Can You Say That Again?

I'm aging gracefully in an age of auditory enlightenment

Digital Art Collage by Stella Kalaw

When I told my husband Eric that I’d had a delicious meal at a retirement party held at Sud Forno, he said, “Food porno?” I knew at that moment he needed hearing aids. After long procrastination and much reluctance, he got them. He got them, but he didn’t wear them much. Which is not uncommon for people whose hearing is still good enough to manage in most circumstances.

I was with him when, at the age of 86, he had his hearing test, so I, at 77, took one too, almost as an afterthought. The results told me my hearing was not bad, but not great in the upper registers, and that I should have another test in a year.

I didn’t. Four years went by, during which time I found it harder to understand British accents in films and almost impossible to hear my teenage granddaughters, accusing them of mumbling and speaking too quietly. Then I noticed that the clicking of the baseboard heater, which regulated the heat in my cottage bedroom, had stopped. At first, I thought there was something wrong with the heater, and then I realized there was something wrong with my ears.

With the arrival of the pandemic and everyone in masks, I couldn’t read lips anymore and found myself saying, “Pardon? Pardon? Pardon?”

Then during the summer of 2020 came the final straw. On August 11th, the day Joe Biden was to choose his running mate, my son Daniel and I were at the cottage. He came into the living room, and I heard him say, “A couple of herons.”
That’s unusual, I thought. They’re mostly solitary creatures.

“What, Daniel?” I said. “A couple of herons? You saw two herons together?”

“Mom,” he replied in exasperation, “I said, it’s Kamala Harris!” We had a good laugh, but I knew it was a sign. All three of my sons had been suggesting hearing aids for months, and finally, I capitulated.

A friendly young audiologist at the Canadian Hearing Services here in Toronto did the tests; I was in a booth, and he was outside. There were tests to detect range of hearing loss, ability to hear certain consonants and to hear conversation with background noise. When it was over he assured me that my hearing loss was in the upper registers, was age-related and that I could come back in a year if I wanted to wait. I hesitated.

I had thought I’d escape the need for these devices. When I was young, I didn’t go to rock concerts, and ever since have avoided loud noises whenever possible. I wear glasses, but who doesn’t? Glasses are worn by people of all ages. But hearing aids represent an ominous sign that one is aging and that one’s faculties are diminishing. The notion that I might need them was an affront to my view of myself as a spry and with-it 81-year-old. I thought I’d never cross the threshold of looking my age, let alone being my age.

But when he told me that hearing loss can affect the density of the brain, and when I read the poster on his wall linking hearing loss to dementia, I said, “Bring it on.” The clincher was the fact that I could get rechargeable hearing aids, no fiddly, teeny batteries to wrestle with.

Six weeks later, I returned to pick up my new devices. The charming audiologist showed me how to wear them (he said I was a fast learner), how to clean them, and how to take care of them. He would see me in a month for a follow-up.

And so, much to my family’s relief, I became the proud, if apprehensive, owner of behind-the-ear hearing aids. I looked forward to a brighter, auditory future.

My hands shook the first morning as I secured my new devices in place and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The water from the kitchen tap sounded like Niagara Falls. The morning paper rustled and crackled as I opened it. At the fridge door, I suddenly heard four loud beeps in my hearing aids. I panicked. Oh dear, I thought, it’s a warning about something, but what? Then I realized it was only my coffee maker telling me the coffee was ready. So much to get used to! Everything rustled, clicked, beeped, whistled, and creaked in ways I never thought possible. As I write this, the keys on my computer are clicking merrily. 

It turns out that despite my view of myself as spry and with-it, age is catching up to me. At the age of 75 I had a hip replacement, and at 80 my first cataract operation. Maybe I’m like other people after all. But I am grateful for the things that restore, repair, or replace my aging parts. My hands don’t shake when I put my hearing aids in anymore, and the world becomes brighter the minute I do.

My husband Eric died four years ago, and his hearing aids were rarely removed from the box they came in. I wish he were here to see me take so enthusiastically to these marvellous devices. I would tell him how important it is to wear them. I think he’d be willing to try his too. 

I’m going out for a walk now, hearing aids in place. The sun is shining, and the birds are in the trees. I will hear them sing. I know they are singing for me.