The Great Outdoors

One of my husband, Kenny's, favorite things to do is hunt. He doesn't get to do it often, but when he does, he often takes our oldest daughter. But one year, I wanted to go.

"You'll have to be really quiet. We can't talk to each other a lot. You can't move around and rustle the leaves. It might be hard. Not to mention it's freezing out there at 4 am." Kenny was trying to prepare me, I knew. But I was sure it'd be a cinch.

"No problemo," I said. "I can be quiet. I'll just sign instead of using my voice." And, with that, he agreed to let me tag along.

The next morning, around 2:30 am, Kenny shook me awake. "What??? I'm trying to sleep," I said as I rolled back over.

"I thought you wanted to go with me."

"Now?" I couldn't believe how tired I was. But I dragged myself out of bed and put on the coat Kenny had gotten for me. I grabbed a cup from the cabinet and closed the door. Kenny startled and looked at me with big eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," he sighed. He didn't need to tell me I closed the cabinet door too hard, but I wasn't aware of it at the moment.

After a little coffee and a seemingly endless car ride, we arrived in the part of the woods Kenny had picked out for us. He climbed up in his tree stand and I stayed in a pile of leaves on the ground. "OK. Now we wait," Kenny explained. "I'll talk with you a little later."

And so we waited. I sat on the wet ground and the leaves were itchy, so I scratched. I felt a tickle in the back of my throat, so I quietly cleared my throat. After what seemed like hours, I decided I wanted to ask Kenny how much longer. Problem was, he was up there and I was down here. So, I waved to quietly get his attention. It didn't work. I then used both hands. Nothing doing. I stood up and tried it again. Nope. Finally I gave up that "quiet" business and barked, "Hey!"

"Shhh!" Kenny was not happy.

"What do you mean? I've been quiet for hours."

"You think so, huh?" Kenny asked with a smirk on his face. Looking at his watch, he shook his head. "We've been here an hour and half. You've scared away two deer while you were rustling the leaves, clearing your throat and whispering. I love you, but it's impossible for you to know how noisy you are, and I can't hunt with you here with me. I'm sorry."

I was dumbfounded. Was I really that loud? I guess it goes to show that when you can't hear anything (including yourself), you can be the loudest thing in the woods. Oh, well. Bed, here I come!

"Huh?"

Anywhere I go, things can get "interesting." Being asked questions, needing to ask questions myself, having to explain to whomever I am in contact with that I'm Deaf and cannot read lips--it gets old and I'm often misunderstood.

The other day had yet another couple of "interesting" experiences. First, I had to go through a fast food drive through for my daughter. Yelling into the speaker and having my daughter "interpret" what was being said--it turned into a yelling match...and not a fun one (as we all know yelling matches can be).

"I want a french fry with cheese and a vanilla shake." I have no idea what they said back. All my daughter did was nod. "What size," I asked her.

"Huh?" was her excellent retort.

"What size shake do you want?"

"Oh. Medium."

"I need a medium vanilla shake." I yelled into the speaker.

My daughter asked, "A second one?"

"Huh?" It must run in the family.

"A second vanilla shake?"

"No. I need the first shake to be medium."

"And what size for the second shake?" the people on the speaker obviously yelled.

"There is no second shake!!!" I was getting pretty frustrated by this point. "I need a french fry with cheese and a medium vanilla shake."

My daughter looked at me and nodded. "OK."

"OK, what?"

"You're done. Please pull forward," she smiled. Man, did I want to hit someone!

Later that day, I took my son to Subway as a way to get out of the house--just the two of us. The place was packed and there were four or five workers frantically trying to keep up with the crowd.

I let my son go first and then it was my turn. I'd been there many times, so I thought I could guess the questions the worker was going to ask me. Wrong.

As he went down the line, he finally stopped and asked me a one-word question of which I had no idea. My son was ahead of my--taking care of his own order--and I didn't want to bother him. Again the worker asked me something....."______?"

