Musical interlude

My surgery date is official-- May 7th. From my correspondence with other deaf people and cochlear implantees, most people seem to be excited and impatient about their surgery and activation date.

I am neither excited or impatient.

I try to enjoy, as much as I can, the arrival of spring, my writing, my teaching. I listen to music even when I don't want to. I play guitar as much as possible. Every time I play guitar now, I end up crying.

Ten years ago, when my grandmother found out that I was taking guitar lessons, she acted as if it were the worst thing she'd ever heard. "That's awful," she said. "He can't hear." Nobody else said anything to that effect, but that comment stuck with me. She really had no idea of what I was able to hear. I was able to tune my guitar, and I understood the emotive nuances of the melodies. First I took folk guitar lessons, then classical guitar. I became interested in the Spanish guitar composers. I went through the staple pieces that all classical guitarists have in their repertoire; Tarrega, Bach, the anonymous "Romanza." I dabbled in jazz theory and eventually came up with my own style. And then I realized that's all I wanted in the first place-- the ability to express myself musically.

When living in north Portland, I took up singing. My voice was awful, and still is. I underwent a new and strange musical transformation. What music offers that other arts don't is a form of direct experience, and I realized that singing, humming, chanting and even moaning cut directly to the feeling I wanted all along. Catharsis. It was a kind of emotion I couldn't summon with a musical instrument.

My guitar playing deteriorated. It became more minimalist. As much as anything, it was merely a vehicle to induce a sort of trance, a state of being which I became addicted to. I probably sounded like someone dying when I sang, but then, I can't imagine getting any deeper into feeling than that.

Now it's a way for me to dredge up the feelings about my upcoming surgery. I played guitar last night. The sun was setting over the rowhomes beyond my window. The pigeons were doing their absurd mating dance. The little tree in my backyard has green leaves now. I played a few simple chords, I sang, I cried. I took a nap afterwards and in my dream I cried, too.

I try to be optimistic, but the doctors tell me I might not ever appreciate music again. To put it more honestly, they say the odds are against me. I have every intention of being the exception, not the norm. There are people with cochlear implants who are doing well with music, better than they ever did with hearing aids. Every night I hope I'll be one of those people.

Was this what my grandmother meant when she told me not to play guitar? Looking at the trajectory of my childhood, it was obvious that I would go completely deaf one day. And in retrospect, the fifteen years I went without losing more of my hearing was merely a grace period, one which I am grateful for. Playing guitar has been one of the great loves of my life. I would never have listened to my grandmother. It was always convenient to turn my hearing aid off with her.

My experience is really not that much difference from other people with progressive hearing losses. We never really think we'll lose it all. We remain optimistic that we'll keep what little hearing we still have. And it's devastating every time we lose more. I remind myself how lucky I am that I have this option.