Disability Act of 1972

I don't know what to do anymore.

My employer has changed to a new healthcare provider. Unlike the previous provider, this insurance plan includes no hearing-aid coverage. It is not the insurance company at fault. They provide coverage. My employer elected not to include hearing health coverage.

So, I have gone from having financial assistance for hearing-aid purchases, to having none.

What does this mean to me?

As far as hearing-aids, I will not be able to replace the ones I have. Nor will I be able to afford repairs.

Personally, it is akin to having my civil rights ripped away. I had a taste of equality for two years. Now it is gone.

It's weird. When I was a teenager, I thought life would improve for those of us with hearing loss, especially with the Disability Act of 1972. But as long as we are systematically denied insurance coverage, we will NEVER be equal.

NEVER!

High School Sucks? Part I

This is the 1st of a 2 part story .  Teen years and high school were rough. No one makes it without help. Your help...

The Good... the Bad

In some ways, I've really felt cheated in life, but I still believed in myself.

My neighbor friend, Terry, was like another brother to me. He died in an auto accident, age 19. I was only 16. I was lucky to have three older brothers, but it was Terry whom I looked up to.

Terry convinced me to take up sports in junior high school. Prior to then, I was just a wimp with no purpose. He encouraged me to tryout for football, so I did, and I made the team. No biggy, since most kids did make the team. But I was different. I needed an identity, and unknown to me, a vehicle to normalcy, to coolness. Football became that vehicle.

The next year as a sophomore, I was trying out for the junior varsity team. Because of my speed, instead, I made the varsity squad. It was totally unexpected. And the junior-class players were quite upset, especially since a few of their mates were assigned to the jv team. Some of the juniors were out to get me, but the senior players protected me. They told me so, and it was kinda cool just to know they cared about me. All I could do was play hard. Eventually, the junior players would come around to respect me.

But it was all because of Terry. I never would have tried for these achievements without his encouragement.

I was blown away when he died.

 It was a hot night, July 3rd. That evening my parents had a big row, so I fled the house.  I walked the village streets, had my usual imaginary pissed-off discussions with God. Why me, kinda stuff. A sorry attitude, but I was just a kid. I never really experienced a time without hearing loss.

That night I ventured back home after 10PM. Our house was all dark. It was quiet… still. Everyone had gone to bed. Regardless, I didn’t want to go inside. So I took a seat on the front porch steps. As I sat there thinking about my own fate… my parents fighting… life in general… a taxi-cab pulled around the corner… as it screeched to a stop… Terry’s mom jumped from the rear seat and ran to her house.

He was dead... a car accident. Wet roads and alcohol were involved. Someone else was said to be driving, but it was Terry’s car. I never blamed the driver.

I dedicated football to Terry. But I told no-one. There were discussions and rumors about Terry in our locker room, but I couldn’t share my feelings. We had been too close. No one would understand… or so I felt.  So I just competed as hard as I could. 

And I was rewarded….

SCREAMS

cruel affliction, profound hole
darkness moans, alone the soul
silent loudness, quiet blast
lurks the Demon, shadow cast

anvil, hammer, trumpets blare
chain reaction, trembling air
trilling whistles, pounding drums
cranked up volume, rendered mum

a deaf soul seeks no misery
it finds him through anxiety
from sight not sound, reactions come
frustrations tame him, thoughts go numb

twisted tension, rising tide
isolation, boxed inside
crushed emotions, self-esteem
deafened silence....Demon screams

©jrm2005 All rights reserved.

A Nine-Year-Old

I have a series of brief glimpses into my life as a hard-of-hearing(h-o-h) youngster. They will appear from time to time over the next few months, but probably not in successive posts. Dunno for certain. My writing skills are not very polished, but I will try my best.

Why do this? I think it is important for youngsters to know that emotional turmoil happens to all of us with hearing loss. It's not just you, alone, even though you might feel that way.

And for parents of h-o-h kids, know that hurt feelings will happen to your child, no matter how protective you are. Always keep the communication lines for one-on-one conversations open. Keep in mind, the more worried my parents became, the less I shared with them. I would hide my hearing frustrations just to keep Mom and Dad from fussing over me.

Emotional Nines

Sometimes emotional scars are so deeply etched in memory, it’s as if the events occurred yesterday. No amount of mental patchwork can smooth the hurt. For this nine-year-old, the pain would strike again and again.

* * *

A blackboard eraser whistled overhead, parting hairs, that was all it took to grab my attention. Mr. Tamburro had a way of keeping his students from daydreaming.

Every one of his students received one-on-one mentoring when needed. He wrote in my report card: “James is a very nice boy and he works hard. I’m going to spend some extra time with him in Reading and Social Studies in an attempt to raise his grades.”

My hearing loss, at such a young age, led me to mispronounce words. For example, I had difficulty hearing the ‘th’ sound. Improved reading skills could aid in learning proper pronunciations.

And the next marking period, he wrote: “Jimmy improved a great deal. I think we’ve got him moving now.”

Cradling a stockpile of his eraser missiles, Mr. Tamburro was true to his word.

And me? My confidence soared!

* * *

All the fourth grade boys had gathered in the gym for PE. I never wore the Body-aid hearing device during gym for fear of breaking it. The PE teacher, Mueller, was late. So naturally, all of us boys were goofing off. My back was to the doorway as Mueller finally entered the gym.

“Okay guys, sorry I’m late, let’s take attendance.”

