequate facilities and so much more, now we had to deal with masks and COVID-19 restrictions.

Now we were all cognisant and very respectful of the need to adhere to the COVID-19 restrictions and guidelines but again, there are no regulatory concessions for our community.

On every single occasion we had a mask-related issue where we couldn’t hear integral information being shared by a nurse or doctor. They never removed their masks, even when wearing face shields or being behind a protective screen and most times refused to repeat the information.

Even worse, they refused to allow anyone to accompany the hard of hearing person to interpret. This was a problem because the two people who knew my Father’s entire medical history and all related issues were hard of hearing! It was so bad that one night one of my hearing sisters ended up in tears in a near shouting match with a nurse who refused to give her information.

In addition to spending hours in the hospital and dealing with seeing our pillar of a father in untold pain, bleeding, delirious, hallucinating, tied to a bed for being “aggressive” and not being able to recognise us…this was all too much.

We faced these issues up to the last time he was hospitalised where they basically told us “don’t bring him back, we can’t help him”. In the subsequent days he had problems breathing due to COPD and therefore couldn’t speak properly. He was also lucid one moment and gone the next. It became extremely difficult for my sister and I to lip-read and understand him more so because he started to mix his words.

All we could have done was keep him as clean and comfortable as possible. His pain was visibly unbearable even with regular doses of morphine and it took strength we didn’t know we had to continue to taking care of him and watching his condition slowly deteriorate.

On the 9th December 2020, I went to administer his medication and found that he had passed away.

The grief is inexplicable so I won’t even try. Some of you might unfortunately already know that grief but those who don’t I’m sure you can imagine. I want you to think about it while I share what was the breaking point for me.

For my father’s funeral we chose the Holy Trinity Roman Catholic Church in Arouca, Trinidad. After all the parish priest here read his last rites and knew my mother. He also had prior knowledge that we are a hard of hearing family. I want to mention that this church is not air-conditioned, at a busy junction, and on the main road so you can imagine the ambient noise.

At one point we even heard the moving Trini monument pass by: the truck blasting “BUYING SCRAP IRON, OLD BATTERY BUYING!” over a megaphone. The church also has what seems to be a the standard extra-muffled, feedback prone, church-specific audio system.

Now any regular church-goer knows the parts of the mass by heart so we don’t really need to hear what’s being said; we’ve read it a million times and we just know. But for the homily – we need to read lips.

The church gave us a 20 person limit (even though the church holds over 100 persons and regular mass is run at 50% capacity; I am still confused by this) so our entire family could not attend.

The priest came in wearing a mask which was fine because it’s mandatory. In a passing thought I wondered why he didn’t opt for a face shield instead but I forged on. We all sat socially distanced and the mass began.

When it was time for the homily, he walked up to the lectern (more than 10 feet away from, and towering above the nearest person) and began to speak without removing his mask. I was confused. I thought “hmmm…maybe he forgot”.

I looked across the aisle at my oldest hard of hearing sister (Kalyan, the second) at the same time she looked at me with the same confused look in her eyes. I gestured to her and shook my head; she gestured to me and shook her head.

She then proceeded to walk up to the lectern and alert the priest as to the issue. Here you are giving a homily to an assortment of hard of hearing persons while wearing a mask. Ummmm…who exactly are you preaching to?

I watched in disbelief, over my father’s casket, past my crying mother and sobbing hard of hearing sister (Maya, the fourth) as this priest just kept looking away, shaking his head at whatever my sister was saying and refused to remove his mask. My sister eventually gave up and walked back to her seat with incredulity.

I was literally in shock; on top of being paralysed by grief because I wanted to scream! I wanted to get up and shout and condemn him for his insensitivity and inconsideration and consummate ignorance in adding to the plethora of tumultuous emotions that we were all already experiencing!

How could this make sense?! Make it make sense! Please! Somebody!

He droned on and on and on and we still have not heard one word he said. If the homily was meant to comfort a family in a time of untold grief, we are still waiting. It did the exact opposite. He carried on for the duration of the mass, business as usual with no regard for the upshots of his actions.

I was seething. It was completely unfair and altogether inhumane that we had to endure prejudice on that particular day. His discriminatory actions detracted from our right to mourn in peace.

This occurrence was the last straw for me. I decided I can no longer stand idly by in a society that collectively refuses to recognise the needs of the deaf and hard of hearing community. If we can’t see you, WE CAN’T HEAR YOU!

I am on a personal mission to effect change because this is unacceptable and no one should ever have to experience what we endured. I have started this through writing, just as my father was a writer and a pioneering problem-solver. If nothing else – I am my father’s daughter!

You might be sensing a change in tone at the end here because I assure you I just got angry all over again! Sigh. Deep breaths. Let me listen to some music and calm down now.

Aaaahhh music…like a balm for disquietude.

I’ll be back with my next article and tribute to my father “That’s the wrong note!” where I share what it’s like to be a hard of hearing musician, band member and singer; quite funny at times and never boring!

Till next time!

T.G.

Tharā Gabriel is a Creative Communications and Administrative Professional from Trinidad and Tobago living with genetic, progressive Sensorineural Hearing Loss. She sings in her family band and plays guitar-even though she can’t hear all the notes! Ultimately she loves shattering stereotypes about the way deaf people should look and behave.