One of the disconcerting things about our current cultural moment is that people seem to have gotten very good at reading other people’s minds and determining their motivations.
Among other things, this is a driving force behind cancel culture, I think.
Inside: What made me decide to get hearing aids when I was only 50, and how this can help you make a hard change too.
“I can hear, I just can’t make out what they’re saying.”
When my dad would say this, it used to drive me batty. If you can’t hear, you can’t hear, right?
Well, um … not exactly.
My path to hearing-loss empathy began in my mid 40s when I noticed I was asking people to repeat themselves quite a lot. Especially my daughter Molly, who has a softer, higher-pitched voice.
I got my ears checked. A few years later, I got them checked again. Both exams showed some hearing loss but not enough to warrant correction.
By last summer, though, I was struggling to hear even more, and not just when Molly was talking. The audiologist discovered that one of my ears was completely full of wax. Clearing that out helped, but not completely.
Turns out, my dad was on to something. I could hear people talking, but sure enough, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. (Ironic, I know. Which is often how these things go, I’ve found.)
At first, the thought that I needed hearing aids to correct a 25-percent loss in both ears made me feel old. I was only 50 at the time. That might seem ancient to my 17-year-old daughter, but in the grand scheme of life, it’s still pretty young.
Eventually, I decided my own feelings about feeling—and possibly looking—older didn’t matter as much as my desire to hear better. I got a set of hearing aids, and—to paraphrase Robert Frost—they have made all the difference.
At restaurants. When talking with friends who have quiet voices. Outside, where cardinals and wind chimes and little chirpy animals sound so much brighter and clearer.
Even church worship services are more enjoyable, because I can actually hear myself sing again. (I didn’t realize I had lost this ability until I got it back.)
As I think about all of this a year later, I have a few thoughts to share.
First of all, if you have loved ones with hearing loss, please remember that it’s not their fault. If they have hearing aids and don’t wear them, that’s frustrating, for sure. But if they simply can’t hear, or can’t hear well even with correction, try to be patient and understanding with them.
I say this as a person who used to get hugely annoyed at my parents when they couldn’t hear me. It took me going to the hearing aid place with my dad, watching him get fitted for a new device for his one working ear and having the audiologist say that his hearing was the best it was going to get, for me to finally realize he truly was hearing as well as he could.
I wish I had come to this realization much sooner. But perhaps someone else can learn from my experience and avoid some unnecessary aggravation in the moment, as well as regret later on.
Hearing loss is part of aging—a decline we often watch our parents go through and then eventually experience ourselves. I started the process prematurely, as is my custom. But I’m thankful I took the brave (for me) step and got the hearing aids.
That said, my encouragement to you is this. No matter your age, if there is help available for a condition or issue that is bothering you, don’t be afraid to do something about it.
Make the appointment. Take the test. Stop putting it off.
Sometimes, acceptance is what’s called for, rather than a prolonged fight for answers. But whether it’s hearing loss or something else, if it’s possible for you to get better or stronger, it won’t happen by osmosis.
It often takes a bit of humility to admit you need help. But when you do, and your loved ones see you making an effort, it also sets an example to them of how to grow older gracefully.
I’m guessing my daughters aren’t thinking about any of that, however. They’re just glad they don’t have to repeat everything they say to me anymore.
♥ Lois
Hearing loss is part of aging—a decline we often watch our parents go through and then eventually experience ourselves. Share on X It takes a bit of humility to admit you need help. But when you do, and your loved ones see you making an effort, it also sets an example to them of how to grow older gracefully. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Sweet Tea & Friends, #tellhisstory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.
Photo by Anna Kaminova on Unsplash
I was singing in church with my family last Sunday. An older couple came in and took seats several rows ahead of us. A few moments later, a younger couple walked down to the same row.
The younger woman greeted the older man with a hug. The older lady turned to talk to her too; judging by their profiles, it seemed obvious that they were mother and daughter.
If I had to choose one word to describe the July that we’ve experienced here in Kansas, it would have to be hot.
There’s been way too much humidity for my comfort level, but every so often, that clears away and the dry heat reminds me of how summers used to be here when I was a kid. It’s sort of like going outside into a furnace, but it beats the humidity, in my opinion.
During my parents’ months together in the nursing home, I kept the paperwork for managing all their affairs in two accordion files, which I stored in my kitchen desk.
Never in my wildest dreams did I ever envision myself having this sort of paperwork in my house. When the time came for me to handle all the things, though, I tried to set it up in the most logical and organized way possible.
Categories like “Paid Bills,” “Receipts” and “Bank Statements” were fairly innocuous. But “New Mail to Discuss with Dad” and “Home Sale”—written in green Sharpie because I added it later, after both of my parents died—caused me a pang when I pulled them out of their slots many months later.
I had already gone through much of my dad’s files and documents from his life at home. I had a couple of boxes ready for shredding.
But these papers in my drawer were heavier. They represented what I did during my parents’ final months, day after day—paying bills, working out insurance issues, figuring out the next step.
I had this project on my list for months before I finally gathered up the gumption to tackle it.
I sorted all the funeral stuff, all the Medicare statements, all the tax documents. Some would be shredded, some kept for later processing.
I hadn’t planned to go through the black accordion file—the one with the most daily stuff—one particular day, but there I was, sifting through a pile of receipts.
I texted Randy about it: “Is there any reason why I should save receipts from all the payments to [the nursing home]?”
I thought maybe my husband who hates clutter would tell me no, get rid of them all.
“Only if they mean something to you,” he wrote back. “I like to think of your folks at home” (as opposed to in long-term care).
I understand how he felt, for sure.
By the time I saw his answer, I had already settled in my heart that what I wanted to do was write about the pile of receipts—to document my feelings and thoughts about it just so I’ll remember.
When I saw the receipts, I thought of the thousands of dollars we spent on my dad’s care every month. Money that he scrimped and saved his whole life, never intending that a single dollar would be spent on his own room and board at a nursing home.
But when we needed it for that, there it was. Along with the funds he paid so that my mom could have a private room for a year and a half (and what a blessing that was).
In a way, it’s almost easy to write checks for several thousand dollars every month when it’s not your own money. Even then, though, I wondered what we’d do when the funds ran out. It would have taken a few years, but it still weighed on me.
Turns out, I needn’t have worried. My dad lived the last five months of his life in the nursing home. My mom beat him to heaven by five weeks.
The last piece of paper in the receipts file might have been the most poignant for me. It’s the statement that came with a refund from an assisted living facility a few miles from my home. I had paid $500 to reserve a room there for my dad—the plan was for him to move in after he finished rehabbing from being hospitalized for congestive heart failure.
Instead, his health declined further and he became my mom’s roommate at the nursing home.
I got rid of all the receipts but this one. Even now—three years after my parents died—it reminds me of Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”
♥ Lois
This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
Nursing-home statements from my parents' last months remind me of Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” Share on XPhoto by Valentina Locatelli on Unsplash
It’s that time of year when my brain seems to dry up. At least the part of my brain that easily writes—and finishes—blog posts.
I have, in the blog folder on my laptop, several partially written posts that are almost complete. The beginning is done, the rest is either mostly finished or in note form that should be easy enough to wrap up.