But I wasn’t facing the doorway, so I never saw Mueller enter the gym, nor heard him. I continued goofing off. All of a sudden, wham, this big strong hand slapped me hard, across the back of my head, because I was still yapping away while Mueller wanted quiet!

“Knock it off, jimmy, and pay attention!”

Stunned, I crouched to the floor, making myself small, but my instinct was to defend myself. That’s just what I did. Springing forward, I connected with a solid body shot!. Slammed him one right into the gut! A knuckle sandwich!

Mueller and I tussled; him pushing, shoving, then me, with fist a-flying. It was a no-win confrontation for a demonic nine-year-old boy. I ended up confined until the conclusion of PE. Mueller tried to approach my corner during class.

“Get away from me, you jerk,” I hollered. “Leave me alone!”

I was emotionally out of control, tears streaking my cheeks, and would swing wildly whenever Mueller came within range. Somehow, he managed to get my brother Gary out of his class to come calm me down. Gary was in sixth grade. From time to time he looked after me.

“jimmy, what's going on,” Gary inquired. “Why are you bawling?”

“Because that jerk of a teacher hit me,” I whimpered.

“If you don’t settle down, you’re gonna get into worse trouble. Why’d he hit you?”

“Cuz he’s a jerk! I was talking while he sneaked up behind me and slapped my head! Didn’t even know he was in the gym. Just because I can’t hear, now grownups are gonna smack me around?”

Gary had a conference with Mueller. It was decided if I shook hands, all would be squared and forgiven. Forgiven? Never again did I turn my back on that mean jerk.

A nine year-old slugging it out with the strongest adult in the school? Damn demon just won’t go away!

Returning to regular class, Mr. Tamburro could see that something was amiss. He took me aside to ask what’s up, “jimmy, what’s going on kid, you look like a train wreck?”

As I fought back the rainstorm, “Awe... umm... gee... it’s nothing Mr. T. Just all tuckered out from running around in gym class.”

I just couldn’t muster enough courage to tell him my hearing had failed me. Heck, I was nine years old, simultaneously dealing with this newfound anger and shaking with fear. Hopelessly confused, I didn’t understand why.

Lots of kids were in that PE class and to this day I don’t know if any of them ever spoke up. At least two teachers had to know something out of the ordinary occurred, Mr. Tamburro and Gary’s teacher.

And Gary, well I’m not sure if he ever told Mom and Dad. Maybe he just felt embarrassed for having such an out-of-control kid brother.

As for that confidence Mr. Tamburro instilled in me?

. . . Crushed.

Lately there has been a lot of news about bullies. So I thought I would put up this true story of my own little journey thru that pleasant experience we like to call . . . "high school."

I Stood Alone

The evil ones lurked behind me on the one-mile walk to school, following at three or four paces back. I heard some giggling; turned around to see Raf and Jason, two kids from my gym class. They seem to be talking to each other, but I could not grasp the conversation and so, continued on my way.

Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"

Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."

So I continued the journey, but could hear more giggling. I decided not to respond. They got louder and louder until I could finally hear what it was they were saying.
"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.

I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.

I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.

* * *

Junior High was rough. Everything was new to me. Having multiple teachers, as opposed to the one teacher in grade school, was a recipe for disaster. The amount of focus required for me to hear, under different circumstances for each class, was over-whelming. There was no special assistance then, no note-takers, no voice-interpreters, nor any affordable tutors.

So what’s a hard-of-hearing kid to do? A mainstreamed kid, one who could experience the world from only a hearing-impaired perspective. From age six to age thirteen I wore this box-like body-aid. It had scratches, dents, with this embarrassing brace to hold it to my chest. Somehow this device would stick with me for four more years. And by some miracle, it now sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

* * *

As I joined the sea of bodies flowing through the school hallways, weaving my way to the next class, I heard that giggling sound again. Then I heard the "asshole" part.

Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?

I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"

For some odd reason, I don’t to this day know why I said this next bit, but it was a ‘live or die’ situation for a desperate teenager.

"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"

Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.

I was scared. I was nervous. Bypassing the fields, I hurried straight home after school. Soon there-after, came a knock on the front door. It was Raf. Could he please, please, please, be here to apologize?

"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"

It was one of those cold brisk autumn days. I never thought to grab a sweatshirt. I was shaking so hard from cold and fright, my bones rattled. The sight of me shivering must have made Raf’s wolfpack feel quite confident.

At the fields, a gang of eight formed a circle. I was bull-in-the-ring. Jason stepped in first. He started with a little shove, then I cut loose. A flurry of hard body shots and he was finished. I beat up two more lighties, then they all scattered, running for safety.

But, Raf, he was their alpha male. He could not run. Alone now, we faced off. After a few exchanges, I knocked him down, jumped on him and grabbed his head. Fueled on adrenaline, all my anger, and all my emotions wanted to destroy this coward, to lift his head up and slam it against the turf.

But I could not.

My mind raced from thought to thought; all of this hate, this poison bottled up inside, where did it come from? Would it ever stop? Would it consume me?

Meanwhile, the rest of Raf’s gang had alerted his older brother Joe. He arrived on the scene as I sat atop Raf’s chest, mulling over what to do next.

"When you’re done with him, let me know," Joe calmly stated, then went over to a rock wall to have a front row seat.

I thought it over. "Say uncle!"

Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.

"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"

And so he did. In tears, he cried out an "uncle" that echoed across the valley on that brisk autumn day; humiliated in front of his brother, a brother who would not save his sorry butt for what he did.

As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood.

Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.