Mirror Reflections

There’s another trouble spot.  Am I talking about a writing block or another age spot I’ve just noticed in the mirror? Maybe a little of both. For the most part, I avoid mirrors.  I quit looking at my reflection in store windows as I walk by. I don’t stop at every mirror to smooth my eyebrow or adjust a wayward curl anymore. I don’t even carry a purse-sized lipstick mirror, or even a lipstick for that matter. All that was left back in the Second Quarter of my life (the 30’s and 40’s maybe).

 As I am ending the Third Quarter completely absent of the daily required primping for meeting the masses at school or work, I consider myself free of society’s judgment to defy my age, shrink my pores, or make my age spots disappear as the ads so profusely promise.  I don’t think about styling my hair, or apply the latest goop to provide sheen after the once in the morning ritual of tooth and hair brushing. I am finally a Wash, Rinse, and Go Girl.  Free at last.

That is, until I finally glance in the mirror at night to repeat the morning’s ritual. Staring back at me is always a shock. My God, did I look like this all day? I can no longer just repeat the cute phrase that I see Mom looking back at me as I am more than a decade older than she would ever be. The sagging eyelids, sallow skin, and dull graying hair are harsh reminders that the Fourth Quarter is beginning and I have no chance to be the stunning athlete who will save the game.

How can I sing the “Aging Gracefully” mantra when I look like I tripped over a wayward tree root or piece of cracked sidewalk? It’s hard to be proud of the glorious claim that I earned every gray hair. To see joyous memories in every wrinkle or sag. That my waving wingspans were once firm loving arms holding children. I’m supposed to embrace the terms “seasoned,” “intelligent,” “mellowed”…hell… I love to pick wine that way, not feel like I look that way!  It’s plain and simple, this girl is aging, and faster than ever before.

 

Trying to find comfort in my reflection is really difficult right now.  Except I do try to think of the good side to all this.  I can still walk up to the mirror; I can still see it (if my glasses are on); lift my arms to brush that mop. I can just as quickly turn around and flip off the offending light and retire to bed with the same aging man of 40 years who unwittingly still thinks HE is the starring quarterback and I am his head cheerleader. Thank goodness  "the eye of the beholder" isn't lost on me!

Diego

I have had fitful sleep times lately, mainly just aging issues that keep me from having a full night’s sleep, so my mind flitters about so many different thoughts, problems, ideas, and such. Lately I have been giving a lot of those nocturnal thoughts to Diego. I’ve meet with him twice, once with Wayne and Stephanie as backup, and once alone.   There’s no real “I know he’s the one” or “You just know when you know” kinds of feelings. I try to think back to last time I picked out a dog. That was really more than 20 years ago.  I can recall the scrambling pups in the kitchen and seeing the beautiful golden retriever mom and the black lab dad, and the pup’s funny cowlick on his nose that dubbed him the name Spike. We didn’t name it that.  I don’t even remember the “picking” though.  I don’t remember the “he’s the one” thoughts. I was doing it on my own, and Spike, later named Odie, was a beloved treasure in our family for 13 years, but the memory selecting him fades, and doesn’t help me much now. 

This time Diego was picked for me; from trainers who have been matching owners and service dogs for more than 30 years. I should trust them, and they said that they did pick a matching personality to me. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s boring because I am boring, and I hate to admit that about myself. My cover is blown.  (Okay, I can hear someone chiming in, “What cover?”) Not so boring,  when I am comfortable with friends and family, but for the most part, I don’t do too much. Watching TV, writing, quilting, cooking, grocery shopping and the occasional cleaning duties when I’m in the mood are about it. So why wouldn’t they pick a dog that is comfortable just sitting at my feet and happy to have his “babies” (aka toys) around. Playing fetch is pretty much out of the question. Balls are not his thing. I can tell he would love to take walks and mark every bush within a quarter mile radius, if I’d let him.  A little hind leg walking action seems to be fun, but he is the ever couch potato for the most part.  And I’ve been troubled that I can’t even get him to look me in the eye. Oh, man, my biggest fault is not looking people in the eye; I’ve been so used to looking at lips for lip reading!  Well, there you go, he is a little fluffy, puffy Suzy!

