One hundred decibels. That’s as loud as a rock concert. No response.

I remember sitting and watching you with those headphones on in that booth, as the audiologist said, “Now I’m going to play a series of tones for you, Connor. Raise your hand if you can hear them.”

I remember watching as you raised your hand at intervals when she played the tones on the right side. I remember watching and waiting when she played each tone on the left side, each one a little louder, waiting . . . nothing. You never raised your hand.
You were just four years old.

A few months earlier, we had been sitting on the couch, and I went to whisper something in your ear. I think it was, “I love you.” You turned your head, looked at me, and said, “Can you repeat that in my hearing ear?” I looked at you dumbfounded. What?

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Now months later here we were at the audiologist, and the news of what I had just been told was hanging in the air as my head started to spin.

Did you know a diagnosis is just the beginning of the journey? You would think knowing and having some clarity would help, but it doesn’t really help. It only raises more questions. Like, did he pass his newborn hearing screening? He did, so when did this happen? Did he have a childhood illness? He didn’t, so how did this happen? Will we ever really know?

Do you remember that time on the playground when you were calling him over and over, “Connor. Connor!” and he was turning his head around and around and could not find you.

If he has no echolocation, how is he ever going to play team sports out on the field? And when he’s a teenager and wants to go to concerts and listen to music really loud in the car, how are we going to protect his hearing? And when a girl goes to whisper something in his ear, will he miss it?

I keep thinking of that scene from It’s A Wonderful Life when the girl leans down and whispers “George Bailey, I’ll love you til the day I die,” and he sits up happily unaware.

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In the future when Connor’s at a busy restaurant with friends, noise all around, and a conversation is happening on the “wrong” side, will he even be aware it’s happening? Will he know to turn his head so he can hear it? Do we want to get him a hearing aid that channels sound from his bad ear to his good ear so he would be aware? And if he’s only four years old, when would we want to consider doing that? All these questions spinning in my head. But mostly, how did he adapt so well that none of us knew he was completely deaf in one ear, except him.

My precious boy. In the 99th percentile for math and reading. In the Gifted & Talented program. With an amazing mastery of language. Reading chapter books in kindergarten. Always looking for a new challenge. Running hard after a soccer ball. Telling jokes to your friends and laughing! Playing with the big boys, like riding bikes over jumps, and keeping up. Always keeping us on our toes.

I love you. I just have to pause and ask myself now, Is this your right side? before I whisper it in your ear.