I'm sure that most people have had the unique experience of trying to carry on a conversation with a person who has a profound hearing loss. Such is the case with my eighty-one-year old father. I feel sorry for him, and I know that his quality of life has diminished due to the fact that he is unable to hear unless the person talking to him is emulating a Swiss yodeler trying to communicate with another person on the next mountain peak. My older brother put it rather eloquently, "I'm buying a bullhorn."
My earliest experience with my dad's hearing loss came several years ago in a local restaurant. My wife and I had invited my folks to a dinner out for someone's birthday, or perhaps it was father's day. Either way, it was then that I knew his hearing was about to simply give up.
We sat eagerly in the small booth, awaiting the server to take our orders. My dad and I made small talk (I doubt he heard a word I said) while my wife and mother surveyed the dining area, probably looking for the bathroom. Sure enough, a young and cheerful woman appeared with notepad in hand and began the usual rundown of drink orders, appetizers, etc. When she got around to asking my dad about his meal, the conversation went as follows:
"And what would you like to drink, sir?"
"Yes," dad replied. In an instant, my mom, my wife and I looked quizzically at each other.
"Would you prefer tea, a soft drink or maybe a glass of water?" the waitress asked again, with a bit more detail.
"Sure, that would be fine," dad answered, while glancing at my mom.
Finally, my mother leaned over and repeated the waitress' request in a somewhat louder tone.
"A glass of water would be fine," dad finally answered.
Momentarily, the server returned with a tray loaded with our beverages, and promptly placed each in front of us. "Are you ready to order?" she asked with a chipper voice.
Again, we told her what we wanted and then she got around to my dad, who was had just finished making his selection.
"I'll have the sirloin, medium well, with a baked potato," he said with the utmost confidence.
"House or Caesar salad sir?"
"Yes," dad answered. I began to giggle slightly, and my wife found it necessary to jab me in the side with her elbow. Finally, with a raised voice, my mom was able to once again communicate the choice of which type of salad he preferred. That was my first experience with my father and his waning ability to hear.
Over the years, we've suggested that maybe a hearing aid is in order for dad. "No, I hear pretty well. I don't see the need in that," he'd say, time and time again.
I first broached the subject of a hearing aid a few years ago at the request of my mother. "Maybe if you suggest a hearing aid, he'll listen to you," she said, after shouting to him from a few feet away.
"I'll try," I said, sure that even if he wanted to listen to me he probably couldn't.
The first attempt was a complete and utter failure. I had driven to my parent's home, and noticed dad sitting on the front porch reading the newspaper. Assuming that that would be a great time to broach the subject of hearing aids, I took a seat opposite him and across a little table. "Dad, do you think that maybe a hearing aid would help your quality of life some?"
He looked up from the newspaper and studied me for a few seconds and then responded. "Oh yes, I love an ice cold glass of lemon aid, especially on a day like this! We don't have any now though."
"Hearing aid!!! I said you might want to think about getting a hearing aid!!!" I barked.
"No, I hear pretty good. I don't see any need for one of those things," he answered. "I'm doing fine."
With that, I went inside to let my mom know that a hearing aid for dad is temporarily on hold or perhaps could never happen. My dad can be stubborn.
This morning my parents brought their car to a dealer close to our home for some repairs. I called my mom and suggested going to breakfast while the car was being repaired. "Sure, sounds good to me," mom said.
I picked them up and we headed toward their favorite restaurant. My mom and I were having a conversation concerning how our kids were doing in sports, school and other areas of their lives.
"Yeah, the Nats should be very good this year!" dad chimed from the passenger's seat.
"I think so," I answered, while looking at my mother's smiling face in the rear view mirror.
I began talking to my mom once again. "Sidney is starting volleyball soon, and Ryan..."
"That sky looks threatening. We might see some snow," dad said, once again and oblivious to the conversation between my mother and I.
"Yeah, we could get some snow indeed," I said, yelling, and trying to include dad in conversation.
Again, I looked at mom in the mirror and smiled. "Ryan loves football and hopefully..."
"How's your little dog doing?" dad asked, oblivious to the fact that I was trying to inform them about my son and his love of football.
The conversation went this way for the remainder of the ride, and during breakfast. People from all corners of the restaurant looked at us in amazement, surely wondering why we were talking loud enough to wake the dead, But, dad doesn't need a hearing aid. I feel for him, but one thing is for sure. He gives us something to talk about, even if he can't hear what we're saying.
