New! One Mother's Diary: Light Travels in Straight Lines

For the past fifteen years parents of deaf children born with a profound or total hearing loss and living in the developed world have faced a difficult decision very early in their child’s infancy – whether to implant or not. This is the secret diary of one mother who reflects on both the decision she made fourteen years ago and its implications. Read A Mother's Diary only on PDDCS News, every other Wednesday.

Light Travels in Straight Lines

Driving home from an after school club we take the scenic route via Marholm and Helpston. The blue sky is fading to gold on the horizon, and it looks like we’ll be having a lovely weekend. I turn to smile at Calum but he is looking straight ahead - the amber flashing lights of the level crossing are changing to red, the upright barrier arms are quivering – the signal that they are just about to lower. Calum raises his hands in a gesture of complete exasperation and vocalises his disappointment, loudly. I switch off the engine. We may just be here for three minutes but we could also be here for twenty. ‘Why do you always come this way? Why don’t you use the ring road?’ he signs.

‘I’d rather look at the trees and sky than the back of a bus for half an hour!’ His scowl changes to a smile. We use the wait for trains to pass at the level crossing to chat about his day in school. ‘So,’ I begin, ‘how was school today?’

‘I think I want a cochlear implant.’ Calum replies.

I knew this was coming. Why am I so surprised? A train rushes past and my mind races in a straight line back to a school holiday afternoon the previous summer.

Calum, Martin (my husband), and I had gone down to London to spend the day at the Science Museum in Kensington Road. We love it there; we could spend a week there. We’d managed to find a small room in the packed museum where we were the only people. There were no windows in this room, and, in the centre just a round, black, glass table. Placing your hands on the table surface caused lights to appear from within its depths. Mini beams of light, different colours darting from different levels, some thin, some thick but all travelling in straight lines. Calum was engrossed. Another boy entered with his parents. Not the same age as Calum, younger – I’d say eleven. He must have bought lighted head gear from the gift shop as in the darkened room I could see a bright light playing in his hair. Then I realised, it was an implant processor. In that small space both boys were deaf! What a coincidence! I was about to point this out to Calum but he was signing something to me very rapidly, ‘Look at this colour here – look at what happens when the green light goes across.’ I looked at the other boy; Calum turned and saw him too. The boy looked at Calum. I knew at once that he didn’t sign. ‘Can we go to the gift shop now?’ His speech was very clear. The boy turned and ran out. His parents followed more slowly.

I thought it would be a moment to make a connection. Often, on our travels we meet other people and families who sign. But there had been no connection; just a void, a vacuum.

Light travels in straight lines. Light exposes things which have been hidden. Out in the brilliant sunshine we walked to the Tube. I was quiet. Surely, it was only a matter of time before Calum made the connection? Calum, like other curious children, had a logical, scientific mind. The science museum is all about the ingenuity of humans and the technologies which improve human existence.

Thirteen years ago I made a decision which I thought was the correct one. Now, for the first time, I felt differently. For the first time I was seeing implantation purely as technology - superior technology. On the train home I asked Calum whether he ever thought about having an implant. ‘No way!’ he signed and turned back to his magazine. I was still thinking about the family in the Science Museum. It wasn’t right that they didn’t sign, it wasn’t right that their deaf child should be denied knowledge of what I regarded as his cultural language. But had I, in my turn, also denied my son a technology that could have helped him?

The level crossing lights are still flashing red. ‘Are you upset? Are you disappointed?’ Calum has been watching my face.

‘No, of course not!’ I smile. ‘If this is what you want I will help you. But we will have to ask our doctor to refer us to the hospital. Shall I make an appointment when we get home?’

Calum nods his head vigorously.

The level crossing lights have stopped flashing, the barriers are lifting, we are off.

So much to discuss but I can’t sign while I’m driving. A question is forming in the back of my mind. It’s pushing its way forward as all the others stand to one side to let it pass: Does my son wish I had agreed to the implant all those years ago?

It’s a question I will have to ask, but not tonight.

We drive on, homeward.

Next instalment: Telling Noddy where to go - only on PDDCS News

The interesting views expressed in this piece are that of the author and not of any organisation. If you have questions about cochlear implants or any issue related  to deafness in children or young people, please contact the NDCS Helpline.