What did you Say?

 

Aging is for the courageous, my Mom says. And I’ve only just begun.

I’m 59. Over the course of the last 15 years, I’ve adapted to a few changes without getting too upset. To begin, there was the arthritis in my upper back. “No more yoga!” ordered my neurologist. “It is triggering migraines.” At least the shoulder stands were. No more.

Grey hair came in my early 50’s. Every six weeks, I dye them over. I could be all grey underneath for all I know.

The sagging skin. Certain body parts headed south. A little roll of fat on top of the belly. My 5k menopause weight gain.

Speaking of “the change,” the retreat of the period was joyful. In the late 70’s, when I learned I’d be bleeding monthly for 30+ years, I cried. When it stopped, I smiled.

There was the old sneezing and leaking problem. A little squeezing took care of that.

But now, I’ve developed something I don’t like. Really don’t like. A hearing problem. Yes, wax builds up quickly. Yes, I’ve started to put sub-titles on intellectual movies at times, even Anglophone ones. Yes, I ask some people to repeat themselves.

But a hearing aid?

I went to an ear/nose/throat specialist and he tested my hearing. Perhaps an Iranian, his diagnosis was unequivocal: you are losing hearing in both ears. When you get tired of asking people to repeat themselves, come back for a hearing aid. The damage is in the high range.

In the high range? I have the hardest time hearing my husband, whom I’d classify as a tenor. Hardly the high range. Explaining the problem, the doctor replied, “Change your husband, they are not so useful, anyway!” After which he giggled at a tenor tone.

I’d rather have a mouthful of root canals than change my husband.

But really, why so much trouble hearing with him? Perhaps because I am with him the most. That explains a lot.

Perhaps you don’t need to go to medical school to solve this mystery. An American friend said, “Selective hearing, Beatrice. Selective hearing.”

Hmmm, what did you say?