tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351499602024-03-08T00:59:43.930-05:00Raging 8th NerveHearing loss stories, experiences from grade school through high school, as a teenager dealing with bullies, frustration, isolation and misunderstandings. Hard of hearing and deaf issues as an adult. Occasional current event views.jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-1440672857668904462014-06-28T19:43:00.000-05:002014-06-28T19:44:33.413-05:00Disability Act of 1972I don't know what to do anymore.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So, I have gone from having financial assistance for hearing-aid purchases, to having none.<br />
<br />
What does this mean to me?<br />
<br />
As far as hearing-aids, I will not be able to replace the ones I have. Nor will I be able to afford repairs.<br />
<br />
Personally, it is akin to having my civil rights ripped away. I had a taste of equality for two years. Now it is gone.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
NEVER!jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-40139096122436041412013-06-29T21:12:00.000-05:002013-06-29T22:23:39.928-05:00It Stays With You for A Lifetime Part 2<br />
<br />
The end of my senior year, our Block I sports awards. <br />
<br />
Since my dad was an alcoholic, I discouraged my parents from attending. All I expected was to pick up my varsity letters in football and track. No biggie. I never dreamed I could be so wrong. What transpired was totally unexpected. <br />
<br />
Ironically, or perhaps intentionally, I was seated at a table with my biology teacher, Mr. Dempster. <br />
<br />
My sophomore year, I had a failing grade in his biology class. With my hearing loss, it was impossible for me to understand the unfamiliar biology vocabulary. This difficulty with understanding unfamiliar words was something I didn’t yet understand, nor did the adults involved in my life. <br />
<br />
Failing his subject, Mr. Dempster required me to attend after-school classes. Since I had made the varsity football team as a sophmore, I wasn’t suppose to miss after-school practice sessions. I had a choice, attend after-school biology or football. I wrongly chose football. <br />
<br />
To make a long story short, caught doing the wrong thing, I was required to stop at Mr. Dempster’s house and apologize for skipping his after-school class. He was cool about it, and we seemed to kind of connect as student and teacher. But, I still miserably failed biology that year, and had to retake it the next semester. <br />
<br />
So, back to the Block I sports awards. <br />
<br />
I couldn’t hear. The awards came up, the recipients announced. All I could do was watch.<br />
<br />
The award for Competitive Spirit came up… the people at my table indicated it was for me… and I got up to receive the award. Well, that was nice, I thought. I didn’t expect anything, but this was cool. <br />
<br />
The next award, I totally expected another classmate to earn this, the Unsung Hero Award. It is one of the most prestigious sports awards at my school. This award represents everything about your character. It stays with you for life. <br />
<br />
My name was announced. Again, I didn’t hear it. Mr. Dempster proudly looked at me and told me so. I was never more humbled, and speechless. <br />
<br />
But, this story doesn’t end here. No. <br />
<br />
One weekend later, and just before graduation, I was playing a parking-lot version of broomball. One of my opponents high-sticked me, and slashed a cut above my eye. Bleeding, we went to the nearest home, Josh’s. His father called my dad to come take me to the hospital for stitches.<br />
<br />
While Josh and I waited on his porch for my dad, he explained his opinion. He told me that the only reason I was awarded the Unsung Hero Award, and not him, was because people felt sorry for me, because of my hearing loss.<br />
<br />
I should explain… Josh finished quite high academically in our class, racking up numerous scholarships and recognitions. <br />
<br />
And my one moment of glory…. despite Josh... ???<br />
<br />
Well... thanks Terry... you were the best, the best of friends.jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-81211744299131060642013-06-22T19:41:00.003-05:002013-06-22T19:47:20.594-05:00High School Sucks? Part I<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: red;">This is the 1st of a 2 part story . Teen years and high school were rough. No one makes it without help.</span></span> <span style="color: red;">Your help...</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Good... the Bad </b></div>
<br />
In some ways, I've really felt cheated in life, but I still believed in myself.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But it was all because of Terry. I never would have tried for these achievements without his encouragement.<br />
<br />
I was blown away when he died.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
And I was rewarded….jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-49973563975405411852013-01-12T22:06:00.001-05:002013-01-12T22:06:56.230-05:00screams<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b>SCREAMS</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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cruel affliction, profound hole</div>
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darkness moans, alone the soul</div>
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silent loudness, quiet blast</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
lurks the Demon, shadow cast</div>
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<br /></div>
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anvil, hammer, trumpets blare</div>
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chain reaction, trembling air</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
trilling whistles, pounding
drums</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
cranked up volume, rendered mum</div>
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<br /></div>
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a deaf soul seeks no misery</div>
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it finds him through anxiety</div>
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from sight not sound, reactions
come </div>
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frustrations tame him, thoughts
go numb</div>
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<br /></div>
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twisted tension, rising tide</div>
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isolation, boxed inside</div>
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crushed emotions, self-esteem</div>
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deafened silence....Demon <i>screams</i></div>
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jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-11396449904203117562011-09-10T20:53:00.002-05:002011-09-10T20:53:27.511-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jl0ZrX2HST8/TmwUd41yzgI/AAAAAAAAAUs/AMVcZmGJHLs/s1600/9112011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jl0ZrX2HST8/TmwUd41yzgI/AAAAAAAAAUs/AMVcZmGJHLs/s320/9112011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-19249872440589054992011-08-25T20:43:00.001-05:002011-08-25T20:45:43.271-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><b> Youth and Counseling</b></div><br />
I was 16 years-old at the time. It was unusual for both of my parents to accompany me to a hearing test. After completing the test, I was seated in the waiting room, while my parents met in conference with the audiologist. 20 minutes later, I was called into the meeting with all three. <br />
<br />
The audiologist informed me that instead of one hearing-aid, I now needed two. Bursting into tears, I shouted, “No way, I’m freaky enough with one. I’ll not wear two!”<br />
<br />
And I got my way.<br />
<br />
This outburst clearly signaled all was not well with me. If ever there was a time for counseling, this was it. But there was no attempt to address my frustrations and attitude; not from the audiologist, nor from my parents. <br />
<br />
As a teenager who was hearing-impaired most all of my life, my mind would automatically substitute words for the ones I didn’t hear. It was very confusing whenever I realized my information was wrong. I hated everything about who I was, what I had become. And I would not let on how much it bothered me. Thus, the frustration festered to the point... I wanted out. <br />
<br />
I can’t imagine how different life could have been with counseling help as a teenager.<br />
<br />
In summation, all you Mom's and Dad's out there, with hearing-loss, the stress weighs heavily. No matter what age one loses hearing, we all can benefit from counseling.jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-76902248131114321812010-06-21T19:26:00.000-05:002010-06-21T19:26:46.102-05:00<div style="color: #990000; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">SCREAMS</span><br />
<br />
cruel affliction, profound hole<br />
darkness moans, alone the soul<br />
silent loudness, quiet blast<br />
lurks the Demon, shadow cast<br />
