The Whistle

When Monster was a newborn I heard the sound of a crying baby everywhere. Even when he was dead asleep I swore I could hear him crying. Even when I was at work and Monster was miles away with his beloved Granda, I heard him crying. My husband says he heard it too so I know I’m not crazy. Or maybe we’re both crazy.

These days I hear the high whistle of hearing aid feedback. No matter where I am, no matter if Monster’s aids are turned off, batteries out, I swear I can hear that whistle. The whistle, when I am actually hearing it and not imagining it, is a sign that something is not right with Monster’s aids: they aren’t sitting correctly on the back of his ear, the mold isn’t pushed into his ear canal tightly enough, or, most likely, he has pulled them out in protest of boredom while strapped into his highchair/stroller/car seat. The whistle screams attention to the problem and pulls me into action to fix whatever is wrong. The whistle is actually, kind of, a good thing.

Except when I hear it all those other times. When Monster’s aids are tucked away for the night, turned off and resting in anticipation of another day of amplifying sound for my son, the whistle screams attention to what? My inadequacies? My failures? The fact that I constantly forget to incorporate sign language during the day? Or the guilt for the hour spent at the pool that could have been spent elsewhere with Monster’s hearing in tact? The looming sense that something is still not right? That something else will go wrong?

Just like Monster’s imagined cries were a constant reminder of what was not going right at home, the damn whistle is my reminder that I’m still afraid. The whistle I hear everywhere raises my level of stress, sends my blood pressure skyrocketing and leaves me frantically searching for the root of the problem in need of a solution, neither of which I can identify.

I hate that damn whistle. I hate not knowing the future for Monster. I hate learning sign language. I hate that I am already stressing about whether or not Monster will wear his hearing aids in school pictures. I hate that I even care about school pictures! I hate wishing that this wasn’t our forever permanence. I hate that I’m still mourning things that I didn’t realize I had to mourn.

I hate the whistle because it interrupts the normal moments with a reminder of what is our “new normal.” Family meals are interrupted with cleaning food off of his aid and reinserting it back in his ear while saying loudly and sternly, “NO! Hearing aids stay IN!” and Monster shakes his head no to show he knew all along. Quiet moments in the car turn into stress-filled minutes trying to wrestle the hearing aid out of my son’s mouth while still keeping my eyes on the road. Moments snuggling and wrestling with Monster are broken by the whistle when the contact jars his aid loose.

I know it will get better. I know his aids will someday simply just be a part of him. I know, I know, I know we are truly so blessed. This is minimal. This is a small price to pay for my son.

But I still hate the whistle.