Going deaf all over again

My life “after deaf” is still unfolding, adding chapters and epilogues, even though my memoir of the same title was published more than two years ago.

Just the other day, I had a flashback to the morning in March 2010 when I woke up, went to the bathroom, and realized I couldn’t hear a single sound, not the water running in the sink, not my own breathing.

This time I was marking a ballot, taking advantage of early primary voting balloting in my hometown.

Thanks to my two cochlear implants, I had no trouble hearing the poll worker’s instructions. We exchanged pleasantries. Lovely day, I said, and so it was.

But as I went into my voting booth and closed the curtain, I heard a beep beep beep in my left sound processor, followed by . . . nothing. Damn, I thought. My battery has died.

 Oh, well. No biggie. My bionic right ear was still working.

The ballot was long. I hadn’t realized how many offices were being contested this year. It took a while.  Then, just as the voting machine was pumping out my finished paper ballot, my right-side processor went beep beep beep . . . and died.

I froze. It’s not as though I don’t know total deafness. I experience it every night when I remove my processors, turn off my bedside lamp, and lay my head on my pillow. But that’s in the privacy of my home, when I am making an active choice to unplug and my wife and I both know there’s no use talking because I am temporarily deaf as a stump.

I walked cautiously out of the voting booth into a silent room hopping with people. The absence of sound was disorienting. I felt like a submarine without sonar. Silent running.  I had to be careful of my footing. My balance seemed off.

The poll worker spoke to me. I could see her lips move. I shook my head.

She said something else, probably a repetition. I looked around helplessly.

Finally, I pointed to my ears and said, “Both my batteries died. I am totally deaf.” I must have said it very loudly. She looked startled.

But she smiled and took my ballot from my hand and fed it into the machine.

I said “thank you” and started to leave. She held up a hand.

“Did I do something wrong?”

I could read her lips. No. She held up a sticker that pictures a peach inscribed with the words “I’m a Georgia Voter.”  She applied it to my lapel and smiled again. I felt like a child being dressed for Easter.

I smiled back, gave her a sheepish look, and hustled out the door.

Walking back to my car, it was strange. There were lots of cars moving, people walking, going in and out of stores. The whole downtown tableau was soundless.

I could not hear my car start. I had not experienced that in years.

I drove home very carefully, constantly checking the mirrors.

 I parked, unlocked a front door lock I could not hear click, and bounded upstairs to our bedroom. I went to my battery charger. The lights weren’t on. I followed the cord to the outlet. It was unplugged.

 I re-plugged it. The tiny yellow lights blinked off and on, off and on, indicating the batteries weren’t charged.

I picked up the book I’ve been reading, sat down on the bed, and waited. And waited.

I will not let this happen again, I told myself.

But I also know that there will always be -- sometime, someplace -- something else.

Life after deaf is an open-ended story, a cliffhanger serial.

Be with us next week/month/year for another thrilling episode of Bionic Man and the Temple of Silence!