<br />
anvil, hammer, trumpets blare<br />
chain reaction, trembling air<br />
trilling whistles, pounding drums<br />
cranked up volume, rendered mum<br />
<br />
a deaf soul seeks no misery<br />
it finds him through anxiety<br />
from sight not sound, reactions come <br />
frustrations tame him, thoughts go numb<br />
<br />
twisted tension, rising tide<br />
isolation, boxed inside<br />
crushed emotions, self-esteem<br />
deafened silence....Demon screams</div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: black;">©jrm2005 All rights reserved.</span></div>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-49076829526377496292010-04-01T18:55:00.002-05:002010-09-30T21:27:48.777-05:00<div style="color: orange; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bullies Again!</span></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/SailingatPort1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/SailingatPort1_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A bit of action on the river.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: black;"> This is a repost from 2 years ago. A little story about bullies.</span> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">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."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #990000;"> </span></span><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I Stood Alone</span></span></div><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: small;"><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.</span><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">* * *</span></span></div><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">* * *</span></span></div><span style="color: #6666cc; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">But I could not.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">"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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">I thought it over. "Say uncle!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-57570458208991163412010-02-14T18:01:00.001-05:002010-02-14T18:08:36.528-05:00<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: orange;"> My Living Proof</b></span><br />
<br />
This is the final chapter of my adventure as a nine year-old with hearing loss, in the hospital for a few weeks to remove a tumor from above my ankle. I shared a room with three other kids, identical twins Donny and Ronny, and Joey. A fellow named Bob manned the nurse's station. He had no legs. My confidence had been shattered earlier that year from an incident at school.<br />
<br />
You can read the prior stories here: <a href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/nine-year-old-i-have-series-of-brief.html">(Part 1)</a> <a href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/double-ankle-part-2.html">(Part 2)</a> <a href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/02/til-hell-puddles-over-story-continues.html">(Part 3)</a><br />
<br />
<div style="color: orange; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My Living Proof</b></span><b><br />
</b></div><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Was it fate? Predetermined? Did the Gods and Demons hold <i>all</i> the cards?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">When I first arrived at the hospital, the twins were very active; wheelies up and down the hallways, motoring their wheelchairs all over the second floor with reckless abandon. Full of enthusiasm, they crashed into the orderlies carrying waste, buzzed around nurses on watch, and plowed between doctors making their rounds. The twins seemed to be on their own, possibly orphans. I don’t recall any parents visiting them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">I was too young to understand what ailed twins, Ronny and Donny. They were both paralyzed, unable to walk. They were teens, in good physical shape, which leads me to believe they lost the ability to walk from the onset of an illness, such as some form of acute flaccid paralysis. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Whether or not the polio virus was the cause of their condition, I do not know. I do remember The March of Dimes program to eradicate polio, but at that time the virus was not successfully isolated, and there is doubt still today that the polio virus <i>alone</i> caused the childhood paralysis scare of the twentieth century. I am also puzzled that the doctors expected results less than a week after the operation.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">* * * </span></div><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Except for Bob’s nurse station, the twins seemed to own the joint. It was Bob who explained to me that the twins were having an operation on their spine, and if successful, they might be able to walk again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">And I was becoming more comfortable with Bob. As a nine year-old, it was difficult for me to imagine a life minus both legs; a life Bob lived. At first I couldn’t look at his stumps, but the more he chatted with me, the less afraid I became. Afraid? Yeah, because I would need to return time and again for checkups, fearful that the tumor removed from above my ankle could return. It would be an understatement to say that Bob was a normal person. He was special in ways I could not yet understand.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: blue;">* * *</span></div><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> Donny went under the knife first, then Ronny on the following day. The wheelchairs were left in ‘park’ for the time being, as they were both bedridden after their operations. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">After several days, a group of doctors entered our room to examine Donny. It was early morning as I silently watched from my bed. Joey was in the bed next to me. He reached over to squeeze ahold of my hand as we both watched the scene across the room unfold </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">They asked Donny questions, moved his legs a bit, then asked more questions. While one doctor distracted Donny with talk, another doctor pulled a safety pin from his pocket and poked Donny’s bare foot. There was no response. Donny just kept right on conversing with the other doctor. He never felt a thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">All the white coats huddled up at the foot of Donny’s bed in what looked like a group hug. Tension filled the air. One of the white coats broke rank to explain to Donny, the operation proved unsuccessful. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">All hell broke loose! Bedpans, clocks and radios, all airborne! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Donny screamed, “No, No, No!!!” Tears of disappointment streaked his cheeks. He was freaking. Who wouldn’t be?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">At the same time, his twin Ronny jumped halfway out of his bed, yelling, “Donny! Donny! Stop! It’s gonna work out. Don’t panic! Don’t give up! Don’t ever give up!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">The doctors caught Ronny from falling to the floor, then wrestled him back into his bed. Damn! That kid was gonna crawl to his twin brother one way or another, so the docs pushed their beds together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">For me, it was like being suspended in time, seated on my bed grasping Joey’s hand, frozen stiff in a mind grip, tears and shocking disbelief. Was there no God? Did the Demons win?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Next day, the same doctors came to examine Ronny. The results were negative. More screaming, more crying. It didn’t scare me this time. I was just so moved by it all. Was anyone upstairs keeping watch over the twins? Where was <i>their</i> Reverend Van?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">A few days later, the twins were eased back into their wheels. It wasn’t long before the orderlies, nurses and doctors were dodging wheelchairs, again. And I could hear the twins laughter as they motored down the hallway and into our room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">I was stunned, to say the least. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">They were determined more than ever to carry on their journey. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Call it resilience. Call it perseverance. For me it was... impact!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">They might never walk again, yet they were smiling, joking and teasing everyone. I will never forget them. I thank them for showing me the way, the light. And I will always wonder how they made out in life. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"> As for me, I was free of the so-called double ankle and returned for checkups every so often for the rest of my childhood. I beat this one, but it didn’t matter. What I gained during that hospital experience was invaluable for a kid with a disability, a hearing loss. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">During the worst of times, no matter how bad things get, those words hollered by Ronny on that fateful morning come back to remind me: “Don’t give up! Don’t ever give up!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Fate wasn’t so much up to the Gods and Demons. They don’t hold all the cards. No. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">The light, it comes from within. And that’s the card I get to play.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Donny and Ronny… Joey and Bob, they were my heroes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Scratch that...make it..…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">SUPERHEROES!!!</span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-89391039388701689682010-02-07T13:47:00.000-05:002010-02-07T13:47:54.208-05:00<div style="color: orange; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>'til Hell Puddles Over</b></span></div><br />
