Happy Anniversary, Cochlears

Two years ago today the husband and I took the biggest risk of our lives. March 31 was the day we had looked forward to and dreaded since the birth of our first son. It was the day little Atrain would trade in his hearing aids for cochlear implants. Actually, to be more accurate, it was the day his parents exchanged his high-powered, yet impotent acoustic hearing devices for two surgically implanted bionic ears. It was the only way he would have a chance at breaking the sound barrier that threatened to keep him from communicating, from connecting.

So, we loaded our one year old baby into the car and headed to Primary Children’s Hospital. We signed papers that said we would not sue the surgeons if anything went wrong while he was in the OR. Handing him over to the anesthesiologist and listening to him yell my name down the hospital halls was the worst moment of my life. The next five hours felt heavy, like my blood had turned to liquid led. But, I also felt strength—as if I was not the one lifting my head, moving my feet, inflating my lungs. And I wasn’t; God was with us that day.

I have never been more scared, and then relieved than when Atrain’s surgeon walked into the waiting room to report. All had gone well. As I held him in the recovery room and through all of the stages in the months that followed, it was hard not to loathe myself. Cochlear implants don’t instantaneously allow one to hear—it takes a lot of work. They are not a “cure” for deafness, and many would argue that we were selfish and ignorant for trying. But I ask what about parenting isn’t selfish? I don’t mean to say that answering the call for good parents to raise good kids who will be honorable members of their communities is not also selfless. But whether your kids are deaf or not, we all make choices about what they will hear and say, what they will and won’t be exposed to, how they interpret their surroundings, etc.

When the day comes that my children can choose for themselves, I don’t want their choices to be limited. Sure, I can’t control everything, in fact sometimes I wonder if there is anything at all that I can control. But, I hope to give them every opportunity to experience a fulfilled, happy life. If Atrain ever decides that taking off his implants and using ASL is the way he will be most happy and fulfilled in life, I will sign right along with him and be happy that I gave him the choice.

Until then, I will be selfishly satisfied every time my child asks me to turn up the music, every time he’s able to join in a game of “duck duck goose,” on the playground, every time he laughs at Mater’s silly sayings, and every time he clearly tells me “I love you more than all of the cars and the roads in the whole world.” I love you too, Atrain. Happy Anniversary.