"Neutral?" was the only word I could guesstimate from him.

"What??" He was very confused. "_______?"

"Squirrel?" I tried again. I'm very bad at lipreading, in case you haven't guessed yet.

Finally, I think I caused enough stir in the line that my son noticed my struggle. He turned to me, "Mom, do you want it toasted?" Ahhhhhh...........

"Toasted? Really?? Man, I really stink at this. No thank you." We finished our orders and sat down to eat. My son, who is always there to start a great conversation, looked at my for a long time.

"What?" I finally asked. "You look like you have a question on your mind." I said.

"Yeah. I was just wondering, is it hard being Deaf?"

Hmmm. I pondered this and finally answered, "It has its moments. Sometimes good, sometimes bad." I was trying to be nice. What I really wanted to say was with great sarcasm--is it hard being Deaf?

Just a little.........

Making Lemons Out of Lemonade

Many days I go about things with a bit of a wall around me. I've been known not to think my feelings as true facts. If I'm angry, I should deal with my anger. And if I'm happy, I should try to spread a little happiness. This might surprise you, but when I have negative emotions--usually due to being Deaf or mentally ill---it's very hard for me to deal with them. That's because borderlines have a hard time admitting they're wrong to feel something or feeling invalidated.

But one day, about 18 years ago, I was driving over to a friends' house. We'd made a time to hang out that day, Well, as I was on my way, I noticed a bunch of little kids selling lemonade. At first, I past by it and didn't pay much attention. But then I thought, I'm in a good mood. I want to do something nice for someone else. So, I made a U turn in my manual car and went back  to their front yard. At that time, I didn't realize I had to put the car in gear and roll my tires so they fall toward a curb. I did none  of that. All I knew was that the kids seemed very happy that I came to give them business.

I was able to communicate my want of lemonade, but within a minute, all the kids started screaming and running away. I looked over at  my car only to see it was headed for us. Not only that, but it was also headed straight to the lemonade stand. and totally demolished it.

Noone was hurt, thankfully, but I don't know if I'll ever do a u-turn for a snack every again.

GUEST COLUMNIST: My Daughter Mollie

SOMETHING DOESN'T QUITE ADD UP.

So, I've been enjoying a nice vacation down in St. Louis, Missouri. We get to come down here about once a year from our humble abode in west Michigan.Its a nice time to see all the grand parents and other crazy family members that we never see otherwise. So, this morning the family and me went to a nice diner to have breakfast with my dad's parents before setting out for north again. (I'm typing this journal on my dad's phone because I was bored... and eager to share this story with you all.)

Anyways! We were seated and served juice and coffee and everything was great, the woman serving us was very amazing. I took to liking her instantly, she was very energetic and friendly and just one of those people who could make you feel like it would be a great day. 

Well, my mom, dad, and me were signing back and forth; discussing the menu and the long car trip awaiting us later in the morning. We could already see heads turning at the sight of our strange language spoken with wordless gestures and our waitress was to be included in the crowd.

She came over, serving up our drinks and giving us our menus for the meal, and after many times of saying ''You're welcome.'' To us several times, she finally asked a question we were used to hearing; '' What is the sign for...'' in this case it was for ''you're welcome''. Smiling at this polite gesture we kindly showed her and nodded with a smile when she repeated it back to us with ease.

''I used to know sign language,'' she spoke, waiting patently for my father to interpret. ''I forgot because I haven't practiced in so long.''

We all nodded in understanding.

She went on, obviously feeling that this needed more explanation. 

What she said next made us all very confused.

''I knew sign language because my niece was blind.''

I stopped breathing for a second, my brain so confused and shocked that I couldn't do anything. I could see my father pause in his signing, also confused, although he recovered much faster.

The most we could do was nod in some kind of understanding and struggle to hold our chuckles in until she was out of earshot.