The story continues through the eyes and mind of a nine year-old with hearing loss. Still in the hospital recovering from surgery to remove a tumor from above my ankle. Help from above comes to the rescue in my time of need? Er... you decide.<br />
<br />
You can read the previous stories here:<br />
<a href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/nine-year-old-i-have-series-of-brief.html">(Part 1)</a> <a href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/double-ankle-part-2.html">(Part 2)</a><br />
<br />
<div style="color: #0b5394; text-align: center;"><b>'til Hell Puddles Over</b></div><div style="color: #0b5394;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0b5394;">Following the operation, I had never been so nervous as the first time I went for therapy. After spending a few days in bed, sitting up and being placed into a wheelchair made me dizzy. <br />
<br />
The female therapist was quite pretty, young with blonde flowing hair. When she lifted me onto the low parallel bars, I nearly vomited on her clean blue uniform. By some divine intervention, I managed to scarf it back down. So much for pride, huh? <br />
<br />
When returned to my room, everyone was gone. Joey and Ronny were in the hospital’s school room. Donny was taking his turn under the knife. So the orderlies put me back in bed, then wheeled the bed into the center of the room so I could get a better view of the tv. <br />
<br />
As I laid there watching Bullwinkle yet again save Rocky’s tail, this tall dark shadowy figure filled the doorway. A man of the cloth, dressed in black. <br />
<br />
The Reverend from my church confused me, especially when he was up on the pulpit. Although Reverend Van preached against my demons, with his shouting, he scared the Bejeezus out of me!<br />
<br />
The church, you see, with it’s high ceiling, hardwood floors and wooden pews, affects the acoustics. When you are in a stairwell and the noise echos, well that was what the sermon sounded like through my hearing aid.<br />
<br />
“Turn from the devil,” the Reverend’s voice would boom. “Let Jesus lead you from evil! Save yourself, before it’s too late!” <br />
<br />
I could hear the pastor’s shouting voice, but just couldn’t distinguish all the wobbling words.<br />
<br />
The demons in my head were silenced by turning off my hearing aid. The rest of the service would find me exploring the tall stained glass windows, as light brightened the heavenly figures. By quieting the haunted church, the windows became my sermon. And that ‘off ’ switch became my ‘safe place.’ <br />
<br />
Knowing about the tumor operation, Reverend Van dropped in at the hospital to chat me up. Alone in the room, confined to the bed, I couldn’t just get up and run. Awe heck, I hadn’t even been issued crutches just yet. <br />
<br />
Trapped with no way out, I pulled the sheets up to my chin. I had to face ‘the shouter’ and up close, too! I was so scared, the urge to pee flooded my memory banks. Since the orderlies had temporarily relocated my bed to the center of the room, there was no help button nearby.<br />
<br />
In his deep baritone voice, the man in black wanted to explore my spirit. “How are you feeling today, son? God is keeping watch over you!”<br />
<br />
I tensely replied, “Uh, yeah, the...the...pretty therapist, um, she’s watchin’ over me......too.”<br />
<br />
“Pretty therapist?” he stammered, as his brows furrowed, and eyes darkened.<br />
<br />
“Yeah... she’s pretty... so are the nurses!” I answered while struggling to impede the flow. “And if you don’t call one... right now... it’ll be too late... to save... my soul!” <br />
<br />
And with that the floodgates burst open, pissing damnation all over myself.<br />
</div><div style="color: #0b5394; text-align: center;">* * *</div><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><span style="color: #0b5394;">That evening my parents visited.</span><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><span style="color: #0b5394;"> “Mom, why’s the Reverend traveling way out of his territory to the hospital? Who’s minding the church?”</span><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><span style="color: #0b5394;">Smiling, she explained, “That’s what they do, honey. He came all this way just to cheer up one of the flock.”</span><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><span style="color: #0b5394;">“Well, he didn’t cheer me at all. He scared the Bejeezus outta me! Again!”</span><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><br style="color: #0b5394;" /><span style="color: #0b5394;"> I never did mention what else he scared out of me. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">* * * </span></div><span style="color: #0b5394;">The church offered little hope, far as I was concerned. If I were to see the light, it would have to come from another source. And I was desperate for some living, breathing inspiration to overcome my demons. It would slap me from an unlikely source.</span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-43853434088274696582010-01-31T19:12:00.003-05:002010-01-31T19:16:26.983-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Double Ankle</span></span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/nine-year-old-i-have-series-of-brief.html">(Read Part 1 here)</a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After the gym incident things couldn’t possible get worse or could it?</span> <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://ragingeighthnerve.blogspot.com/2010/01/nine-year-old-i-have-series-of-brief.html"></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">There comes a time in life, a turning point, where everything innocent, everything normal, is lost. At age nine, in the month of May, that time arrived for me. The next three weeks the meaning of life would dramatically change.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Late that winter, one morning as I dressed, I noticed a bump just above my ankle. After mentioning it to Gramma, she wanted to see.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“It’s a double ankle,” she exclaimed. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Double ankle, huh? Wow, with this maybe some day I can win a medal in the Olympics!” I gloated. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After all the poking and probing by several doctors, it had been decided the double ankle needs to be surgically removed because it’s a tumor. Clang! There goes my medal. I knew nothing about tumors. Why it decided to park itself above my ankle, or what planet it came from. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">At first I was quite brave about the whole ordeal. That is, until it was finally time to leave for the hospital. The idea of being left in a hospital room with a bunch of strangers, me unable to hear very good, it terrified me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We entered the Children’s Hospital that Sunday. Monday would be a prep day, with the surgery performed on Tuesday. The Children’s Hospital is the same location where my weekly speech lessons are held. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This very cool guy, Bob, he runs the switchboard at the nurse’s station on the second floor. The billing office is right next to Bob’s station. Since first attending speech lessons from the age of six, I would ascend the stairs to pay the bill, saving Mom the trip. Bob would always chat me up as I stood on my toes to peek over the front of his workstation. Always friendly, never complaining, forever cheerful, that was Bob. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My hospital room was located on the second floor too, so my folks thought it would be comfy for me, knowing that Bob worked there. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">First I met my hospital cellmates, Joey, Donny and Ronny. We couldn’t escape. Joey was fourteen. Until I met Joey, no one ever told me I might awake from this operation minus one leg. He was like a big brother and showed me the ropes; the help button on the bedside, the bathroom, and the rec room. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We had a tv, and a concrete porch outside our room. Down the hall was a room full of adults, for some reason or other, all crippled. Kids were forbidden from entering their room unescorted. