At sixty, I bought hearing aids. The audiologist showed me a drawer of tiny moons and asked which color I wanted. I said invisible. She said gray is the new invisible.
The first day, restaurants sounded like thunder and my knees like popcorn. In the café, I learned the espresso machine yelled. My wife had been right all along, and I hadn’t realized it. I also learned I am loud.
We choreographed restaurant seating. I took the wall to focus sound. She took my hand. The waiter took our order, and I took mental notes, because consonants now travel in packs and vowels hide behind them. When I said What? twice, my wife said, That’s my handsome echo.
At home, I heard the refrigerator confess its crimes. I heard my name arrive before the room did.
The real trick, nobody tells you, is choosing. You can chase every crumb of sound and starve on it, or you can eat the sentence and guess at the paragraph. The devices help me hear, not listen. That part is still work.
Last night she laughed in the kitchen. I didn’t ask her to repeat it. I walked toward it. We met between the sink and the door, where age keeps its shoes.
Eric Goldfarb is a retired technology and private equity executive whose work appears in industry publications and literary journals. He writes essays on family, healthcare, travel, and the quiet reinventions that shape a life. He is at work on a book of essays. He lives with his wife in Atlanta, Georgia.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Ian “Harry” Harris
I am utterly enchanted by this piece. You have captured the noisy, miraculous, exhausting reality of these little ear monsters with exquisite economy and profound warmth. The line about gray being the new invisible made me laugh out loud, while meeting where age keeps its shoes brought a lump to my throat. Bravo!
Thank you. I’m touched that those two lines stayed with you, and grateful you took the time to tell me. -Eric
A friend emailed me your piece. she thought I might enjoy it. she greatly
underestimated. loved it. you really stuck the landing too. Bravo!
Ray, thank you. Please thank your friend for sending it your way. Hearing that the ending landed means a great deal. I’m glad you enjoyed it. -Eric
My mother, completely deaf by the time she passed last March, and my husband, more stubborn than even the most stubborn, have had me repeating every syllable, each one grating on every nerve. Now that she’s gone, the sounds are halved, transformed from annoyance to gratitude for what remains. I look forward to reading more, Mr. Goldfarb. This piece was a welcome surprise in my rummaging today!
Thank you for sharing this. I’m so sorry about your mother, and deeply moved that the piece met you where it did. Your transformation of annoyance into gratitude is beautifully expressed. -Eric
gutted by this. “the devices help me hear, not listen” stopped me cold, then the ending finished the job, walking toward her laugh instead of asking for a repeat. that’s what love does when it’s real. more please!
Thank you, Paulina. I’m especially grateful that those moments stayed with you. -Eric
Siccckkk
Thank you! I’m glad it hit.
-Eric