To be honest, I really do miss music
April 11, 2001

I admit it, I lied. I didn’t realize this at the time, so maybe that gets me off the hook.

Many of my earlier columns were about losing my hearing, giving up things in my life and accepting these changes. One of those changes was the ability to enjoy music.

I have lost too much of my hearing to hear subtle differences in tones so that singing or enjoying close four-part harmony is no longer possible. I choose to listen to tapes or CDs of music that I knew years ago.

I listen to the local oldies station WMNI-920 AM, where announcers know how to communicate without rambling and have wonderfully deep voices. I can even catch some news on that station.

One evening I was listening to music while driving to a meeting. The songs were old folk songs and when they played 100 Miles I began singing along. Memories of sitting around campfires, strumming my guitar and picking out these tried and true folk songs flooded my brain. Our voices would echo in the night.

I realized at that moment that I had lied to myself and to my readers when I said I didn’t really miss music. I did, I admit it. Performing is not what I miss, but enjoying music in a concert or on the stereo is what I want to be able to do again.

This winter, my husband and I went to a Columbus Jazz Orchestra concert. The Palace has FM listening systems for hearing-impaired folks like me and I eagerly borrowed one, took my seat and waited. I was so excited to hear the Platters and listen to the Jazz Orchestra for the first time.

Bob kept glancing at me when everyone was laughing at the performers’ jokes and he realized I was not laughing. When he told me, I returned the FM system and thanked them profusely for having so many devices available, but explained my hearing loss was too profound for the device to help. They were very sweet and understanding.

I returned to more laughter and confusion. Wondering what they were saying, I tried to remember all my writings about acceptance, moving on, living with hearing loss and all my pep talks. I realized my own advice was failing me. When I write, you cannot see my face and my face tells whether I am lying, confused, lost or happy.

Bob knew I was lost and nothing he could do would help.
Then the Platters stepped on stage and started singing Only You. The audience joined them in song and so did I, thinking that with at least 1,000 people singing, no one was listening to me. I loved it.

But driving in my car – listening to 100 Miles sung in the tone of the soft, reflective mood of folk songs I had loved, tears began to flow. I realized I had come to another crossroad and knew I had lied to myself. The words easily escaped my lips as I voiced, “I have been lying – I better write about this.” It was a new kind of inspiration: deep-down honesty.

I wish there was something that could “make me hear” properly again, something that could allow me to listen without strain and laugh when others laugh. I wish I did not need to wear hearing aids or ask people to face me or repeat their words.

Hey, we live in the real world, right? That just “ain’t gonna happen” in my lifetime. The most recent technology, called cochlear implants, cannot promise the fulfillment of this wish.

So my focus remains on what I can do, what I can enjoy. That is almost everything else in this life – fresh air, children, family, people, diversity, home-baked bread, good writing and, above all, honesty.

Yes, I admit it. I miss music big time, but it is true that music plays in my head and I can enjoy instrumental music, watching people dance and children moving to music.

I asked Bob if I could still sing and carry a tune. His response was thought out and kind – and honest.
“I used to love to hear you sing because it was mellow and smooth. Now I love to read your writing for the same reasons.”

I can’t really sing well anymore so I opt to sing to my grandchildren, in the car when no one is listening, or in a large, loud crowd.