My initial “dislikes” have eventually been put aside. I was put off by his name, his penchant for wanting to mark in the house, his watery eyes and nose (pretty much a norm for the breed, mixed though he is) All of those issues have melded into ”he is who he is” and any un-wanted behaviors can be easily addressed with better training and attention.  I did seem to dwell on the fact that maybe I didn’t really “need” him anymore because my implant was so successful. But I’m not too unrealistic to know that when this processor is off, I am for the most part completely deaf.  Even though I am doing so well there are still many instances that I miss the direction of noise. And sometimes, I just like to be in the beauty of “deaf mode” and enjoy the quiet.  I could never do that for fear that I might miss someone calling out to me, or a doorbell ringing, for example.  Besides, I was wanting a new “project” and responsibility.  I wanted to give a rescued dog a chance at a better life all the while he would be a companion to me. Therein lies the rub, that I do already have a lifelong companion… my husband.  Although he has given me his blessing on this endeavor, I can’t shake the feeling that that we are not making this choice together, and Diego for the most part has to be “my dog” to maintain his hearing training.

So these are the thoughts that occupy my spinning mind when I can’t sleep. I really don’t blame this issue on my sleeplessness; it’s just the topic of choice these days. I will pay another visit to Diego tomorrow, hoping that when he does come to live with us next month and the real training begins, he will be familiar with me. I picked up a new squeaky toy that he will associate with me and will be at the house when he arrives. We may not have that love at first sight bond, but I do think he is a wonderful little dog, and I can’t wait to see how he becomes another member of our family as the sweet animals did before him.  I think it is going to be marvelous to discover what talents he will possess to help me through my new hearing world.  I hope you want to hear how this new chapter will develop.

.

 

 

The Art of Friendship

A few weeks ago I was attending a meeting made up of ladies who had the desire to offer random acts of kindness to others. Among the group are three good friends of my own, and even though I travel one hundred miles each way to attend this meeting, the draw of friendship and camaraderie for a good cause makes it an easy drive. As a warm-up, we went around the room to share something about someone who has made an impact on our lives.  The obvious, mothers, dads, grandparents, and teachers were honored, and no doubt I have had so many of those who have definitely been a major influence, as we all have. As it rolled around to me I couldn’t add anything new except, by my side (this is almost a literal phrase; we’ve been accused of being joined at the hip) was a person who had taught me the art of friendship so many times over in the better part of quarter century that we have been friends. As I began to speak, my voice went into that horrible high-pitched warble that happens when emotions are stronger than the voice box. I wasn’t able to eloquently pay tribute to the beauty of her selfless acts and the impact of how she has taught me what it means to really be a friend.

 Instead, I could only belt out, “ Shhee’s m-my-y-y, sniff, sniff, friend… shhe’s she’s the b-b-best.

She was touched, but this blubber ball was so sad that the right words to honor her were not spoken. This dear one is first to say that it has been a two way street, but I can’t help but pale in comparison to her. What we do have though is one of those rare strong bonds that withstands distance or time.  She is also a very, very private person and would not be too happy if I announced her name to the blogosphere (all 9 people who read this, even if the potential of more is possible). So, I won’t.  But, I do want to share the poem I wrote to her almost 20 years ago, that gives a small inkling of what makes up the body of a true friend. I only hope that you have had a similar experience of knowing such a friend, and in return becoming a better person for it. I know I am.

“The Body Perfect”

She looks at herself with

Dread and concern,

Fearing what is to come…

And when.

But, when God created my friend,

He added “extras” not given

To everyone.

He added a strong right arm

Connected to a delicate consoling hand;

Shoulders strong enough to withstand

A waterfall of tears.

