The tests were more involved than I thought they’d be. They did some with headphones, needing Oliver to respond one way or another. But, they also taped electrodes on his head, and did some tests putting a small microphone in his ear. The doctor said they were “auditory brainstem response” (ABR) and “otoacoustic emissions” (OAE) tests.
Sitting in the office with Eric, my nerves are getting the best of me and my palms begin to sweat.
“What’s the matter?” Eric asks, reaching for my hand.
I pull it away and rub my palms nervously on my dress. “This isn’t going to be good, Eric. If it was just fluid in his ear, or nothing, they would have sent us home with him and had us make an appointment with his pediatrician.”
Eric rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Natalie? You can’t stay off the internet for five seconds, can you?”
Before I can stab him and flee the scene, Dr. Moore comes in. And sits down. My throat tightens as I try to read her eyes.
“What’d you find?” I ask before the doctor has a chance to open her mouth. I hope my tone is just stern enough that she knows I don’t want to beat around the bush.
Her eyes volley between Eric’s and mine for a second before she takes a careful, but noted, breath. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson . . . our testing today shows that Oliver has something called auditory neuropathy.”
I don’t recall coming across this information on my intense WebMD search the other day, so I’m begging my brain to retain whatever she’s saying, though I can hear my heart pounding through my ears.
“While we’re not sure of the cause of auditory neuropathy, in Oliver’s case it seems to be damage to the inner hair cells. Those are the cells that transmit vibrations from sound into electrical signals for the brain to interpret as sound. That’s why he seems to be jumpy sometimes, and not others, as you described. Sometimes the hair cells function normally, and sometimes they don’t. This is one of the reasons we don’t necessarily recommend hearing aids for cases like this.”
I feel Eric’s hand over mine as I lean forward. “Hearing aids?”
Dr. Moore’s face changes just enough to send my stomach into a tailspin. “Unfortunately, the condition is usually degenerative, and—”
“Wait. Oliver’s going to go deaf? Is that what you’re telling me?” Heat overtakes my face as tears strangle my voice.
Eric interjects, “No, Natalie, she hasn’t said that.”
“She said degenerative, Eric. We’re both educated enough to know what that means.” I turn back to the doctor. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
Dr. Moore lets out a slight sigh. “Yes.”
Change never comes slowly, brewing on the horizon. It’s always in a second. Balanced on the tip of a razor blade, in empty pill bottles, behind two pink lines, or learning that one of your children is slowly slipping into a world of silence. And you can’t leave your husband. Not now.
Chapter 19
“Thank God the Clarke School is in Northampton, and they have a kindergarten program,” I say to Eric as I pour a glass of wine after the boys have gone to bed. The Clarke School for Hearing and Speech is a fabulous school, with campuses across the state. And, thankfully, one right down the road. “I’ll call them in the morning.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty? Shouldn’t we see where this goes?” Eric sits at the kitchen table, elbows rooted in the light wood.
“What? Were you not in the same office I was?” My voice cracks for a second, “Ollie’s going deaf, Eric, and we need to get all the support in place before his hearing is totally gone.” I sit and gulp my wine.
“So, what, we’re all going to have to learn sign language now?” His petulant tone rises like bile through my stomach.
“Oh, I’m sorry, does that not fit into your pretty little schedule? Yes, we’re going to have to learn sign language. Again, you heard her, Dr. Moore said it’s clear that Ollie’s starting to teach himself how to read lips. Don’t you notice how he always stares really hard at our faces when we talk?”
“So then why do we need to learn sign language?”
“To give him the most options for communication—what’s your fucking issue? Given the nature of his condition, hearing aids and cochlear implants aren’t a great option; we’ve got to encourage him to read lips and use sign language to make his transition as smooth as possible.”
Eric slams his fist on the table but says nothing. I stare, waiting.
“Well,” I continue after a minute of silence, “if that’s all, I’m going to call my parents and fill them in. I’ll tell them about what we discussed with the doctor for their trip next wee—”
“You’re still sending them to your parents’?” Eric doesn’t look away from the table.
“Yes. I’m not going to start treating Oliver like he’s a glass figurine, Eric. That will only make things worse. Dr. Moore said we need to keep things as normal—”