If you asked me what the one most indispensable sense is – what the greatest loss would be – I think, as much as I am afraid of not seeing, I would have to say hearing.
I have a fairly good idea what it means to deal with blindness from outside the equation because of the years I worked with all those wonderful patients.
I saw the terror that accompanied macular degeneration, glaucoma, keratoconous, and even cataract diagnoses.
I have a vague idea of some of the minor, and extreme, complications for people who are blind (through my job and because of my volunteer shifts at CNIB).
But if I couldn’t hear I think I would go out of my mind.
If every time I sat down at this computer I could not listen to iTunes, cds, the radio, the rain, the birds chattering outside this back window, the street-sweeper that comes by at all hours, the scissor man, the ice cream truck, the children laughing on their way to the swimming pool or the rink, the sounds of their water splashing and their skates cutting across the ice, the sweet tinkling of the cat bells, my daughter’s, son’s and granddaughter’s voices over the telephone, Turner Classic movies playing in the background, Mary calling me down to dinner…
I don’t know what I would do.
My hearing isn’t what it used to be. In fact, my son and I seemed to have picked up my father’s degenerative disease. But as long as I can pick out symphonies’ distant strains, I will be grateful.
My ears identify my world; set boundaries; inform me of my day and of my night, of who I am and want to be. They help me celebrate and grieve. Without them, I have nothing.
He who hears music, feels his solitude peopled at once. Robert Browning
