Mr. Connelly was a kindly, older gentleman with watery blue eyes and an impressively smooth bald head with wisps of white hair. He had the air of a storybook Grandpa – in his presence you felt compelled to walk to a park bench and throw crumbs to the pigeons. Mr. Connelly, to me, was the wizard at the helm of an empire – he was the master of the machines and the maker of the molds. Those molds – the most necessary and simultaneously irritating part of my hearing aid wearing experience. They carry the sounds and create discomfort, all at the same time. They are uniquely mine, for molds are custom made to precisely fit the wearer of the hearing aids.
To experience the making of the molds as a child was a wonder…and no one did it better than Mr. Connelly with his air of performance and swooping about his office, retrieving the baubles and bits he needed, showing them to me each step of the way with a hint of reverence.
There was a cotton swab reserved for each ear with a string trailing behind. This bit came first, and was snuggly and neatly tucked into the depths of each ear canal. First, the tickle and then the pressure of it being plunged forward to serve as the protective plug warding off any drippings or dribbles of the modeling materials.
Then, it was time for the creation of the compound, the height of the mini theatrical production being staged by Mr. Connelly, the showman of all things hearing aids. Out came the flask, the glass stirring implement, and the magical pink powder. He would gently, carefully and so precisely tap this pink powder from its teeny packet – much like knocking the sugar out of a Pixie Stix straw. He added a clear liquid and then the clinking began in earnest. The happy, tinkling, clinking of the metal stirrer going round and round inside the vessel, mixing up this magical elixir. I would watch in utter fascination as the color changed from a pale peach to the most magnificent bright, neon pink. And the smell – that sickeningly sweet and sugary smell reminiscent of the mighty Hubba Bubba bubble gum.
Mr. Connelly would then empty the sticky and doughy mixture into the palm of his hands and he alone would have the utter privilege of manipulating, squishing, squashing in all matters of formation until it reached its peak malleability. Oh, the envy I would feel at not having the chance to mush that magic dough in my own little palms! My little creative soul would hope beyond hope that one day – maybe one day – Mr. Connelly would let me have a chance with this glorious goo. Sadly, the day never came, but I cherished my vicarious sensory experiences of compound manipulation.
Lastly, he would stuff it into a large plastic syringe – the final step of this magical science production. He would gently tip my head to one side, and squirt the compound inside, outside and all around my ear. The shock of it would make me shudder each time, for it was surprisingly freezing cold! The ritual would be repeated once more on the opposite side, the freezing insertion expected for the second ear.
Now it came to be my time to shine – for I needed to sit absolutely perfectly still for the two flip flops of the mini hourglass timer. I would sit and stare at the sand sifting through with laser like precision, willing myself to not move an inch lest I disturb the melding of material to my ears. When the last grain of sand had filtered through, Mr. Connelly would gently pop out the now hardened impressions which would have sadly faded back to a lighter shade of pink than I found acceptable. They were gingerly placed into their shipping boxes, my hearing aids were placed back into my ears, and I turned on the world once more – eagerly awaiting our next visit to Mr. Connelly in six months time when we would once reenact our play in one act.
I regret that the process for mold impressions has become much more streamlined as time has marched on due to the mold clay being already mixed and ready to be inserted into the plastic syringe – which is nowhere near as large as I remember as a child. The hourglass timer is no more due to the fast hardening of the compound, though the sensations remain the same – that jarring feeling of icicles being thrust into your ears with no warning.
I require impressions less frequently now as an adult, as my ears no longer require increasing sizes of molds, but each time I sit in the chair and am asked to tilt my head, I remember fondly the kindness of the gentle soul that made my very first pair of hearing aid molds. Thank you, Mr. Connelly, for being there for my very first step on this journey – peace to you, wherever you may be.
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