A blind niece in need of a visual language? Almost as bad as going to the library and being handed a Braille book after being announced deaf (yes, that has happened.)

So while we try to work through this brainwracker, please try to make sure you don't have a blind niece trying to learn sign language, it'll be very difficult and quite useless.

BABY, TAKE A BOW!

Being invited to a party isn’t something that regularly occurs for me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m kind of reclusive and keep most of my socializing at home. People don’t know my face as well as they know my name from Deaf Expressions and such. But I was invited to a party with Kenny and I was a little reluctant. I mean, I would be the only deaf person there. Sure, Kenny would be there and he always happily interprets for me, but this party was to have a bunch of his friends and I didn’t want to make him interpret the entire time. Hence, I knew that there would be times when I would be on my own.

Prepared with a pen and notebook to write to people when necessary, I bundled up the nerve to get out of the car and approach the house with Kenny that night. It was a beautiful house. Small, but very nice and I knew the people who lived there, the people having the party, were nice, too. Kathy and Jack had socialized with Kenny and me a few times. Well, not Jack. He always seemed to have somewhere else to be. But Kathy tried to have conversations when she dropped off her kid to play with my kid or I saw her at school. Mostly it was just a wave of the hand though.

Being at the party was pretty cool. I like dancing. No, there wasn’t actual dancing, but I got to see a move that I think teenagers would get a kick out of and maybe make into the new fad thing to do on the dance floor.

Just like any other party, Kenny and I would approach people and they would smile and we would smile and they would speak and Kenny would interpret to me what they said and they would begin bowing. Yes, that’s right: Bowing. But before the bowing, this huge smile would come on their faces. Much like the Joker in Batman. Their eyes would widen like a deer in the headlights, too. Now, put this huge smile and these bug eyes together and you get something not unlike what you would see in a horror film right before this smiling person stabbed you to death. Kind of a Chucky the Doll sort of thing.

But smiling and opening your eyes so wide they almost fall out of their head wasn’t enough. I could tell that, as soon as they realized there was a deafie in their midst, they needed the conversation to be over as soon as possible. This is when the bowing would begin. It happened the same way every single time: They would say something very short. Next, they’d watch Kenny interpret it. Then they’d watch me for my reaction. Finally they’d start nodding and bowing. Ta-da! They’d appear to say! Mission accomplished! I communicated with the Deaf chick! I am a saint! IT IS FINISHED! Then they’d start to slowly back away (bowing as they backed up, of course) until they bumped into someone else. Having to apologize (but of course—that’s the right thing to do), they’d turn to that other person, start a conversation, and that would be the end of it. Goodbye.

After a few of these encounters, I assured Kenny it was fine for him to go chat with some old friends and I found myself a comfy chair and huge alcoholic beverage and proceeded to sit there, doodling in my notebook. Every now and then someone would come up to me and start to talk. I would give them my biggest smile, letting them know I was Deaf, but had pen and paper to write on if we needed it, and watch them slowly bow away. It got to be so much that I felt like royalty. All I needed was a purple sash and one of those Princess rings you can get on QVC for only $29.95.

The party wasn’t a complete waste of time. Not at all. I’m glad we went. Kenny got to chat up some old friends and it looked like he had a blast. And I got to practice my doodling skills while imagining I was married to Prince Kenny and living in the Royal Shack. 

COOL , DEAF, OR DEMON? OR MAYBE ALL THREE!

My kids like to have their friends over to hang out or play with. I like this, too. I’ve always had this picture of me as the “cool mom,” with kids flocking to our house just because they know I’ll be home to entertain them. This doesn’t usually quite work though. Actually, it never works. Instead of the “cool” mom, I’m the “deaf” mom, and that tends to scare them away.

Good or bad, I tend to judge my kids’ friends by how they interact with me. If they never give me eye contact and never reply to my greetings and such, they must not be very good children. If, on the other hand, they talk up a storm and demand that my children interpret for them, they’re the best kids in the world and I welcome them at any time. Sad, but true.