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My other two roomies, Donny and Ronny, were sixteen-year-old identical twins; both had become crippled and wheelchair bound. I don’t know the reason why, but some kind of pressure on their spine or something. They would have surgery that same week to release the pressure, restoring feeling into their legs, so they could possibly walk again.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">On Monday, for the first time ever I got a glance behind Bob’s workstation. My eyes grew to the size of grapefruits. Bob didn’t have any legs! Not even stumps! Nothing! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">For three years this guy’s been cheering me up?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Joey must be right, I thought. Are they gonna remove the tumor, or remove my leg? </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The nurse entered our room late Monday evening, she handed me two sleeping pills with a glass of water. I couldn’t figure out why, never had trouble sleeping, so why were they forcing pills on me? They made me forgo supper, too! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">A nurse shook me awake bright and early Tuesday morning. At first everything was groggy; in super slo-motion. The smell of bacon awoke my senses. I asked for something to eat, but was ignored. So what happened next? </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Here jimmy, take these two pills,”instructed the nurse. “They’re to help you sleep during the procedure.” </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Awe gee, I was already asleeping!” I bitched. “You woke me up in order to knock me out?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I had to stay awake long enough to see my folks. It was brief. They walked alongside as I’m wheeled into surgery. Mom was fighting back the tears. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We pushed into this spic and span room, bright lights, and shiny stainless steel all around. There were people with gowns and masks, all going about their business. It was scary; all of these strangers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This one masked man hovered over my face. He wanted to know how I’m feeling. “Are ya tired at all, son?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> “Not at all,” I lied. “How ’bout some breakfast while we’re waitin’? Cuz it might be awhile afore I’m sleepy. And I’m starving! Bacon, eggs, and toast will do.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Ahuh,” the masked man countered. “Why don’t you try counting backwards from one hundred to zero. That always works for me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Then you’ll feed me? Okay, I’ll give it a try. Um, one hundred, ninety-nine, hey! I want my eggs scrambled, okay? You got that? Um, let’s see, oh yeah, ninety-eight, ninety... uh... um... seven, ninety uh... uh... zzzzzzz.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I opened my eyes, the clock read three in the afternoon; the room, it started to spin, and spin, and spin, until I spilled my guts, then passed out until late evening. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Slowly my eyes came into focus, there on the nightstand was this small jar filled with fluid, and suspended in the fluid was this most beautiful light blue Robin's egg... the tumor.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And my leg? It was still attached to me! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">But the worst was not meant for me. No!</span><br /><br /> <div class="flockcredit" style="text-align: right; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:x-small;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Blogge</span>d with the <a href="http://www.flock.com/blogged-with-flock" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;" target="_new" title="Flock Browser">Flock Browser</a></div>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-50131692692036988382010-01-22T19:24:00.004-05:002010-01-31T19:19:56.626-05:00<span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">A Nine-Year-Old</span><br /></div><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emotional Nines</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">* * *<br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">And the next marking period, he wrote: “Jimmy improved a great deal. I think we’ve got him moving now.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Cradling a stockpile of his eraser missiles, Mr. Tamburro was true to his word.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">And me? My confidence soared!</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">* * *</span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/new1stblack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 106px; height: 150px;" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/new1stblack.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“Okay guys, sorry I’m late, let’s take attendance.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">wham</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">, this big strong hand slapped me hard, across the back of my head, because I was still yapping away while Mueller wanted quiet!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“Knock it off, jimmy, and pay attention!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“Get away from me, you jerk,” I hollered. “Leave me alone!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“jimmy, what's going on,” Gary inquired. “Why are you bawling?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“Because that jerk of a teacher hit me,” I whimpered.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“If you don’t settle down, you’re gonna get into worse trouble. Why’d he hit you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">“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?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">A nine year-old slugging it out with the strongest adult in the school? Damn demon just won’t go away!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">As I fought back the rainstorm, “Awe... umm... gee... it’s nothing Mr. T. Just all tuckered out from running around in gym class.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">As for that confidence Mr. Tamburro instilled in me?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">Crushed</span>.</span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-74329766050554756292009-11-19T19:14:00.004-05:002009-11-19T19:50:47.724-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica;font-size:100%;color:midnightblue;" ><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">My Freak Years</span></span></span><br /><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;" ><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"></span></span></div><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;" ><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><br />A post on the HLA forum asked what your favorite quote is regarding deafness or hearing loss. Mine follows:<br /><br />I like this quote by Paul Saevig: <span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">One coping mechanism I see some hard of hearing people use is acting as if nothing's wrong. A couple of you who use this mechanism are reading this column right now. Nothing wrong, is there? It doesn't hurt? Doesn't bother you? You don't care? I nominate these brave souls for the John Wayne Blood n- Guts Award. They can put the trophy right next to their ulcer medicine.</span><br /><br />As a teen, that was me, ol blood-n-guts, pretending and faking my emotions all through high school. My Mom was always worried about me, so I learned to hide my true feelings from her and everyone else. Only problem was, the frustrations of being isolated and missing out on a social life, it all builds up until ya have a mental blowup.<br /><br />With regard to hearing loss, I only exposed my emotions to my parents one time.<br /><br />I got my first hearing-aid when I was six. When I was 16 the Audiologist wanted me to wear not one, but two hearing-aids. We were all in her office when they told me. I screamed at 'em with tears streaking my cheeks, "I'm already a freak wearing one, now ya want me to wear two?"<br /><br />Odd thing is, later on, Mom and Dad never commented on my outburst. I think they were shell-shocked.<br /><br />And I only wore one hearing-aid, when I really needed two.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ok, this weeks joke:<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">1+2=3</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Until a child tells you what they are thinking, we can't begin to imagine how their mind is working....</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Little Zachary was doing very badly in math. His parents had tried everything... tutors, mentors, flash cards, special learning centers. In short, everything they could think of to help his math.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Finally, in a last ditch effort, they took Zachary down and enrolled him in the local Catholic school. After the first day, little Zachary came home with a very serious look on his face. He didn't even kiss his mother hello. Instead, he went straight to his room and started studying.