“Totally uncomfortable!” I said. “You’ll get used to them very quickly,” he said.
I looked in the mirror. My eyes started tearing up. All I saw were these tubes jutting out from either side of my head—like antennas.
“Do I really have to wear this, Mom?” I said, trying not to cry. “I hate them. They don’t make any difference!”
“Give it a second, buddy,” said the doctor. “I haven’t even turned them on yet.
Wait until you hear the difference: you’ll want to wear them.” “No I won’t!” And then he turned them on.
Hearing Brightly
How can I describe what I heard when the doctor turned on my hearing aids? Or what I didn’t hear?
It’s too hard to think of words. The ocean just wasn’t living inside my head anymore. It was gone.
I could hear sounds like shiny lights in my brain. It was like when you’re in a room where one of the lightbulbs on the ceiling isn’t working,
but you don’t realize how dark it is until someone changes the lightbulb and then you’re like, whoa, it’s so bright in here!
I don’t know if there’s a word that means the same as “bright” in terms of hearing,
but I wish I knew one, because my ears were hearing brightly now.
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