What I’ve actually come to realize though is that pretty much all kids are scared meeting me the first couple of times, simply because I’m deaf and, hey, that’s scary. Or maybe it’d be better to use the term “intimidating.” I do my best to make sure people are comfortable, but it’s like telling people not to worry. Someone comes up and says, ”I’m worried,” and you’re response is, “Don’t worry.” What do you expect to happen? “Oh, great! Thanks! I’m not worried anymore.” I don’t think so.

So, telling people that I don’t bite and I’m really easy-going with new kids doesn’t make someone all-of-a-sudden at ease around me. I like to make jokes and include the kids in my banter, but, even I can admit that it’s not easy—especially since I can’t lipread.

I wish there was a magic wand that I could wave around and make people see me as a person before they see me as a DEAF person, but I’ve come to realize that’s just not likely. I’ll always be the DEAF mom to the kids at school.

But, you know what? I am DEAF. I’m proud to be DEAF. And being the only DEAF mom at my kids’ school should be an honor. So, I’m going to stop worrying about it. With each new kid, I’ll do my best to show them I’m a pretty cool person to hang with. If they don’t see that the first time around, perhaps the second time. And if I haven’t broken them in by the fifth date, maybe I’ll don a demon costume when I open the door and then run at them, hissing and moaning. I’ll then reveal my true identity to them. If that doesn’t make them relax, I’m afraid there is simply no hope. But, man, it’ll be worth the trouble just to see the look on the terrified kid’s face.

SHARING MY DEAFNESS -- "The Hazards of Working the Drive Thru"

Checkers. She wanted Checkers for lunch. Or in some places they call it Rally’s. But what she wanted was definitely those spicy french fries slathered in warm, saucy cheese and bacon. But it’s July. I mean, man, it’s hot outside. The last thing I wanted to do was park and get out of my air conditioned car. But she said, “Please,” so sweetly. It was the least I could do, right? No way. It was too hot, I tell you.

“I’ll help you in the drive thru,” Mollie signed to me as I weighed the options. I mean, sure, I could have gone through the drive thru and just told them at the window that I’m deaf and need to order face to face. But I’ve never been one to test waters. So, I took her up on her offer.

There I was, face-to-face with the speaker and depending solely on my 14-year-old to let me know when to speak.

“I need an order of french fries with cheese and bacon added, please.” I spoke into the speaker as best I could, but apparently they couldn’t hear me or understand me (one of the two). I repeated. Mollie said they still didn’t get it. I raised my voice, “I’m deaf and I’m going to pull around to window and order there.” Don’t know if they understood me that time, but it didn’t matter, because I was taking the initiative.

Pulling up to the window, the girl inside looked extremely confused. When she opened the window, using the same decibel level I just got done using at the speaker, I shouted, “French fries!!! I need french fries!!”

The girl stared at me, looking totally flabbergasted. She then left to take care of my order.

Mollie gently placed her hand on my leg. “Mom? Do you realize that you just screamed at the top of your lungs at that girl?” So that’s why she looked so shaken. I’d just blasted both of her eardrums out. But we got our fries. Yes, indeedy. Sure, the girl will be deafened for a good two hours, but I had to do it. I needed those fries. Offering her the name of a good ENT, I paid the girl.

“Sorry if I screamed at you,” I sheepishly said.

“What???” she screamed back. Hmmm. I guess my work here is done.

ADVICE FOR MY OFF-BALANCE COMRADES

Being born without a right ear, I grew up making sure that whomever was with me always stood on my left. It was more for the sounds I could hear, but there was an additional benefit. See, because I’m lopsided, I always tend to walk to my left. So, naturally, I would put people over there to soften my inevitable fall.