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> Books and papers were spread out all over the room and little Zachary was hard at work. His mother was amazed. She called him down to dinner.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">To her shock, the minute he was done, he marched back to his room without a word, and in no time, he was back hitting the books as hard as before.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">This went on for some time, day after day, while the mother tried to understand what made all the difference.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Finally, little Zachary brought home his Report Card. He quietly laid it on the table, went to his room and hit the books. With great trepidation, his Mom looked at it and to her great surprise, little Zachary got an 'A' in math. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She could no longer hold her curiosity. She went to his room and said, "Son, what was it? Was it the nuns?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Little Zachary looked at her and shook his head, no. "Well, then," she replied, "Was it the books, the discipline, the structure, the uniforms? WHAT WAS IT?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Little Zachary looked at her and said, "Well, on the first day of school when I saw that guy nailed to the plus sign, I knew they weren't fooling around." </span></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;" ><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><br /></span></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-24059985348916951082009-10-10T20:57:00.004-05:002009-10-10T21:15:52.169-05:00<span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;"><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><center style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><b>In The Beginning</b></center><span style="color:blue;"><br /><br />It started with elephants, in the First Grade.<br /><br />The teacher gave a bit of a lecture, then wanted us to draw a picture. I thought she instructed us to draw and color <i>any</i> circus animal, so I did my best to create a circus horse; one where the rider attempts jumps and acrobatics.<br /><br />When our alotted time expired, I lined up with the other kids to hand in my Picasso. Noticing that my classmates had all drawn elephants, I slunk to the back of the line. Now standing solo in front of the teacher, her piercing eyes burning a hole through my 6 year-old soul, I had become her demon boy.<br /><br />I pleaded for a second chance. She refused. Why?<br /><br />The very next morning, upon entering the classroom, up above the blackboard, was a row of elephants followed by... <i>gasp</i>... one single horse. I stood still, waiting for hell to freeze over. I wished I'd die right then and there; six years-old.<br /><br />Embarrassed, yes, but worse, scheduled for that evening was a one-on-one Parent-Teacher Conference.<br /><br />As tears streaked my cheeks, I begged her to take my horse down. Again, she refused. Why???<br /><br />A few weeks later I had my hearing tested for the first time; soon to be followed by a body-aid.<br /><br />This was only... <i>the beginning</i>.<br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;"><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><span style="color:blue;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">* * *</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;"><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><span style="color:blue;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica;font-size:85%;color:midnightblue;"><span class="spnMessageText" id="msg"><span style="color:blue;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Well, that is how it all began for me. As a kid, you don't accept hearing loss. It takes a series of blows to break your spirit. And still, you don't want to believe you are different. Somehow demonized, cursed, forever falling to the bottom of the barrel, climbing back up, peering over the rim, only to be kicked back down again. </span><br /></span></span></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-22520372755314181272008-03-27T19:43:00.004-05:002008-03-29T15:08:33.979-05:00<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">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."</span><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">I Stood Alone</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">* * *</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204); font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">* * *</span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But I could not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I thought it over. "Say uncle!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/free_tibet_logo_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/free_tibet_logo_small.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-11140919651410312312007-11-08T20:45:00.000-05:002007-11-08T22:02:08.043-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">I Feel Broken...</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2-dVmpk_mnU/RzO8IAfLB8I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/aKw6xM7C2dY/s1600-h/DSCN11681152.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2-dVmpk_mnU/RzO8IAfLB8I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/aKw6xM7C2dY/s320/DSCN11681152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130651246260848578" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">My hearing test didn't show much change, but like I said in my last post, my hearing-aid is on it's death bed. Bicross hearing-aids are still available as analog, but the cost is near 2 grand. Digital bicross are about 3 grand. I can't afford either one. I went to orientation for a state agency hoping they can purchase the aids for me. That will be a long paperwork process and then they could reject me. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was awake half the night thinking about all the crap that has happened to me. Stuff that was related to my hearing loss. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I still remember the bullies from high school, how I finally got the nerve to stand up to them. I challenged an entire gang to a fight, that was my after-school extra-curricular activity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I remembered friends telling me I was awarded school sports awards because everyone felt sorry for me. What kinda friends were those? And who needs em?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then I thought about the more recent crap. How my co-workers bullied me and mocked me. How it pushed me to the brink of suicide. That shit is scary. Freaking scary!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then there was Billy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've tried to write about him, but it is so hard. I must have hurt him so bad. He was in the same nightclubs I was, but he was too weak to tell me himself. He would send a bartender to tell me he was there. But I couldn't hear her. Another time, at the same bar, he sent his daughter over to talk to me. I couldn't understand her. And I hadn't seen her since she was maybe 10 years old. So I didn't recognize her either.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It didn't end there. No.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was hiking a local park. I had jus climbed up a small hill where the trails intersected. This old old man passed by jus as I reached the top of the hill. He looked to be 80, frail and bent over as he slowly walked by with wisp of white hair left to the wind. He looked familiar. I turned and watched him until he was out of sight, and wondered if he would reach the road. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I didn't know it was Billy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I stopped into the bar for a beer and sammy. An old man, all bent over, shuffled to a barstool with the help of a middle-age man. An Irishman making his "last call," I thought. He drained one beer, then slowly gathered himself up and departed. "God bless ya," called out the barkeep. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I didn't know it was Billy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">You see, Billy and I were friends from years ago. We lost track of one another. He recognized me and tried a few times to reach me. But my hearing let me down. Actually no, I let myself down. I did all the wrong things when I couldn't hear the barkeep or the daughter. I gave a yes or a no when actually I didn't hear what they said to me. I was frustrated from trying to hear in a crowded noisy bar. So I took the easy way out, figuring it was some kind of mistaken identity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Billy died 2 days after making his "last call" to the bar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The service was on a Saturday. On Friday evening, I stopped into the bar. I struggled to finish one beer. It was too emotional, so I got up to leave. The barkeep rushed over and handed me a token. