My hearing loss has no cause that anyone has been able to figure out – to quote Lady Gaga, “I was born this way.” I, however, have my own ridiculous, unfounded, and humorous theories…and they all trace back to my Mom.
My Mom has a trademark whistle. She places her fingers in her mouth and out comes this incredible screech that can be heard across a football field, which may – or may not – have contributed to my hearing loss.
My Mom is a classically trained opera singer, and sang while pregnant with me – and perhaps those high notes caused my developing cochleas to exit stage right.
My Mom has a booming red voice which was often employed in our home when I was growing up in an attempt to be heard through the constant activity of various people wandering in and out in search of a meal, a jam session with the resident musicians, or a Spades partner at the kitchen table. (Did Mom’s ability to be heard above the fray cause my hearing loss?).
My mother stands all of 5’ 1” now, and her once fiery red hair has faded to a shade that I have termed “soft peach”. She is moving a little slower but is still outpacing many people that are decades her junior. She will listen to anyone’s fears and worries, and while she will offer a thought or two, she peppers in a few “But you do what you want…what do I know?” just in case her advice ruins your life. If you show up at her door, you are expected to remove your shoes, and “pay attention to Maggie!” (the dog) before being given a directive to sit at The Table. Most people will ask you to come and sit comfortably in the living room upon a soft couch – not in the DeMatteo house. You are at The Table – for that is the heart of any Italian home. This is usually due to many Italian people owning living room furniture that is ensconced in plastic and “is just for company”. (I can make fun of my people if I want to…).
The Table is where everything happens – celebrations occur, obituaries are read aloud, memories are shared, arguments ensue, meatballs are critiqued, and occasionally someone is stabbed with a fork (usually in jest). The Table has seen cribbage tournaments, countless spilled drinks, and a myriad of seasonal, vinyl tablecloths. The Table has seated people of all ages and walks of life – not to mention, for a period of time, an ill mannered, temperamental and unpleasant shih-tzu named Bear. That damn dog had a high chair upon which he perched, pulled up to the edge of the table, where he was fed first while the rest of us waited for the prince to taste test his kibble mixed with a sample of the family dinner offering, before the rest of us were allowed to take our own food and commence with our meal. I wish I was kidding.
As Brad and I have plowed forward in our content creation, video recordings, and advocacy work, my hearing loss is always at the front of my mind. I was over at my parents’ home recently, and was seated at The Table. I smoothed my hands over the surface, feeling the rubbery smoothness of the table protection pads, and thought about how many times my Mom and Dad must have sat at The Table when I started to lose my hearing with no warning. I imagined them sitting at The Table completely bewildered at this sudden and unexpected diagnosis. I pictured them pouring over doctor’s notes, trying to make sense of it all. I felt their grief as they studied the lines and loops of my early audiograms, desperate to find meaning behind all of it, but most of all answers as to how this happened. I felt my own brow crease with worry when I thought about how they must have sat together many times strategizing how to manage finances to ensure that I had the hearing aids I so badly needed to access the world. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes, thinking about my Mom sitting at The Table long after the house had fallen silent with all the kids in bed, with her head in her hands, overwhelmed at the prospect of holding all of it together. The heartbreak she must have hidden when I would come home beaten but not broken from the latest cruelty I received at the hands of school bullies, recanting the tales to her as we sat at The Table after school. The happy tears she must have held back as her daughter with the hearing loss reported triumphs at The Table during dinner – things like getting published in the school paper, finally squawking out a few sounds on the piccolo, or being admitted early-decision to Boston College, her dream school.
As I was lost in thought at The Table, my Mom was bustling around the kitchen, offering me everything from leftovers hidden in the depths of the fridge to a cup of coffee, huffing under her breath as I declined all offers because I wasn’t staying for too long of a visit. I watched her shuffle about, debating whether to heat the leftover eggplant from the “it was good enough” Italian restaurant lunch from earlier in the week. And suddenly – it struck me – how she has always made it look so easy, this management of a home, a family, a life.
She may be a tiny thing, but to me she is a giant.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom – I love you.
(And yes, Mom, we are all well into middle age and still fear the “flying slipper”…Shawn was right that the early prototypes of global positioning systems were affixed into the soles because it never missed its target. Ever.)
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