I feel like my hearing is worsening. I’m hopeful that my next visit to the ENT doctor will bring some improvement.
But what if it doesn’t?
I see traits of my father in myself. Hearing loss is one of them. His hearing didn’t begin to fail until after I had left home, but my memories of him as he grew older are almost inseparable from his difficulty hearing.
It changed his life.
I remember family conversations around the table. At times, he seemed to be there in body only. The banter moved around him, and he couldn’t easily join in. I didn’t see him often, and I missed those chances to know him better.
I am beginning to understand him better now.
Perhaps there were times when he stopped trying to follow the conversation. It was simply too difficult. I know something now about the effort of hearing people who aren’t speaking directly to me. There is a choice I find myself making: ask someone to say it again, or let the conversation go on without me.
I wonder how often my father faced that choice. What looked like withdrawal may sometimes have been weariness. Maybe he found some peace in sitting quietly among us. Maybe he wanted to be included more than I knew.
I never asked.
Now I find myself wondering how much energy I want to spend trying to hear. I can feel the temptation to let something pass, especially when the conversation has already moved on.
And I have a concern about my work as a spiritual director. What if I begin to miss those tender moments when someone shares something difficult to say? “Say that again” can feel like a painful interruption when the words have barely found their way into the room.
I don’t know what that may eventually ask of me.
For now, I am noticing how easily I could begin to withdraw. One missed remark. One question I don’t ask. One conversation I decide is too much work to follow.
I want to find ways to stay engaged with the people dear to me. I may need to ask more of them, too—to help me hear, to let me back into a conversation that has moved beyond me.
Perhaps my hearing will improve. I hope it does.
But already, something has changed in how I remember my father. I find myself returning to that table, wondering what it was like for him to sit among us.
And what might have happened if I had turned toward him.