“Hi, honey! How are you? I am Dr. Emerick. So sorry you had to wait so long.”
The good doctor finally emerged through revolving doors of the operation theatre at nine pm and apologized profusely. There was no sign of weariness, even though he had just completed a lengthy ear surgery spanning over five hours. Serene and unhurried, he warmly shook hands with me and my parents.
“Now, let’s go.” Dr. Emerick led the way to his room.
I do not remember the day, only the doctor, the year (1970), the tiny and dark clinic, and the nondescript missionary hospital.
My parents and I had undertaken an overnight train journey from Pune, about 153 miles away, to Miraj in the state of Maharashtra in India. We had a four pm appointment. As always, my father was very particular about punctuality; we arrived at the hospital in plenty of time. There we were, the three of us, seated in the almost-bare reception area. Two hours later, there still was no sign of the doctor. Impatient with nothing to do, I pestered my father.
“Let’s go, Daddy! I don’t want to stay here. Please! Let’s go. We have been waiting here for so long.” Most certainly, a hospital was not my favorite place.
Daddy sighed and made inquiries at the front desk. Again. The response was the same.
“Please do not leave. The doctor will definitely see you.”
Word had been going around about a famous American missionary ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist in the newspapers, and my father had requested this specific date and time nearly two months ago. Moreover, we were booked to return to Pune the next day. There was nothing to do but wait patiently.
Soon, it was seven pm.
“I am so sorry. Like I said before, this unexpected surgery has been going on for the last five hours. It should be over any moment now. Please do not leave. I promise you, whenever it is over, the doctor will definitely see you. He will.” The nurse was insistent.
Only half convinced, Daddy agreed to wait. Around nine, we and the reception nurse were the only ones left in the clinic. It was dark outside. Five minutes later, the doors opened, and the doctor finally emerged.
Audiology testing in a pint-sized, dark room, in the 1970s in India may have been very primitive, but I received a correct diagnosis: “Bi-lateral sensorineural hearing loss” was the late-night verdict. Extremely surprised at how reasonably well I had been doing for so long, Dr. Emerick continued to examine my ears and conducted several tests for at least two hours. Finally, he expressed his regret.
“I am sorry but there is no corrective ear surgery that I can do here for you. I do recommend that you should wear hearing aids. Then again, you have done pretty well so far. Try and not wear them continuously, you might become too used to them. I think you will be fine,” the doctor continued.
My parents and I listened in silence. Everything — from the moment I saw the doctor emerge from the doors, the audiology testing in the small and closeted space, to this announcement — seemed surreal. Was it the lateness of the night? I don’t know, but there was no drama, just a quiet acceptance.
“I am leaving the country in a couple of months, but you are always welcome to contact me if you have any questions. Here is my card for you.” Dr. Emerick gave me his business card.
Warmly, we thanked him and left for our hotel. It had been a long, long day.
My first hearing aids
The next morning, we returned to the hospital, and Daddy purchased two bulky, pocket-model versions of hearing aids from the clinic. Each had a white wire that held a mold to fit inside my ears. If my memory serves me right, they were about 400 Rupees apiece — a lot of money, enough to pay for a two-person monthly household in those times. Thus, armed with two aids, an unforgettable memory of being addressed as “honey” by a very jovial and compassionate doctor, and the prized visiting card, my parents and I returned to Pune by the afternoon train.
I remember thinking the typical thoughts of a confident, just-turned-teenager: My hearing loss is nothing big. I got this. I will be fine.
Bluffing, blocking, and pretense
DR. CHARLES W. EMERICK, all letters in capitals, was the name on the card. It stayed safe with me throughout college and graduate school. We never called with any questions, but it was a refrain Daddy used to encourage me whenever things got rough in the hearing world, especially in high school and college:
“Shall we call Dr. Emerick?”
Back then, my parents and I did not generally speak much about my hearing loss issues at home. We did not recognize the need to visit another audiologist. In fact, I wouldn’t visit another audiologist until I was in graduate school. We did not even think about sharing my newly discovered diagnosis with the teaching staff at school. And, of course, we had no idea — nor were there any resources to learn from — about communication strategies for improved and effective hearing.