Her heart seals in my secrets,

All the while silently packing

Away its own pain.

Deep piercing eyes watch for any

Chinks in my armor.

Tender, yet solid soles keep her ever mindful

 Of the personal pain

 And sacrifice of

Taking any goal-driven step.

At the hip He devised an extra hinge

Made for locking

Onto the hip of another.

No other body was created with as much

Love and perfection.

                                                                                              Suzanne Robinson

                                                                                      August, 1995

Activation Day

Today turned out to be beyond anything I could have imagined. A table piled deep of paraphanalia that had fit into a huge premium backpack was my first vision that said this is going to be a huge endeavor. Audiologist Sara and her intern Carley were happy to see us. I asked Wayne to come along to be a part of this new event in our lives. For someone who was a great sport amateur photographer in his early years, I'm sorry that he really didn't capture the really exciting moment of me "going on air." But maybe he was just a little overwhelmed himself. Together we are not the epitome of huge expression, but we get lost up in the moment.
     The angels from above didn't break into Handel's Hallaluia chorus, but it was a sweet moment of hearing a slight siren sound and then Sara's voice albeit a little high pitched and mechanical asking me "what can you hear?"  It was not a series of beeps that I heard, but actual words. I had to close my eyes to make sure I wasn't depending on my lip reading. That's when I knew all the indecisiveness, the waiting, the rejections, the final approval, and surgery were all worth it. The best I could show was a little misty eyes and on to the business at hand.

 We spent the better part of two hours finding the right loudness for each group of electrodes, figuring out all that equipment that was on the table and creating baby step programs to get me through the new two weeks before I see her again.
     All the while I am trying to become accustom to my voice interrupting the voices in the room. Quite a lesson in rude butting in I must have developed over the years. Wayne's voice being lower/deeper than the the electrodes' capabilities are being picked up by my other ear's hearing aid. Another perfect marriage is in the works.
     There's a funny bubbling aquarium sound that has actually dissipated over the past few hours since reaching home. We're were immediately met with some unexpected out of town guests and I can actually hear them visiting in the basement while I am fixing dinner. Yes, I'm typing this as dinner is cooking.
      Now that dinner is over and I have had the opportunity to have spent some time listening to voices, cleaning up clattering dishes, and trying s little TV, I can't help but feel that it will take me less than the anticipated months for this to become as close to natural hearing as possible. Are there some down sides? You bet, and I will share those a little later, just to let you know how realistic this adventure is, but for now I will bask in the phenomenal miracle of technology, a skilled surgeon and audiologist, and the countless thoughts and prayers of family and friends who have made this possible.  It's a blessed day!



Now you see it.

Now you don't.

Post Surgery Update

Minutes before my CI surgery

At Home with my new Turban



My excellent doctor's hand work

      I want to share these pictures to show some of the behind the scenes experiences of what happens right after surgery. Sadly I don't have pictures of all the adventures that have happened in the past three weeks, but the fuzzy brain just didn't think fast enough to put a camera in someone's hand. For the most part it has been a quiet time to just let my body heal. I was in the hospital at 8 a.m. and home by 4 p.m. that afternoon.  I was treated professionally, kindly, expertly at St Joseph's Hospital in Denver. I could not have asked for better care. The surgery lasted a little over three hours, and all I can remember is complete euphoria, good will, and gratitude for getting this far. Drugs may have helped kick in those emotions, but I really haven't lost that feeling yet. 

      My surgery was the Monday before Thanksgiving and by Wednesday, with the help of my own Vietnam Vet husband, we made a QOV presentation to Joe Birge. My participation in this Foundation is very important to me, and I didn't want to miss out on this opportunity. This was not a quilt that I made, but from someone else who participates in this great organization.  It was a special honor to just be the presenter this time.


