Rebecca A Withey: I waited 28 years to hear birdsong… and I’m still not convinced (BSL)

When I was 12 years old, I was assessed for a cochlear implant.

After the tests, I was told I was a suitable candidate. The audiologist encouraged me to think seriously about having one because, as they put it, without a cochlear implant I would never hear birdsong.

Birdsong. Apparently, this was the benchmark.

I remember bursting into tears. Not because I longed to hear the birds, but because I was perfectly happy with my hearing aids and didn’t want a cochlear implant.

Thankfully, my Dad put an arm around me and reminded me that it was entirely my decision. Nobody could make that choice for me.

So I carried on with life exactly as I wanted to, wearing hearing aids and never giving birdsong another thought.

Now as other hearing aid wearers will agree, over the years, hearing aid technology has changed enormously. I still remember swapping my analogue hearing aids for digital ones and once I got over the initial shock of adjusting, I was quite amazed by what I could now suddenly pick up.

One moment stands out more than any other.

I put on a CD – The Phantom of the Opera – expecting the dramatic, deep opening I’d always known. Instead, I found myself hearing Sarah Brightman’s haunting vocals floating above the music. “In sleep he sang to me…”

It was as though I’d discovered an entirely different recording and I found the vocals so beautiful I could have cried. The melody I knew so well hadn’t changed, but my experience of it had.

Fast forward to today and my latest NHS hearing aids have surprised me once again. I have a steep high-frequency hearing loss in both ears, so it’s fascinating that these hearing aids seem to amplify exactly those sounds I’d never really noticed before.

Which brings me back to the birds.

This summer I’ve been spending hours renovating my garden. Digging borders, painting fences, planting flowers and generally trying to turn a rather tired garden into somewhere I’d actually like to sit.

One afternoon I became increasingly irritated by a repetitive noise that kept coming and going.

I looked over the fence. Nothing.

I checked whether the children were making a racket inside the house. Nope.

Eventually I filmed it and sent it to my Mum.

Her reply? “It’s birds, Beck.”

I laughed out loud.

The very sound I’d been told, all those years ago, I’d never hear… was apparently what was driving me mad.

Now, when I sit outside with a cup of coffee, I often watch a blackbird perched on the hedge at the back of the garden. I can see its tiny beak opening and closing in perfect rhythm.

The funny thing is… it doesn’t sound particularly beautiful to me.

Sometimes it’s a repetitive chirp. Sometimes it’s a piercing squawk that makes me jump and look around wondering, What on earth was that?

Hearing people often describe birdsong with such affection. “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” “Listen to the dawn chorus.”

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to work out which bird sounds like it’s arguing with the neighbour.

Now that I’ve reached the grand old age of 40 (yes, I’m still getting used to saying that), I spend far more time outdoors than I ever did in my teens or twenties. I notice the flowers, the bees, the changing seasons and, now, apparently, the birds.

Perhaps it is the new hearing aids that have enabled me to pick up this (annoying) frequency, or maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve slowed down enough to notice more sounds.

Whatever the reason, I find it wonderfully ironic that it took nearly three decades to hear something I’d once been told I’d miss forever.

And after all that…

…I’m still not entirely sure what all the fuss is about.

Although, to be fair, maybe the blackbird outside my garden is just particularly shouty.

By Rebecca A Withey 

Rebecca A Withey is the Assistant Editor for The Limping Chicken. She is also a freelance writer, BSL consultant and creative artist based in the Midlands. Rebecca is a Deaf, bilingual BSL user.