Unaware of my skills, I was already a self-taught, excellent lip reader. I was also good at pretense. At home. And of course, at school. The feigning practice continued for years. The blocking practice continued; I blocked unimportant, ongoing conversations around me. I also blocked the memory of rude and unfeeling conversationalists, those who would not care to repeat themselves. It would not do me any good to remember them.
But doing well academically was important, and if I missed comprehending something deemed important, it was to be remedied. The sooner the better. That list of unheard or misheard questions couldn’t remain unanswered. Attaining excellent school reports despite the occasional emotional outburst towards my parents at my frustrations with the hearing world did not suggest the need to visit an audiologist and or to develop strategies for better and effective communication.
Unaware of my skills, I was already a self-taught, excellent lip reader. I was also good at pretense. At home. And of course, at school. The feigning practice continued for years. The blocking practice continued; I blocked unimportant, ongoing conversations around me. I also blocked the memory of rude and unfeeling conversationalists, those who would not care to repeat themselves. It would not do me any good to remember them.
Consequently, we — my parents, family and close friends — never realized nor learned the best way to speak with me. What stayed imbibed in my mind, mostly, were Dr. Emerick’s words:
“You have done well so far.”
“Don’t become too dependent on hearing aids. You will be fine.”
Wearing and not wearing my hearing aids
Initial attempts at wearing two hearing aids were quickly abandoned.
“Headaches, big headaches. I cannot wear two. I really cannot.” I convinced myself that one would be enough. Specifically, the right ear? It was the better one. In any case, hadn’t the doctor advised me to not get too dependent on my hearing aids? Should I even be wearing one?
To wear or not to wear the hearing aids became a quest through my school and college years.
When might I not need a hearing aid?
I wouldn’t need one if people spoke clearly, slowly, and always faced me while speaking. Being loud was sometimes helpful. Just don’t resort to yelling.
I wouldn’t need one if the conversation was just between two people.
I wouldn’t need one if I was sitting with friends in school or college — friends who couldn’t care less if I was glancing at their notebooks now and then while we all made notes from the lecturer in front of us.
But friends are not always easy to make, not at the start of school. And of course, friends might want to sit with other friends.
Well, I still wouldn’t need a hearing aid if I learned to sprint from one 45-minute class to another (housed on different floors but thankfully in the same building), pushed and shoved my way to be amongst the first to enter and get that front-row seat in classroom. No meandering or talking to anyone, post-class, in the hallway. I learned this well.
Most classrooms were huge with a raised platform at the front from where the professor taught, turning frequently to write or scribble on the towering blackboard behind him. Sitting right at the front, of course, I heard the sonorous voice fairly well. Comprehension, however, was not always easy. Focused hard, my eyes read his forward-facing lips. The rest was guessed at.
Never mind who I sat with. Never mind the echoes. Never mind the relentless darts of paper planes flying down from the back benches to the front. I just might not need the hearing aid. I wouldn’t need a hearing aid when traveling alone by bus and at bus stations (I had not yet traveled alone by air or in trains). However loud they were, announcements at the bus venues were never ever comprehensible. My options were clear: either walk up to the bus-driver-conductor, ask and confirm my questions about the route and changes, if any, or personally bike up to the place (always, the easier one in my experience.)
I would need one in large, oversized classrooms, even if the front seat was available to me. And what a difference in the ease with which I caught up and pestered the outgoing teacher, post-class, with my list of questions on unheard/misheard stuff!
I would need one during those early morning college laboratory sessions held on lengthy workbenches arranged side-by-side in several parallel rows in long halls. It helped that seating was specific — by first or last name, I have no memory — but there certainly was no rush to enter the laboratory or grab a front seat.
Ironically, the lab instructors were the major issue there. Not content with just setting out instructions as the class commenced, the teachers wandered between rows of seated students and nonchalantly issued directives. Left and right. And sometimes, these were just silly comments.
