Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 50

Getting my Hearing Back

For the past couple of weeks, life has felt slightly off for reasons that are both obvious and quietly layered. July marks six months since Richard’s passing, and it also marks what would have been our forty‑second wedding anniversary. Legally, I may be a widow, but in every way that matters, I am still married to Rich — and I will remain so through eternity.

I kept waiting for some kind of epiphany to arrive and mark this moment. Instead, I’ve been busy pushing myself to appear “OK,” even as my body has reminded me otherwise. My hearing aids died for the third time in six months, and while waiting for replacements, my backups failed too. The loaners from my audiologist caused sores in my ears, leaving me physically uncomfortable and emotionally spent. In less than six hours, I’ll finally receive my new aids, and I’m genuinely looking forward to hearing the world more clearly again.

Grief isn’t only the loss of my dear Richard. Grief gathers every loss we experience across a lifetime and drops them at our feet, often at the most inopportune time. As we age and evolve, everything around us shifts. When change happens slowly, we adapt. When it arrives suddenly, it can create a deep emotional ache that’s hard to shake.

Rich was my second pair of ears. If my hearing aids weren’t working, he often noticed before I did — he could hear the subtle changes in my responses. Without him, I struggled for over a week before realizing what was wrong. The decline was gradual until, suddenly, it was silent.

Hearing loss — like any medical condition — is an intangible loss. I can identify it, point to it, and acknowledge how it reshapes my life. What I cannot do is hold it in my hands or guarantee I will regain what has changed. It alters my identity in ways that are emotional, not physical. I will grieve it, but to protect my emotional health, I must address it and re‑identify myself as I move forward.

When I first lost my hearing, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to acknowledge the deficit; it felt like a black mark on who I was. I hid behind my hearing aids for years, carrying unnecessary emotional pain. When I finally chose to acknowledge my loss and take steps to ease that pain, my life became my own again. My hearing didn’t return to what it once was, but I found comfort in using my aids and letting others know when I needed help — which is, after all, what friends are for.

We all have physical and emotional needs, and they change throughout our lives. We will face experiences that test our posture, and each of us must decide how we will live. We can carry the burden of loss, or we can adjust our expectations and keep moving forward.

Hiding behind my hearing aids caused additional grief. Not being honest with myself or others created conflict at work and in relationships. But once I accepted that I would be OK — just different — my outlook brightened.

I choose to live by pushing myself gently and exploring my options. Unhappiness can seep into life without warning or reason. But something I learned from Sesame Street has stayed with me: Let a smile be your umbrella on a rainy day. I turn my umbrella upside down and let it catch the sad and negative thoughts, transforming them into motivation.

Intangible loss may be something I cannot touch, but I can soften its impact by reshaping my perspective — living my life and being the best version of myself today and tomorrow.

Please join me on my journey.

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