This wasn’t anything unusual for me. I always preferred things that would help me when I would plummet into them, whether walking or riding my bike. My entire life, I’ve always been terrified to use the brakes on my bike’s handlebars in fear that I would press the wrong brake and flip the bike. So, I’ve always done the logical other choice…when I’m ready to stop, I aim for a bush.

This can get very ugly, but it serves the purpose. Unfortunately, sometimes there isn’t a bush to brake my fall. In these cases, I aim for the person I’m riding with. See, in all likelihood, they’re already stopped at the bottom of the hill, waiting for me to join them. And join them, I do. And, depending on how steep that hill was, I always pray on my way down that they will stay there and let me ram my way to a stop. Otherwise I just brush pass them into oncoming traffic and, although I eventually will stop, it usually isn’t very pretty.

I’ve met many deafies who have uneven balance. Whether it’s Meniere’s or just lopsidedness, like me, many times they have had to hang on to things in hopes that they would not fall.

So, if this is you, I wanted to share my tips. Bush or pal—either one will do the job. And the fatter the pal, the better. If you’re lucky, you’ll bounce off of them into a standing position and all will be solved. Me? I’m plenty soft, except where my own adventures have formed welts. But you get the gist.

So, good luck to you. And if I happen to run into you while biking, just let me say, oops. Sorry. This area definitely needs more foliage.

AND NOW I'VE EXPERIENCED EVERYTHING

One of the things that people studying sign language need to learn about is the people who actually use the language—the Deaf Community. They even have classes just about Deaf Culture and I definitely recommend one, if you get the opportunity.

Within the class, undoubtedly one thing that will pop up is attention-getting procedures. Most of you should already know these things. Lightly tapping (NOT POKING) the person on the shoulder; flickering the lights; stomping on a wood floor; etc. I’m sure you all have your own special way of getting your deaf and hard of hearing friends’ and relatives’ attention.

I thought I had experienced them all, too. With three young children, it’s amazing what they will do to try to get my attention while not having to get up out of their chair or miss part of the television program they’re watching. I’ve seen my 11-year-old jump up and down on the couch, doing jumping jacks and banging on the wall. I’ve watched this with my peripheral vision, so she doesn’t know I’m actually watching. It amazes me that she’ll continue to do this for 10 ten whole minutes, when all she has to do is walk 8 feet and touch me on the arm. To be honest, it’s fun. I love making them squirm. And squirm, they do.

Still, I was met with an interesting surprise the other day. I was at the neighborhood Speedway (which is basically just a really big gas station with eats inside). I left the kids in the car as I rushed inside to pay for the gas and pick up a couple of Little Debbie snack cakes as treats. This is when things went awry.

I paid for the gas and the cakes and turned to leave when someone grabbed my shoulders and started turning me around. At that exact moment, I got pelted in the forehead with…you guessed it…a snack cake that I apparently had left behind. I’m serious! No touching my shoulder gently. A big thud and I was cross-eyed for three minutes—stunned and unable to comprehend what just happened. I’d been caked.

So, I’m thinking, maybe now I’ve experienced it all. Although something very strong inside tells me I’ve got lots to look forward to in the future.

BAGELS AND BABES: BONDING WITH MY HEARING CHILDREN…KIND OF

“Bagels and Babes” is a special time at my kids’ school, where they invite the mothers to come out and bring all their children for a breakfast of…wait for it….bagels for the babes (babies, kids, short people). I, ever the wanting-to-spend-time-bonding-with-her-kids-type mother, decided that this year, we would indeed attend.

I’ve never been very good at estimating arrival times. I always give myself way too much time to get there and then drive like a bat-out-of-hell, only to arrive 45 minutes early. This morning, I did better. I was only a half an hour early. Hey, it’s a step in the right direction.

So, when we pulled up in our van that desperately needs a new furnace and some shocks, we were all a little beat up and ready to snack. Unfortunately, we were the only ones in the parking lot and the only snack I had in the car was a half-eaten Snickers bar with fuzz stuck to it. This surprised me. Not because it was gross or the only thing in the car to eat. By why in the world would anyone only eat half a Snickers bar? That’s just insane.