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">"It's on Billy," she said. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I scratched my head like...whatdafu? A dead man bought me a beer?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Come Saturday, there was no viewing at the wake. But I recognized the daughter...and the son. I knew I'd seen them before. At the same bar. It started to click, the sick old man, omg, that was Billy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Billy wasn't 80 years old. He was 46. He had lupus. It ravaged his body. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">If I knew my hearing would cause this much pain, I would have offed myself years ago. I live with this burden everyday. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Broken.</span></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-25541082779842136062007-03-30T19:04:00.000-05:002007-03-30T19:45:21.711-05:00<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">HOH Word Association</span><br /><br />At MyHearingLoss web, I asked for friends to suggest words/phrases associated with their own hearing loss experiences. I made minor edits for clarity purposes. Remember, this list has been composed by people who are hard-of-hearing, not profound deaf. Feel free to add your own or comment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">HOH WORD ASSOCIATION</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1. Achievement</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2. Agony</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">3. Alone</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4. Anger</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">5. Angry</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">6. Baffled</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">7. Best</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">8. Better</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">9. Blank look</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">10. Blissfully quiet</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">11. Bored</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">12. Brainless</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">13. Brave</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">14. Brave</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">15. Calm/tranquil</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">16. Canny</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">17. Complicated</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">18. Computer</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">19. Confident</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">20. Courage</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">21. Creative</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">22. Days</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">23. Depressed</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">24. Desolate</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">25. Disconcerted</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">26. Discrimination/discriminated against </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">27. Dream</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">28. Dreamstate as your body can not feel what you can not hear </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">29. Dumb (sometimes)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">30. Dying to know what's going on</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">31. Emails</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">32. Embarrassed</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">33. Expected to know everything when you haven't been told about it</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">34. Facing my fears</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">35. Family</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">36. Fatigue</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">37. Fear(3f’s)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">38. Feeling stupid</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">39. Feeling totally alone</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">40. Foiled</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">41. Forum</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">42. Friends</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">43. Frown for absolutely no reason.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">44. Frustration</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">45. Frustration (#1)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">46. Gullible</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">47. Happy</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">48. Having no privacy (need interpreter/helper for communication)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">49. Helpful</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">50. Humorous</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">51. Imagine</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">52. Inadequate</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">53. Intelligent</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">54. Isolated, even from the ppl that know better/love you most</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">55. Isolation</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">56. Jittery</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">57. Logical</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">58. Lonely</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">59. Modest</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">60. Nervous</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">61. Panic</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">62. Peaceful</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">63. People make decisions for/control your life</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">64. Perseverance</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">65. Played cruel "jokes" on</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">66. Proud</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">67. Prudent</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">68. Puzzled</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">69. Rattled</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">70. Real</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">71. Resourceful</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">72. Sad</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">73. Satisfaction/pride in oneself proving ppl wrong, who said you couldn't </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">74. Savvy</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">75. Self-doubt</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">76. Sharp</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">77. Shrewd</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">78. Shyness.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">79. Smart (sometimes)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">80. Strength</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">81. Strong</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">82. Sudden</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">83. Support</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">84. Terrible</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">85. Thwarted<br />86. Timid<br />87. Torment<br />88. Ugly<br />89. Uncertainty<br />90. Unimportant<br />91. Unique<br />92. Wise<br />93. Witless<br />94. Worse<br />95. Worthy<br /></span></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-60640625349930132452007-01-06T18:33:00.000-05:002007-01-06T18:49:54.322-05:00<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Every now and then, I put up a story about my hearing loss adventures. The purpose being to demonstrate for those with hearing difficulties that they are not alone, and to educate their family and friends about what a hard-of-hearing individual experiences.<br /><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Off Key</span><br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >I recently learned that my sixth-grade music teacher passed away. That reminded me of the time I sang in defiance because of my hearing loss. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Our elementary school consisted of kindergarten through sixth-grade. There were two separate sixth-grade classes. Both classes assembled in the gymnasium for chorus practice. We were singing patriotic songs like The Star-Spangled Banner when the music teacher became upset.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Who ever is making that screeching sound?” she demanded. “Who is it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >A couple of the guys looked at me, but I didn’t think I was the one. I reached for my hearing-aid box and turned down the volume. Maybe the aid was squealing from feedback, I thought.