Two days after surgery.
 Well enough to make a QOV Presentation

Pat from Wisconsin's beautiful quilt presented to
Vietnam Vet Joe Birge

      By Thanksgiving Day, I thought I was on a smooth ride to healing.  Actually I was not yet off the pain meds and the new BP meds that I had to start before surgery were not being too kind to each other. I passed out due to a drastic drop in blood pressure that won me an ambulance ride to the ER and a full day of trying to stabilize my blood pressure.  After years of trying to keep my BP from soaring, this was a whole new experience. Many times in these past few weeks I have had a hard time trying to tell if it was the bp meds or the surgery aftereffects that has been causing the fluctuating numbers, dizzy spells, and light headedness. The one thing I wanted to avoid was to confuse medications, but all the doctors were insistent that I start them before the surgery. Now it will be interesting to see who will blame what. Whatever the case, this is one battle I am allowing myself to retreat from. They can figure it out. I have better things to do...like learning to hear again!

    The next two weeks were pretty mild compared to that first one. I worked through the expected pain without any medication. The most worrisome that proved to be typical were these cattle-prod like shooting pains inside my ear. They tapered off within a few days, and were more comical than painful. Then a new sensation came on board that hinted of a miraculous possibility.  I started hearing that "weird water in your ear" sound. Very likely fluid does build up in the Eustachian tube after this surgery, so this is not abnormal, but the key word here is sound!!  If I am hearing this, it quite possibly means that some of my residual low frequency hearing was not lost.  This was one of the drawbacks I had struggled with in deciding to have a cochlear implant to begin with. I had to come to the realization that what little residual hearing I had would be lost due to the electrode being fed into the tiny cochlea destroying any remaining  live hair cells. As I explained in an earlier post, the amount of hearing is like a healthy foot attached to a destroyed leg...not much use. But the good news is that as technology improves, cochlear implant processors (which are electrical) are being developed to add hearing aid (acoustical) capabilities. I was fortunate enough to be implanted with the newest electrode that is designed to prevent the expected loss. So when such a hybrid is available, the little bit of saved hearing may give me an ever wider range of hearing tones. That's way down the line in the future. Right now I am just grateful that I was given the best technology out there to hear more than I ever have,

   Being completely deaf with no use of a hearing aid on one side,  I have stayed close to home, avoiding crowds more than four, and that can be a challenge during the holiday season. But to be honest, I have loved the excuse.  It has made this holiday less rushed, hassle free, and definitely less stressed. My husband has become my new best friend...again. He has definitely been my hero in this trek.  He was by my side to catch me when I passed out. He gently washed my yucky hair while I held a cup over the stitched ear a long 10 days after surgery. He arranged a mini-birthday/Christmas party (of 4!) to help get a little Christmas spirit going. And, today he finished  decorating the tree (this has ALWAYS been a solo duty for me).  My precious friend and her husband from Wyoming traveled down here to pay me a visit this week, which was more delightful than she could ever imagine. We have spent precious moments with our grand-kids making gingerbread cookies. Shopping has been online and minimal. So far this is the best December I have spent in a very long time.

I am less than 24 hours from meeting with my audiologist to have the processor fitted and activated. This is the climax of this adventure, and while the rising action has been sweet, quiet, and calm, I am full of anticipation, doubt, and yes, just a little fear mixed in there. I want to hope for a "rock star" activation, where I hear voices right way, but I know it may take longer than the immediate gratification I desire. I promise, whatever the result, you will definitely hear from me tomorrow. This is too BIG not to share!

 




Amazing Grace

Our memories are sometimes wrong or not the same as those who lived the moment with us, but the truth of those memories are more important than the facts. I hold a special memory of my mother teaching me to draw.

What I remember: her studio, an apple, cigar box of colors, the picture window, talking to me, Rich playing war in the sandbox, favorite position for drawing, watching TV, etc.

What I don’t remember:  her voice,  my brother’s picture (but I do remember his accurate drawings), when this happened, if it actually did;  more like a montage of several events... again,  the truth is more important than the facts.