I had Mollie, my oldest, run into the school to see if we were allowed in yet. We were. So I bundled up my nerves, grabbed my purse, and headed for the school gym, which would double that morning as the cafeteria.

We were, in fact, the first people there. Well, the first people not setting up, there. The woman behind the breakfast table waved a hearty hello and shouted something to me that seemed pleasant. She could have been saying, “You guys sure are too fat to be arriving so early for food. Can’t you starve a little and give the hungry kids of the world something to chew on for once,” and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

I gave my usual, “Hi! Do you need any help,” only to be answered. Now, why did I ask a question when I knew I wouldn’t know what in the world the answer was? It is a terrible habit I have. Perhaps it’s just me wanting to feel the vibrations of my own vocal cords. I talk quite a lot, actually. I talk to fill up the air, knowing that I sound like some poor, dying animal on the side of the road. But poor, dying animal sounds is better than nothing, right? I think that may be debatable.

Thankfully, she shook her head as she answered. Even though I realized the answer was no, I did happen to glance at my 10-year-old, Natalie, who, by the way, is the second most fluent signer in the house (behind me, of course), and she interpreted that the woman had been there for 20 minutes and was all set up. Hmmm. If only I would have driven a little faster and met my usual 45 minutes-early time pattern, I could have lent a hand. Alas, all I could lend was my mouth and my stomach at this point.

After a couple of minutes of very awkward silence…well, awkward for the woman (everything is silent to me)…I decided to start digging into the donut holes on the far right of the table and a glass of hot chocolate, located in the middle.

I was so involved in decided which hole would be the least caloric with the most taste, that I failed to realize that more people had accumulated in the gym for the festivities. So, when I grabbed the two holes I’d decided on, I moved directly back toward the middle of the table to pick up a glass of hot cocoa. Unfortunately, someone else had already picked up theirs, so, when I moved to the left, not looking at where I was going, I hit the woman on her arm and it sent the hot beverage flying.

“Oh, my gosh! I am SO sorry!! I didn’t even realize you were there,” I spat out as I observed where the glass and its contents were going to land. Thankfully, it wasn’t on another person. What’s a wet wall at 7 AM, anyway? All was OK—Except the fact that the woman, who had politely smiled off the collision, had decided to start a conversation with me. She began by introducing herself. I think. Her name was Felicity or Barbara or Veronica. Maybe it was Diandra. Could have been supercalifragiliciousexpialadocious for all I knew. But, because I had absent-mindedly left my paper and pen in the van, I smiled and introduced myself and shook her hand.

She talked and laughed. I laughed and smiled. She talked some more. I nodded. She jabbered on as she started to eat her bagel, which was smothered in cream cheese. (I know this because she ate and talked at the same time.) I smiled and tried not to gag at the grossness. I quickly looked around the gym for one of my three children. Perhaps they could give me an excuse to get away from this bevy of crumbs and saliva and confusion. Nope. They were all busy with their own friends. So, I did what any other person would do in this situation: I created a new child. A fictitious child. A child who was always in trouble and was making a ruckus waaaaaaay on the other end of the gym.

“Sorry, but I have to go. Bartholomew is always making a fuss. I need to make sure he hasn’t maimed or killed anyone yet. It was nice to meet you.” I went to leave and the woman with her mouth full spat a few crumbs at me as a goodbye and went about making small talk with another poor victim.

After that…er…situation…I decided that maybe I should eat my holes and drink my chocolate and just sit somewhere. I did so. I acted like I was totally engrossed in the origami book my son has asked me to hold.  I’d never found a paper crane so interesting! When I was done with my food and realized that my kids didn’t even know I was there anymore, I went about getting ready to leave. After all, a mother was about to give a presentation on the importance of including your children in your every day activities. Definitely not something I wanted to sit through in silence.

