To continue my little Memoir Monday habit (we’ll see how long this lasts), I will take you to the next place in my life adventure: Arizona. Yes, my poor family (and even more poor red-handed sister) moved from the climate of England to Arizona’s scorched earth. The main memories I have from this place are: the pool which had (in my memory) a 70 foot tall chain link fence (I’m guessing it was 8 feet?), rocks instead of grass in our yard, and burning myself on the metal buckle of the seatbelt. That last memory is what you might call a CORE memory, that shit was hot.
Good news: we had a pool, my sister and I got hearing aids, and my parents got Bacardi back from Memaush and Papaush. Before I tell you about the hearing aids (and pool), I’ll explain the second part of that sentence. Bacardi was my parent’s first fur-baby, a golden-colored cocker spaniel with lots of love and ear infections. Due to the quarantine measures required in England, they left him with my Mom’s parents, who my older sister named, mostly because she had hearing loss and came up with her own words, most of them ending in a satisfying SH sound. They did not mind. Bacardi was awesome. Also I was at least 18 before I made the connection that my parents named their first dog after a brand of rum. They are not big drinkers so it kind of surprises me every time and reminds me that we all have a little silliness inside. I like it.
My mom had noticed my sister and I couldn’t hear from a fairly young age, but she had to contest with military doctors who were quick to assume that our hearing loss was one of many other more “reasonable” explanations: ear wax build-up, being brats and not listening, more ear wax. My mom was like: not my kids- they’re friggin awesome and they pay attention when my face is right next to their face. She was a preschool teacher before she had us, and had studied early childhood education. All her tools for working with children also translated quite well to working with deaf children. She would always get on our level, with her face in front of ours to get our attention and communicate. My mom said she remembered Kelly asking her all the time “what did they say, mommy?” and she thought maybe it was the British accent, which she found challenging at times. She would then get on Kelly’s level and repeat what had been said, not realizing that not only was she speaking clearly to her, she was visible, meaning Kelly could read her lips.
My mother was suspicious of my loss because of the way she would wake me up, she said if she came in my bedroom to wake me up and my back was to her, I would always startle awake. So she started walking around to my face so I could see her, and I would be less startled. That was really lovely of her to notice and do, if you think about it. To this day, I abhor being scared/startled. I had to find a kind way to say this to my silly youngest child, who thought it was HILARIOUS how easy it was to scare mommy. I didn’t want to scar him for life, so I just told him I didn’t like it. Finally when he was old enough, I explained that because I can’t hear, it is really scary for me in a way that makes me more on edge than someone else might be. He’s been pretty good about it, but forgets every now and then. Like last week.
My older sister Kelly had enough desire to hear and enough hearing that she even picked up a little British accent (I still don’t know how she managed that, we really can’t hear well). Anyway, by the time we got to Arizona, my mother was ready. She took us to the University of Arizona in Phoenix (we lived nearby) and demanded that they give us a hearing test. They did. We failed.
My mom told me that it was challenging to test a child my age, since we couldn’t do the typical “raise your hand” thing, I was too young to follow instructions like that. So they would have her hold me while they made a sound behind my back and I was instructed to put a rock in the bucket if I heard the sound. They had to sort of train me to do this. Once I had the hang of it, they made a loud sound like a hammer behind my back. When I didn’t hear it, my mom was shocked. She thought that I might not have any hearing at all.
When Kelly and I failed our hearing tests, Mom was vindicated and probably a little devastated too. The folks fitted us with our first hearing aids. My older sister, who at 5 years had an idea of what she was missing, was thrilled to get more access to the world around her. I was just over two years old and seriously unimpressed with the cacophony of sound that had been thrust into my ears and brain. While Kelly had to be convinced to take her hearing aids out at night, I had to be convinced to keep them in during the day. I would leave them at the top of the slide (a good spot for the Arizona sun to possibly melt them), on tables, under the swing, wherever. Bacardi enjoyed chewing on the waxy ear molds (gross, but dogs are gross). I really hope those were covered by warranties… My mom said it was kind of a pain because we would have to go to the audiologist every time to get a new mold for the ear, which would take time in the factory to be custom made. I would be without that hearing aid for a couple of weeks, unless they had a loaner hearing aid that fit well enough to do the trick. But I can’t imagine that was fun, it probably felt like wearing shoes that are too big or small.
Anyway, with the help of the UofArizona, we had speech therapy, hearing aids, and all the resources we needed. My sister had already been speaking, but her speech improved (she did lose the British accent, unfortunately). I began speaking for the first time, and became a very talkative child. We went to preschool (and I guess Kelly was in elementary school there?) and began our journey as hearing impaired children. PSA: That was the term they used then, but the deaf/hard of hearing community does not like this phrasing that emphasizes the deficiency, and prefers “deaf” or “hard of hearing.” I personally don’t mind as long as you don’t ask me if I’m death. This happens more than you think.
The pool. The fact that I do not remember anything about the inside of this house but DO remember the pool, should tell you how often we were in it. For good reason, too, it’s hot as hell in Arizona. You are either in a body of water or being baked (or burned by a seat belt). I also remember the giant rocks in the yard and to this day I don’t know why we don’t all do rocks and other things for yards. Grass is stupid. (This is a soap box of mine, and I will address it in due time.)
Bacardi ran around the pool while we swam, probably getting in and getting more ear infections. My mom had been a lifeguard as a teenager, and taught little kids to swim in her neighborhood pool. My sister and I benefitted from this skill set, and were swimming proficiently at a very young age. I think I also enjoyed the pool because I couldn’t wear my hearing aids (they are not water proof) and I enjoyed the noise break.
Bacardi did sadly die while we were living in Arizona, and although I don’t specifically remember it, I have a vague memory of my sister and I sitting outside watching the sunset and thinking about or talking about Bacardi. A sunset memorial.
So to cap: Arizona was (to my 2-4 year old self) loud and hot, but fun and I learned a lot. I learned how to speak. I learned how to wear hearing aids (somewhat) consistently. I learned how to grieve a pet. I learned how to have fun in the pool. I learned that metal gets really fucking hot in the Arizona desert sun.