“Mommm, I can’t!! “

Belting out my usual chant of low self-esteem, I dolefully peered into my mother’s utility room that doubled as her art studio.  It was just a tiny room with barely enough space for the washer and dryer and her art easel, but it was a place of magic that transformed blank canvases into portraits of beautiful people who graced our lives. 

I was in my favorite position on my belly, scrawny legs sprawled behind me, feet crossed at the ankles, propped up on my elbows. With the Rand McNally Road Atlas in front of me as my easel pad, and a piece of paper I was attempting to draw an apple my mother had placed in front of me. The autumn morning sun beaming through the large picture window blanketed me and my tiny makeshift studio in the doorway of her art magic.  My cartoonish flat (one dimensional ) round red apple glaring at me while my older brother’s masterpiece abandoned for a sandbox game of plastic green soldier war in the backyard, laughed at me with its authentic outline of a perfect Red Delicious.

 “How does he do that? It looks so real and mine doesn’t!”

Well, first of all, he’s a little older and has been practicing it a little longer. You’ll be able to do that well in a couple of years, too.”

“But I want to do it NOW!”  I bellowed as I flicked the red crayon through the threshold of her studio. With her perfect parent patience, an inherited trait that I completely missed at the gene pool, she reached for the offending crayon that just missed her ankle and walked over to kneel beside me.  She reached for a new sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.

Leaning over like she was about to go into a yoga partial child pose, her gentle voice gracing the top of my ear she said, “Honey, it’s all a matter of just seeing. Let’s just look at it for a moment. Is the shape of the apple really round? “

The apple silently stood at attention as I studied it. Its shape was not round at all but a little long and a bit triangular with bumps at the bottom and a widow’s peak curve at the top where the stem sat. “No, not really.”

“Okay then, use a pencil here and see if you can outline its shape. Look, even one of the bumps is a little bigger than the other ones. “ 

I drew the three bumps at the bottom and began to draw the sides of the apple digging the pencil hard against the paper.  She patted my hand, “Relax, sweetie, hold the pencil a little lighter and your lines will be softer.”  My hand released the death grip on the pencil and I looked up. She took my hand and massaged it just long enough to make me notice how tense I was. She took my pencil and in feather like strokes she guided the lead on the paper to create the right side of the apple, then handed the pencil back to me.  I mimicked her movements and created the left side not totally unlike hers. Wow that was cool. Then I looked at the apple again and proceeded to finish the outline on top.  A tiny glow of confidence was beginning to take root. I beamed up a grin at my mother.

“That’s just perfect, Suzy. Now look at the apple’s color. Is it all a solid red? “As if suddenly changing  its skin, the apple gleamed with gradations of red gold to deep scarlet, with tiny specks of black and brown.  A gleaming crescent of silver like my mother’s coat pin of glass diamonds shone on the side where the sun was touching it.” Mom, this is going to take more than this one color isn’t it? “ 

“Well you have a whole cigar box of colors beside you. What colors can you use?” I reached into the sea of colors making noisy waves through the pool snatching up Burnt Orange, Bittersweet, Maroon, Goldenrod, Sienna, and Silver. Lining up the soldiers of color, I began to doubt how I was going to use them all. Sensing my hesitation, Mom said, “Use your first red and color lightly all over inside the lines. Then take the other colors one at a time and look back at the apple to find that color on its skin.  Create that same place on your apple. “

  I creased my brow in concentration and started the wash of red over the surface, barely noticing mother’s silent retreat from my side.  As each color had its turn claiming its place on the canvas, my apple became something much more than the red apple I first drew. The blended colors became one and I could see a new apple. 

     I really don’t remember what that newly drawn apple looked like, but the lessons have remained, and I’m not only talking about drawing techniques. No thing or no one is just one-dimensional.  Her amazing grace taught me to sit back, relax a little, be patient, study my subject silently before beginning to take on any task or try to create any solution.   Where I was blind before, she had taught me to see.