I left. I left knowing that, even though they didn’t give me the time of day, I’m sure my kids appreciated my effort to spend a little extra time with them. I left knowing that I had done my job and shown my children a little extra love. I left knowing that some people just haven’t a clue about the proper eating habits of not talking with your mouth full!!!!! …Ahem…. And I left knowing that I had a half-eaten Snickers bar in my car if I crashed in the snow on the way home.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

As I laid in bed, just a few hours after having a total hysterectomy, two women entered my room. The interpreter had left for the evening, but I had my handy dandy notebook with me, just to the side of my bed.

The duo that walked into my room consisted of an older lady (probably in her 60’s) and another woman in her mid to late 40’s. Apparently, the older woman (we’ll call her Myrtle) was teaching the younger one (let’s say..."Betty") how to draw blood. Perhaps they chose me to use as the pin cushion, thinking that, because I was Deaf, I would not scream and curse the skies as she repeatedly jabbed me with, what seemed like, a jumbo-sized knitting needle.

So, they entered the room, and Myrtle began to speak. I immediately let her know that I was Deaf and needed her to write to me. For some reason it didn’t register for her. She repeated whatever it was she was trying to tell me. I motioned over to the paper and pen. I couldn't reach it, because it's across the room and I’m practically dying from the pain, but I did let her know where it was. She continued to jabber on. I, again, told her where the paper and pen was, this time adding a bit of an edge to my facial expression (think Clint Eastwood meets Nurse Ratchet.) Again, no luck. I then told her  just what she could do with the pen and paper when she did finally find it. She wasn’t amused.

She began to yell at me. I began to cry. Betty stood there smiling like someone had glued her upper lip to her upper gums. It wasn’t pretty. And I didn’t reciprocate. No one in the room had a clue what to do next.

Finally, Myrtle gave up on communication and moved over next to Betty. She was explaining what Betty needed to do in order to suck out any remaining blood in my system. Betty listened carefully, looking terrified the entire time, pulled out a needle that looked like one of those plastic needles they give toddlers to play with when sewing cards together, and began to hack at my arm in full force, blood splattering everywhere.

All the while, Myrtle smiled evilly and glared at me. It was obvious she was enjoying this way too much. Betty kept touching my shoulder and apologizing. “Just one more time,” I believe she said….over and over again.

When all was done and there was no more blood left in my body to collect, Betty smiled and bowed repeatedly as she exited the room. Kind of like they do in China. Myrtle, on the other hand, walked over to the pen and paper (GASP! She found it!!), wrote something down, and left. No. She didn’t hand it to me. She just wrote it and left.I heaved a huge sigh of relief and began to wipe the blood out of my hair.

Finally, my husband came back into the room, having left to go get some hospital coffee (which is very different than just regular coffee). I asked him to read me the paper. He read it and looked at me with a very strange look.

”What does it say?”

“Thank you, Ms. Thomas. We hope you recover from your knee replacement surgery quickly.”

Bummer.

CAREFUL: DEAF PEOPLE CAN YELL BACK!

This morning, I went to the gas station for a tea, like I do way too often! The cashier at the counter was not one I’d met before. He was obviously very tired. He looked at me, scratched his head, and mumbled… something. I looked at him questioningly and I motioned my finger to my ear while shaking my head—indicating that I'm Deaf.

He didn’t miss a beat. He leaned across the counter, moistened his chicken lips and yelled, "DO YOU HAVE GAS????"

I looked over at him, glanced around at the other staring patrons, and yelled back, "NO! MY MEDICATION IS STARTING TO WORK, THANK YOU!!!" The look on his face was priceless!

This isn't the first time this has happened to me (even with the same question). I’ve always had a witty retort. Sometimes I’ve whispered them out of the corner of my mouth, but usually I’ve just kept them deep inside the eccentric confines of my head. But this morning I was feeling good. Didn’t have any worries about the day. And I decided to finally express myself in the way I felt I should. I finally decided to yell back. And, I’ll tell you something: It felt wonderful!!!