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Okay then,” she groveled, “we will start over.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >And so she led us off with the national anthem. She started walking amongst us, intently listening to each and every student.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Still one row away from me, she yelled, “Stop, Jim will you come forward please.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >I stepped out in front of the chorus not knowing what to expect. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Jim, I’d like you to sing the national anthem for us.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“B-b-but umm,” I stammered. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“No buts son! Just sing for us.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Uh n-n-no, I can’t.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Was it you making that awful noise?” she inquired. “It was you trying to disrupt my class, wasn’t it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“No ma’am, not me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Then why won’t you sing for us?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >My gaze dropped to the gym floor. My voice nearly a whisper. “Cuz . . . I umm, I don’t know all the words.” </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >The gym filled with laughter. Then class was dismissed. The following week I was instructed not to attend chorus anymore. No reason forthcoming. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Even though I was currently taking weekly speech lessons, I didn’t really believe anything was wrong with my way of speaking or singing. When youngsters grow up with a partial hearing loss, they don’t realize how they are speaking different from all the others. I pronounced the words the same way I believed others spoke them. I stubbornly insisted that I spoke perfect English.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >There was one other person who didn’t participate in chorus. Her name was Nina. She was an ill child and needed lots of study time to catch up. So she worked one-on-one with our classroom teacher while the rest of the class participated in chorus. I, as the intruder, was set-up with reading/writing compositions or math problems to solve. So much fun, huh?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Come June was graduation from Elementary School. I finally get to escape this living hell for another hell called Junior High. But first came the ceremony. We assembled in the gym to go over the event; who would speak, when to get your diploma, and practice the songs we would sing as the graduating class. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Sing? No way!” I protested.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >My classroom teacher stood before me, with the music teacher peering over his shoulder.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“But Jimmy,” he pleaded. “The entire class is going to be on-stage singing, even Nina.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Nobody liked my <span style="font-style: italic;">scr-E-E-E-ching</span>, remember?” I added, with arms folded.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“Well, why not stand on-stage with your classmates and just mouth the words?” suggested the music teacher. “Besides all the parents want to see their child participate. If you don’t join the others, you’ll have to sit down front by yourself while they are singing.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >“You kicked me out and now ya want me to fake singing,” I shouted. “You didn’t even try to help me, or work with me. You humiliated me in front of the entire chorus. Then you just booted me out . . . with no explanation! I’m not singing! I’m not faking it either!”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >Right up until the actual event, they tried to persuade me otherwise, but I wouldn’t budge.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 204);font-family:verdana;" >And to this day, I still don’t know all them words to the national anthem. </span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-77123093805052429492006-10-30T20:32:00.000-05:002006-10-30T21:16:44.482-05:00<a href="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/thehouse.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a251/jimmer72/thehouse.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"> This is a true story, one of my own.</span><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">MIND GRIP</span></strong></div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Did you ever try to wake up from a dream or a nightmare, but for some strange reason, could not quite bring yourself to the world of consciousness? You are almost awake, struggling to open your eyes, desperately trying to move an arm or a leg, but your body is frozen stiff. You use all your might, trying to break out of this mental state, but nothing gives; no, not until you relax, accepting your fate, whatever it may be.</span><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">* * *</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">My mind, stoned and drunk, was in a spiraling daze. . . again. Am I coming or going? One minute, I’m having a rollicking good ol' time at a Fairport pub. Next thing ya know, swoosh; flying, spinning, floating on air, I’m summoned back to my hometown, Diamond Flatts, located some hundred-fifty miles away. I moved away from Flatts two years ago. I have been revisiting this nightmare scene, dropping into this dark creepy old bedroom of my childhood friend, Mud, maybe three times a week. Just being here feels so eerie and creepy. The sweat pouring off of my mop is drenching my Led Zep tee.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">But hey, this is Mud’s turf. Here in his room, we play by his rules. I can barely make him out, sitting in the dark corner, listening to the original ‘live’ '69 Woodstock album, playing the same track over and over again.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Give me an F. . . give me a U."</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />I softly call out his name, but Mud never answers anymore. Nor does he acknowledge me with that familiar bellow of his, "Hey! Jimmy! How's ya doo-in?" No, he just sits there, stoicly spinning that same Woodstock track, day and night. </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Give me an C. . . give me a K." </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Oh my freak! I don’t understand what is happening! Is it <em>my</em> nightmare. . . or <em>his</em>?</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />I edged over to the window, peeked through the curtains from his upstairs bedroom; down below is Mud’s old ’64 Plymouth Fury; now with a modified rooftop.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />"Um, hey Mud," still speaking softly, "I’m heading downstairs to see your folks in a minute. Why am I summoned up here, anyways? Ya never are allowed to speak anymore."</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><em></em><br />It’s as if he <em>can</em> speak, but it’s prohibited. In every nightmare he never answers; just keeps on spinning Woodstock, his head bobbing to the tune.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Give me an F. . . give me a U."</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />Well, it’s his gameboard; if he don’t wanna talk and explain, he don’t haveta.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Finding my own way down the winding stairway, "Hi folks, sorry to be dropping in on ya this late, but for some bizarre reason I’m s’pose to be here." </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Everyone is just kind of on edge, sitting around the parlor. Sisters, brother, parents, each one every once in awhile stealing a glance toward the upper front corner section of the house, his bedroom. They never question why I am here, nor how I mystically surface out of thin air. It feels awkward.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">From the misses, "Jimmy, aren’t you returning home to Fairport? It’s a three hour drive! You’re going to miss work tomorrow." </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"No prob, Mrs. K," stealing an upward peek of my own. "I’ll be back in Fairport at the blink of an eye," another nervous upwards glance.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Hmmm, thinking to myself, wonder if he’ll stay up there tonight. This house has a vibe all of its own, <em>Mud’s isolation</em>. For some odd reason, he’s not allowed to leave that bedroom, not for supper, not for company, and not for any reason. He just doesn’t belong downstairs anymore. And nobody speaks of him either. Somehow, I know it is taboo to even think of mentioning his name. The subject just never comes up. </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Geez. . . here I am, in his home, he doesn’t talk to me anymore. It’s like he is not even living here. . . but he is! Why won’t his family acknowledge him anymore?