Can You Hear Me Now?

A week in Paris or a pair of these?

Renowned psychologist Dr. Von Fleaburg and I sat down recently for a convo (that’s short for conversation for any unhip readers out there) about relationships and aging. Dr. Flea and I have had many convos over the years so he doesn’t mind me calling him Dr. Flea. For some odd reason he prefers to meet in the garage so there we were on a nice Saturday afternoon having a little heart to heart with a steaming cup of green tea. (Flea is serious about his antioxidants).

Me: So, Dr. Flea I feel like I’ve stumbled upon the secret to a happy relationship.

Flea: Oh. Interesting. Tell me more.

Me: Well, it’s quite simple. Hearing aids.

Flea: What?

Me: (louder) Hearing AIDS.

Flea: Oh. Interesting. 

Me: Yeah. I think this is a breakthrough, a secret therapists have been missing. If you don’t hear what the other person is saying you can’t get annoyed. 

Flea: Oh. Interesting. 

Me: Let me give an example. I say to the GOAT, Did you take out the trash? GOAT replies, No, we don’t have any cash. Not cash, trash.  What? The trash. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear the irritation in my voice. Phew. Reset time. 

Flea: Oh. Interesting. But what about you and your hearing?

Me: What? 

Flea: Perhaps it’s time you took a baseline hearing test?

Me, almost spitting out my tea. Oh no, my hearing is just fine. The GOAT is the one with the problem, not me. He’s been wearing hearing aids for a year.

Flea smiles knowingly and shoots me a look that lets me know I’m being unreasonable so I decide to get a second opinion from my son, Peter. Ever the diplomat he pauses before he responds, “It wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had.”  Since he has first hand knowledge of many of my bad ideas I soon find myself at a big box store inside an all white industrial sound proof booth wearing headphones and holding a Jeopardy style clicker.

The audiologist introduces herself and details her background in the military working with vets.  Ok, Sarge let’s get down to it. All I have to do is click when I hear a sentence. A deep sexy Barry White voice is singing, “Can’t get enough of your love, bab-ee.” No, not really but who doesn’t love a little Barry?  I think it was something about sunlight, raindrops and rainbows. Hah! I’m not going to be lulled into daydreaming about rainbows, I’m clicking. Then a squeaky PeeWee Herman voice says, “When the sunlight strikes the raindrops….” Got it. Click, click. Every time I click, I secretly steal a look at Sarge's face to see if she’s smiling at my performance. She remains stone-faced. 

Sarge comes in and outfits me with an overhead headband thing device that makes my hair day go from bad to worse.

I remain unperturbed and imagine recounting all of this to Dr. Flea. Now I’m supposed to click when I hear tones. Beep! A high tone. Boop! A low tone. Click, Click. 

I emerge from the sound booth triumphant, confident I have passed with flying colors. But we’re not done. Now it’s a repeat-after-me word test. She shields her face with a piece of paper so I can’t lip read and says words like, “Feet,” “Peach,” “Teach.”  Got it.

I’m scribbling away in my notebook when suddenly she barks at  me, “Put your notebook down and pay attention. You have a serious problem.”

What!? Oh, right I can’t say that word as it implies I can’t hear. 

She prints out my audiogram. The first part looks pretty good and then there is a steep pitch like a double black ski run.

“You have,” she says in a you-only-have-90-days-to-live voice, “a 30% hearing loss.”  She then goes on to explain scary stuff like how hearing loss affects the brain, and the relationship between dementia and untreated hearing loss.

She outfits me with a very expensive set of hearing aids. Sarge doesn’t think it’s funny when I ask if they come in something cuter like leopard print or pink. These boring beige, kidney bean shaped things cost about the same as a wonderful week in Paris. That’s hardly a choice, right?  Hearing aids or a week of strolling along the Seine browsing in the book stalls? Writing in my journal at Deux Magots with a crisp glass of Beaujolais Nouveau?  Shopping? Have I mentioned shopping for chic fashion to give me that je ne sais quoi look?

Sigh. Some golden years.

Yikes! Birds are chirping in my ears. I look at the GOAT, who has been patiently waiting while I take the test and ask him, “Why are there birds in this store?” Sarge finally displays a sense of humor and starts laughing. Her giggles are eclipsed by the GOAT who is doubled over. “Those aren’t birds, those are the squeaky wheels of the carts in the store,” she tells me. Lordy, it’s loud in here. Squeaky wheels, cash registers ringing, and some guy in the vision department yelling about his fishing trip. I don’t want to hear any of this, I want to hear, “Bonjour, madame” in Paris.  

Overwhelmed, the GOAT escorts me out of the seemingly bird infested store while I try to absorb the information that my days under the disco ball have come to an end. Not only that, perhaps I have a little humble pie to eat as it’s not just the GOAT with the hearing issue, it’s me too.

“Sorry” I say, “I have to eat a little humble pie.”

“What?” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

He’s nice like that.