No, shouting at a deaf person will not help rectify his hearing “problem.” But it might get you a reaction you’d better be prepared to receive.

"I'M NOT ANGRY!!! REALLY, I'M NOT!!!!!"

It’s inevitable.

I decide I’m going to use my voice. I start off easy, making sure that the vibrations in my throat feel even and steady. I continue to talk, starting to get involved in the conversation. After a couple of minutes, I feel at ease and begin to just speak as I normally would. I start to notice something. People begin glancing at each other in a questioning manner. They look at me with eyes that seem a bit uneasy and confused.  Then it happens. I realize what they are thinking. They are thinking, “Is she angry?”

It’s inevitable.

I could be as happy as a clam and just super excited about the topic we’re discussing. People think I’m starting to get ticked off.

I could be unsure of something and need to ask for clarification from a specific person. That person thinks I’m challenging what they are saying.

I could be tired and too exhausted to breathe. People think I’m frustrated and annoyed.

It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. They think I’m upset! And I’m not! I really am not!

Oh, there are also times when I am upset, but it’s not the right atmosphere to show it. Too bad for me. They already think I’m mad when I’m feeling fine. Imagine how I must sound when I want to wring their necks!

I’ve tried breathing exercises. I’ve tried holding my throat throughout an entire conversation (Boy, does that look unusual). But most of all, I always explain to the person I’m speaking with that I cannot hear my own voice and, if I sound angry, I’m not.

Doesn’t matter. Hearing people base a lot of input on how it sounds. Even if I say I’m not mad, if it still sounds that way, that will be their first (and usually only) assumption.

I’m not sure what else to do. I suppose I could turn my voice off for the rest of my life, but why should I have to do that? Sometimes voicing is convenient. However, if, in the end, they all think I’m about to growl, “Them’s are fightin’ words,” maybe I should just keep my mouth shut!

Disclaimer: Despite what this blog may “sound” like, I was not angry, upset, frustrated, nor ticked off writing it. (HUGE SMILE)

MY ADVENTURE WITH PEPPER SPRAY

Working third shift at the hotel had its advantages. My hearing loss wasn’t really an issue, as all I really needed to do was make sure all went smoothly. But it also became very difficult to stay awake. It was boring! I had to find things to do to amuse myself.

A week prior, a friend and I had been discussing a local mugging in the neighborhood. She had told me that there was someone going around, preying on younger women (which I was, at the time). I was very disturbed by this, as I had to walk to and from my car very late at night and very early in the morning. To help me feel safer, she purchased a can of pepper spray and told me how to work it.

As I sat, hunched over, at the front desk at the hotel, I had to do something. My drool from falling asleep was starting to destroy the paperwork beneath. Words were starting to blur from the lake of saliva I was pouring onto it. I decided to find something to occupy myself. That’s when I thought of my new pepper spray. So, I reached into my purse and pulled it out.

I wonder what this stuff smells like, anyway. I mean, how can a spray that smells like pepper be so detrimental to the person I spray it on. Surely it won’t do much damage. And, besides, I’ll bet it smells nothing like pepper. Riiiiight……

I decided to solve the mystery myself, that night at the hotel. So I did what any “intelligent” person would do. I didn’t just go and spray myself in the face. That would be silly. Instead, I sprayed a bit on the wall and walked away for a minute to let it dry.

Sixty seconds later, I walked back up to the spot on the wall and took a long, hard sniff.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH My eyes! My eyes!” With my arms flailing madly in the air, I proceeded to run around in circles in the lobby, screaming in agony and praying I didn’t run into anything, because I was completely blinded.

I was right. It did not smell like pepper.

The scar tissue on my retina and my singed nose hairs should be healed in about another decade.

Moral of the story: If you’re bored and you have a can of pepper spray…read a book.