But, hunched as I was on the microscope in the botany lab, or focused on the ongoing animal dissection in the zoology lab, these abrupt announcements disrupted me. They did nothing to allay my bewilderment and fears of missing out on important information. Forced to face the instructor’s back while they spoke, I ramped the aid to its highest volume, and of course, followed up, you guessed it right, with my list of questions on unheard and misheard stuff.
I, most certainly, would need a hearing aid while writing final examinations held in different locations around the city. No matter how fervent I might be, my requests to be personally informed at close quarters about any changes that might be made in the question paper, or any announcement by the supervisor-in-charge, was never taken seriously, all through my five years of college. Wearing a hearing aid kept my hawk-like eyes stay more alert.
Might I need the hearing aid at home?
Ideally, I did. But instead, I kept it aside, placed and confined safely to its hard-top case. Removing it after school and college hours brought indescribable relief. Wearing the aids was tiring, listening was tiring. Staying alert, reading people’s lips and facial expressions and body language, guessing words or bits of conversations exhausted me. I had no idea back then, but this was fatigue, “listening fatigue.” Family members who did not mind repeating speech provided me with the option of not wearing aids at home, and I, blatantly, used it, welcomed it. Meanwhile, conversations that did not pertain to me were ignored. Persistently, conveniently.
In retrospect, it was almost 38 years after being diagnosed with hearing loss that I realized the truth behind the timeless phrase “if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.” I finally began to wear two hearing aids consistently instead of one or none.
In retrospect, it was almost 38 years after being diagnosed with hearing loss that I realized the truth behind the timeless phrase “if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.” I finally began to wear two hearing aids consistently instead of one or none.
Years after that visit to Dr. Emerick, a thought had come to my teenaged mind. Maybe, someday I might visit the US. Someday, I might even get to see Dr. Emerick again and thank him for diagnosing my hearing loss and for being so optimistic with me. In the business of growing up, I had just not reflected much on this possibility, how likely it was or how hard it would be.
So, then, was my innocuous thought about coming to the States heard by the universe? I believe it was.
Decades later in America, wearing hearing aids, and feeling just fine
Fast forward to the second week of March 2018.
I was on the bus to the Aurora Transit Center in Seattle, returning home from the University of Washington. Scrolling through Facebook on my phone was always a fun way to while away an hour’s bus ride at the end of a long work day.
Suddenly, the following lines shared by a friend sprang out from my Facebook page: “Dr. Charles Emerick and his wife, Francie, died together last spring after both being diagnosed with terminal illnesses.”
Did I read that right? I stopped scrolling. It had been years since I had read that name. My family may never have heard me say it out loud, but Dr. Charles W. Emerick was a name well-ingrained in my mind. I rechecked the spelling and the middle initial. Both were spot-on. Could it really be the same doctor?
Apprehensive, I continued to read. Yes, Dr. Emerick was an ENT physician. Yes, for several years he had served in India. Yes, he had worked at the local missionary hospital in Miraj, near Pune in India. And finally, yes, he had returned to the States sometime in the 1970s. So, yes, he was DR. CHARLES W. EMERICK, all letters in capitals, exactly the same as on the visiting card I once owned.
Unbelievable. The fact that Dr. Emerick had lived the last few years of his life in the neighboring state of Oregon was too much of a coincidence for my implicit wish of seeing him again, someday, in the States. I could have actually met him! Nevertheless, now at least, I could contact his daughter, Sher Safran, from Share Wisdom Network, through the Facebook post.
Sher and I connected instantaneously through email. Over dinner at Sher’s residence later, I met her two older sisters as well. India was home to all three of them; they had spent their childhood at the Kodiakanal International School in Tamil Nadu. While relating interesting stories about their distinguished late father, they wanted to know about my own first memory and how he had influenced my young life.
“Oh, Dr. Emerick was a huge inspiration. He really was. His words convinced me that I would always be okay,” I told them.
And then I added that nothing, however, could be more important than the way, decades ago, despite a grueling five-hour surgery, he strode out of the operation theatre and most cheerfully greeted me, at first sight, with words that reverberated and enthused me across my lifetime.
Hi, honey! How are you?
You will be fine.