Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 47

I Can’t Hear You

When I was first introduced to my hearing loss, I was sensitive, vulnerable, and very much in denial.

My journey began decades ago. After living with ear tubes as an adult, I was diagnosed with an osteoma in 2010—a non‑cancerous tumor that required reconstructive surgery on my left eardrum before it grew closer to my brain. Before being wheeled into the operating room, the left side of my face was marked to indicate where the surgeon would operate. So why did he begin on the right side, accidentally puncturing my right eardrum and causing additional hearing loss? That question has never been answered beyond a casual “Oops.”

After recovering from surgery, it was clear my hearing loss was significant enough to require hearing aids. Sixteen years ago, insurance didn’t consider hearing aids medically necessary, so coverage was nonexistent. Times have changed, but the coverage is still poor.

Although over‑the‑counter hearing aids work for many people, my situation is different. With a reconstructed eardrum on one side and a perforated eardrum on the other, I need precise technology—not just amplification. It has been an ongoing education for me, upgrading my aids every few years as their lifespan is typically three to seven years, and realistically closer to three.

My current hearing aids have been challenging. When Rich was alive, he was my second set of ears, especially when my backup pair failed. Since his passing, my primary aids have died three times. Each time they were sent back for repair, the fix didn’t last, and I found myself struggling again.

It is well documented that hearing loss affects memory, and I can admit I feel that confusion when my aids malfunction. Missing sounds and words disrupt the brain’s rhythm, and for me, it has led to headaches and ocular distortions—symptoms tied directly to the anxiety of living with unreliable hearing.

I am a proactive person. I respond quickly to situations I believe I should have control over.

A week ago, I hosted seven women for a day of Mahjong. When the first guest arrived, I realized my hearing aids weren’t working properly. I changed the batteries and turned them up a notch, but conversations still sounded like a Charlie Brown cartoon—Wha‑wha‑wha. I went with the flow, not wanting to burden anyone with my confusion.

After everyone left, the deep silence in my house told me everything: my hearing aids had shut off again. I turned them back on, they worked briefly and then shut off once more.

By Monday morning, my stress was high and my migraine was intense. My audiologist sent my aids back to the manufacturer for repair or replacement, and set up my backup pair—which, due to outdated software, offered limited adjustments.

For the past week, I’ve stayed close to home, canceling work assignments because my hearing is minimal. Phone conversations are difficult, so I limit them to reduce anxiety. My anxiety has been at the pinnacle of wanting to scream, but my head hurts too much to even consider it.

I’ve scheduled another appointment with my audiologist, and after discussing everything with my family, I’ve decided that regardless of what the manufacturer does with my “broken” aids, I need a second pair. I recommend this to anyone who depends on hearing aids or any medical equipment. Yes, it’s an extra cost—but in the last six months, I’ve had to stop living normally every time my aids fail.

For example, the other night at Jimmy John’s, I tried ordering a small veggie sub. I couldn’t understand the soft‑spoken employee behind the counter. Background noise overwhelmed her voice, and I felt embarrassed, frustrated, and—honestly—DUMB.

Most people don’t adjust their speech or volume because they’re unaware of what others are dealing with. Life can feel cruel simply because we don’t know what we don’t know. The counter person didn’t know my hearing was impaired. I didn’t tell her; I assumed I could fumble through. But it wasn’t fair to either of us. And in a brief encounter, are we supposed to tell someone our life story?

For me, the answer is preparation. Moving forward, I want to be better equipped—and I want to help others who are vulnerable find the tools and support they need to live independent, productive lives.

I am preparing to hear you.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com