Glimpses

In the morning when Henry gets up, I slip his headband with his CIs onto his head and at that moment he is transformed into a hearing baby.  And until I remove it as he hops into the bath that night, there is really no difference to our daily life with him, we are just like any other family.  Sure,  I try really hard to expose him to as much quality language as possible, I talk and talk, and I point out sounds and commentate our life, but for the most part I have just gotten on with life, busy juggling two small children and my new business (hearinghenry).

However, sometimes I come across a new aspect of Henry’s hearing loss, and it causes me to stumble for a moment.  This week Henry has (finally!) moved into his own room and so I went to buy a baby monitor, so I would still be able to hear him through the night.  As the well meaning sales assistant explained the features of each one, she tried to sell me on the ‘parent talk’ feature – ‘look, you can just push this button and talk to your baby if they are distressed’.  I quickly assured her I didn’t need that (as of course Henry wouldn’t be able to hear me) and tried to move on.  “But you can sing to your baby”, she continued, “you could sing songs and not even have to go in there”. 

And at that moment, I felt raw and exposed again.  I felt a wave of grief sweep over me as I thought of Henry in his cot at night, in a world of complete silence, unable to even hear his own cries.   I felt the pain of Henry’s deafness.  My layers of positivity, strength and composure completely stripped away for that moment.

But every time this happens, I add a new layer.  I become stronger on the outside, yet below, I have a new depth of compassion and feeling.

I can’t pray that Henry doesn’t have difficult times as he grows up, because that is inevitable.  But I do pray that he can use his adversity to develop strength, empathy and love.