I have a hearing problem called tinnitus (ringing in the ears).
And it’s gotten worse over the years.
And it’s social price-tags are going up.
There. I’ve said it. The cat’s out of the bag.
The Incident
Several weeks ago, I took my son to a high school class registration event where we worked our way through numerous lines in a large, loud, public area.
For some reason having to do with self-consciousness and not wanting to draw attention, he lowered his voice.
I kept asking him to speak up, and he kept refusing.
Finally, after losing my patience with him and him wondering why I was upset, I did something I have never, ever done before in my life.
I admitted to another human being that I had a hearing problem.
Explaining to him that I had tinnitus, a constant ringing in the ears that makes it really hard to hear in loud, echo-filled, background noise intense, public places.
I described how it affected me in funny ways–I heard everyone else in that room talking super loud, but I couldn’t hear him–the person right next to me.
My son was shocked, told me he had no idea…and began to speak up.
Why the Silence
Truth be told, it’s not cool to be mild-to-moderately deaf twenty years too early.
I have these unattractive images of older people who’s lost their hearing:
- Hearing people wrong and repeating their wrong guesses out loud.
- Speaking too loud when replying on a phone or in person.
- Saying, “What?”, “Could you say that again–I didn’t hear you?, “Could you repeat yourself?”
- Fumbling with their hearing aids.
- Having them squeal in a quiet part of a worship service and not realizing it until their spouse elbows them.
- Dropping them into a cup of coffee–and spending thousands of dollars to replace them.
They are not pleasant or attractive images.
They are images full of social awkwardness, hindered communication, and, above old, growing old.
They are the butt of jokes and fodder for comedians.
It’s Me, O Lord!
I don’t want these pictures to be me.
But they are me!
So there’s a lot of social pain wrapped around the condition.
I’d rather pretend and live in a fantasy land of denial.
Until I can’t anymore.
Of course there’s nothing shameful about having a disability.
Too many loud rock band practices, concerts, and performances during my teen years are the culprit.
And there’s not much I can do about it thirty years later until it gets so bad a hearing aid becomes compulsory.
Or perhaps the exciting developments in Great Britain about a potential breakthrough in non-invasive tinnitus treatment will bring relief.
They’re discovering tinnitus might not be physical damage to the ear but circuitry damage to brain from sound overload.
Compensating for the Secret Problem
When one is going slowly deaf, you try to work around it. So…
I avoided large, bad acoustic, public settings.
I invited people talking with me to step into the hall.
I arrived at large social events late and left early because the din was so great it was a torment.
I delayed getting a cell phone as long as possible.
I avoided making phone calls as much as possible–it’s really hard for me to catch silences and social signals of who’s turn it is to speak or when someone is done.
I’ve largely limited communication to writing, or in live, one-on-one settings.
I would be largely silent on conference calls because the static and background noise from all the participants’ phones was too difficult to overcome.
My Second, Worse Problem
My deafness is undeniably a problem.
But my failed, shame-driven attempt to conceal it was a far worse problem.
On account of my personal embarrassment, very few people in the world know this part of me.
I’ve denied myself their compassion, understanding, and, most tragically, their conversation.
And I’ve hindered ability to minister to others because, to the unaware critic, my compensating behaviors come off as anti-social or unfriendly.
The untold story is I was greatly embarrassed and had this dread of being unable to work in churches if my secret ever came out.
“Who would want to hire a somewhat deaf pastor?” was the fear.
I failed to ask, “How can I help them to work with a somewhat deaf pastor, adjust their expectations, and not take my limitation personally?”
To put it another way, “How can I give them the information they need to not be frustrated and extend Christ’s love to me?”
Coming Out
So, as an act of humility and repentance, I decided to go public.
It won’t change my limitations.
But at least honesty promises to build more bridges of compassion and understanding, and tear down walls of misjudgment and isolation.
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