</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />One scary thought always lurks in the back of everyone’s mind. What if he does come down, descending those winding stairs? All the laws of physics prohibit it; time will stop; up will be down; good shall become evil.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">* * *</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Wiping my eyes, blinking a few times, daylight is breaking. What a weird nightmare. The bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Glad it was finally over. That spinning journey always gives me the creeps. It was a restless sleep and the coming day will be the worse for it.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"> </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">The hangover won’t help either. Been doing that lots lately. A sixpack is not enough; a dozen go down pretty easy. . . burp! Heck, this past year alone I’ve probably been thrown out of every bar in Jefferson County. Just can’t seem to help myself anymore. Lately, life has been an out-of-control slow downward spiral; still haven’t hit bottom yet. My body feels all banged up from the drug and alcohol abuse.</span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><div align="left"><br />Did I even take time for supper last night? Can’t remember. Perhaps I should punish myself with a three-mile jog this morning. Nowadays, gutting it out seems to be my style. Kind of like I’m pushing myself to the limit and from two directions, at that! On the one hand being physical with the jogging, and on the other, drowning my sorrows with alcohol.</div><div align="left"> </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">When and where shall it all conclude? Somehow, I’ve gotta defeat that ghoulish nightmare in Diamond Flatts, too!</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Pulling on my sneakers, gonna be a nice easy jog this fresh sunny morning. Nah! If I run hard enough, maybe my nightmares and taunts will be left in the dark.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Can ya see the light? Run to the light, Jimmy, run to the light!" </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Darn squeaky voice, just won’t stop haunting my mind. It hints of that time as a young boy, climbing with my pals, through the long storm sewers beneath the NYS Thruway. We had climbed a ladder in the storm pipes, then had to make a short hop into the next sewer section. I was afraid to make the jump. Losing patience, my friends started to leave.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Come on back. . . please don't, don’t leave me behind."</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />Who would wanna be abandoned there, alone in that dark, dank storm sewer? But that is where I find myself now; somehow lost, in this dark sewage of emotion. </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">It was scary enough, being deserted by my best friend; one who often helped me deal with my hearing loss and the emotional train wreck that comes with it. Some days are bad, really sinister. I often end up having disagreements with friends because I didn’t hear all the facts. At times, it can make me look like a real jerk. People don’t wanna hear excuses, so I just take my lumps, then move on.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"> </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Except for Mud, there is nobody who listens anymore. I can’t hear every word and my friend, Mud, can no longer help me hear. So I’m gonna run for the light. . . and run hard, at that.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">* * *</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">The next night, 3 o’clock, I mysteriously find myself on my feet, standing beside my waterbed. Wiping my sleepy eyes clear, gee, gotta take a whiz. After the long drain, I snuggle back under the warmth of the blanket. Hmmm, nice and cozy and, hey! What the heck was I doing standing on my feet in the middle of sleep?</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />Remembering the nightmare now, on an eerie moonless night, stark naked and cold, there I lie, inside a coffin, set down in an open grave. It’s a plain wooden coffin. One like ya see in old western flicks, but with no lid on top. As I lie there, I stare upward at the glimmering stars.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">What the heck is that? Ouch! Crawling on my neck! Something bit me! And now on my feet, my face, everywhere! Ants! Centipedes! Spiders! Thousands of them! Swarming all over my buff-bare bod!</span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><div align="left"><br />Can’t move. . . my arms. . . my legs. . . straining and straining. . . nothing!</div><div align="left"> </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">What’s wrong? I gotta get outta this hell-hole! Why can’t I move? All my physical strength is centered on motion, trying to break out of this frozen state, a mind grip.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"><br />After tensing for what seems like an eternity, in one swift heave, I spring up out of that open coffin hole, landing on my feet. . . next to my waterbed. </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Hmmm, rubbing my eyes, so long as I’m up, might as well drain ol’ willie.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">* * *</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Jimmy's nightmares continued for well over a year, with no escapement. He was helplessly trapped in his mind grip, yet distant from truths and answers. Only time could heal his mental anguish. Mud was one of the few always willing to help him hear. They had been friends for so long as anyone could remember, and now Mud was dead.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">Ate his shotgun. . . while sitting in an old ’64 Plymouth Fury.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">"Gimme an F. . ."</span></div><div align="right"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;">©JRM2005 All rights reserved</span></strong></div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#6666cc;"></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-1159486213410725322006-09-28T18:07:00.000-05:002006-10-11T19:32:39.572-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3583/3905/1600/black1st.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3583/3905/320/black1st.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">MY ORIGINAL</span><br /><br />As a 6 year-old, this was my very 1st, a body hearing aid. Originally, it was attached to my shirt pocket, and </span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;">quite often smashed </span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;">to the ground. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Notice all the scratches? </span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Eventually, someone invented a strap and brace, worn around the chest, to hold the aid in place. Still, gravity won out, so my Mom sewed the tight top end of a sock to the brace; problem solved. This thing lasted 11 years until I was 17. Plain and simple, I hated it! It didn't look too cool attached to a mop-head teenager. I often ditched it after leaving the house. School was different tho. Teachers would check to see if I was tuned in. Today it sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition. </span></span>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35149960.post-1159411090560702642006-09-27T21:26:00.000-05:002006-10-11T19:32:39.473-05:00<div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">SCREAMS</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">cruel affliction, profound hole</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">darkness moans, alone the soul</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">silent loudness, quiet blast</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">lurks the Demon, shadow cast</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">anvil, hammer, trumpets blare</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">chain reaction, trembling air</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">trilling whistles, pounding drums</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">cranked up volume, rendered mum</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">a deaf soul seeks no misery</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">it finds him through anxiety</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">from sight not sound, reactions come </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">frustrations tame him, thoughts go numb</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">twisted tension, rising tide</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">isolation, boxed inside</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">crushed emotions, self-esteem</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">deafened silence....Demon screams</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">©jrm2005 All rights reserved.</span><br /></div></div>jimmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13114255434616727257noreply@blogger.com0