 

Leaving the Waiting Room

You would think that a nine month absence would bring forth at least a bundle of joy, gently cradled and ready to show off to everyone, like a new parent wondering how it will change life as I know it. But that’s just not exactly the case here. I am a bundle of nerves, and I am grasping onto a ball of anticipation trying to figure out how this next turn in the road will affect my life.  I’ve researched, questioned, and pseudo-prepared myself mentally and physically to receive that long awaited cochlear implant this coming Monday. 

This baby analogy is not too far off.  I think I’m even nesting a little bit. Doing a little more laundry than usual so my comfortable clothes will be ready to slip on. Making sure the kitchen is stocked up for those easy meals that the hubby can put together without too much help from me. Dusting, scrubbing, organizing, and purging a little more extensively because I know I won’t be able to do it later. Bending over and lifting are big cautionary threats that I must obey for 6 weeks, although not being able to blow my nose far outweighs the need to clean, but there is no way to do that ahead of time.

Like a pregnancy, the details of the last nine months are probably too gross, too mundane, too self-absorbed to bother repeating, but I do have to say that I have lived through the mounds of doctor bills, inconsideration of insurance companies, and a roller coaster ride of emotions.

So what is this cochlear implant anyway, you may be wondering. You can visit this link http://www.advancedbionics.com/com/en/naida_ci_q70.html if you really want to know the technical ins and outs of this tiny prosthesis. I can only really tell you that it will be an opportunity to bring back to life the gift of hearing. This is not a “have to”, life or death surgery; it’s elective.  The protests of my friends and family claiming that I really do so well and hearing better than ever with these last hearing aids, stab me, okay, not stab, but they do prickle a bit. Even I have had to struggle with the realization that my residual hearing will be permanently lost. But I can only relate this to maybe someone who has received a devastating blow to the knee. The leg is mangled and beyond repair, but the foot is still in perfect condition, untouched by the damage. What good is that foot if there is no leg to support it? What good is one or two tones of hearing a snore or a foghorn blast if I can’t hear the conversation of a loved one or the endearing question of a grandchild wanting to know when she can help me make a 3-2-1 cake for dessert tonight?

 I can’t even tell you when I last heard the punch line of a joke. When we are in the throes of telling a story, the inflection and body language are animated and pretty easy for anyone to follow. But as we built to the climax of the last line, our voices hit a higher frequency and then, reaching the best line of the story…POW, we blast the words out faster than a speeding bullet. Anyone with a hearing loss has just missed the G spot of grasping what was said. Asking for a repeat just kills the mood, you know.  

Living with a hearing loss can be done. My deaf colleagues with their admirable pride and lack of shame have tried to show me that they are not broken, and their lives are just as fulfilling as any hearing person’s life can be. But for the most part this is all they have ever known, and being deaf is their normal. They have the gift of communication using ASL. As a post lingual adult with a progressive hearing loss, I never learned sign language and, all too gradually my communication tool, the voice, was lost. When I am with a group of deaf and hearing individuals, my isolation just doubles, because I cannot sign, and I can’t hear the conversations of the hearing people either. But, I have spent the past 30 years proving that it indeed can be done, and I am proud of my accomplishments.

    I guess I can blame the aging process and lack of "umph" to keep working at both hearing and listening (They are two different things). Before, I was too busy to worry about what I didn’t have, but after retiring, I have had the time to really know what I am missing and I want it back. I want more than hiding in my quilt room, looking at a computer, or settling for close captioned entertainment.  Birds singing, visiting with friends in a noisy pub, the gentle car conversations, a musical concert or a play, an energetic discussion of a lifelong learning classroom, the garage door opening to know Wayne is home, the punch line of a joke. Those things and more are waiting for me, and I am ready!

Oh, just so you know, the stories are flowing again, and I will be back not only sharing this amazing adventure, but relating the moments of the past to our lives today. I hope you continue to visit.