I was in the kitchen yesterday, making soup from the last of the Thanksgiving turkey, while Dave was in the living room, talking to Comcast. We had just bought a new modem earlier in the day and he was in the process of getting it set up. Since our captioned phone is voIP and needs the internet to work, he has to (reluctantly) make this call on his cell phone.
I could hear talking back and forth so I assumed he had the phone on speaker mode. It sounded like the conversation was going well; he was answering questions promptly and without hesitation. Then I heard him hesitate before explaining that he was hard of hearing, and could she speak a little slower? Uh oh.
“I … can you hang on for a second?” Dave race-walked into the kitchen, holding out his phone. “Can you understand this?” he hissed.
“Can you repeat that?” he asked the Comcast rep.
“Bleh, bah de hop der.”
I widened my eyes and shrugged my shoulders. I could hear a voice, but I couldn’t even tell if she was speaking English or not. I couldn’t make out even one word for him.
“Uh, can you say that again?” he asked. Again, gibberish flowed from his phone speaker. “I’m sorry!” I mouthed. I felt terrible, but I just had no idea. I could also feel his sense of panic; this was the only way to get the modem working, by calling Comcast to give the MAC address so they could work their magic. There was no other way to communicate with them to accomplish this; he couldn’t send them an email. His phone isn’t a smartphone so it has no caption apps (not that we know how to work those).
I dried my hands and walked into the living room to see if I could catch any of the conversation. It never got better for me, although Dave started answering questions again. (I think he got her to rephrase the question or statement he couldn’t understand.) After many frustrating minutes, he told her he was going to try something and he’d call her back. Somehow he got the modem working on his own.
The phone is always hit or miss for me; I can usually manage a short conversation if the person doesn’t have an accent, talks slowly and clearly, and I already know what the subject is going to be. That way, the captions can keep up and I get to hang up before I get too fatigued from trying to listen. Not everyone with a CI has trouble with the phone; some use it with no problem at all. But the phone is a major source of stress for me, and that makes it even harder for me to understand. It doesn’t really impact my life too much; in this day and age, I can get by with rarely using a phone and relying instead on texting and email. It is disappointing for me, though. I had hoped I would be able to hear perfectly on the phone after I got CIs. Instead, my phone skills went way down; without any natural hearing, I tend to hear noises but not make sense of what I’m hearing unless I have (accurate) captions.
Not all captions are accurate, by the way. When Dave talks to my mom, I always read the captions. Most of the time they make no sense. Here’s an excerpt from their conversation last night, transcribed exactly as it showed up on our captioned phone:
“… and she June as an cause human fed back so what is going on …,” and, “… and A the driver have been said in active something I can team the claim back to guess … .”
So yeah, the captions don’t always help. I was thinking about all of this when we started watching The Good Wife last night (no major spoilers for those who haven’t watched it yet, but if you don’t want to know ANYTHING about the episode then be warned). There was a trial, and they kept showing one specific juror. He was watching everyone intently, occasionally turning to whisper to the jurors seated next to him (and once getting reprimanded by the judge). Later in the episode, we hear him ask the man next to him what had been said. Just when we’re starting to wonder what’s up with this juror, the judge asks to see him and the two lawyers in his chambers.
Apparently one of the other jurors has informed the judge that he thinks this juror is partially deaf, because he’s having trouble following what’s being said. The juror asserts that no, he is not deaf. The judge persists, asking if there’s any reason he might not be able to understand the proceedings. Then the juror admits that sometimes, when he’s stressed, he suffers from Auditory Processing Disorder. (This is something I’m pretty sure I have, because it’s much worse when I’m stressed.) He assures the judge that he has coping mechanisms and isn’t missing anything being said.
The judge turns around, so the juror can’t read his lips, and asks a question. He doesn’t speak gibberish, but the audio and captions that we have on our TV reflect what the juror hears, not the actual question. He hears, “What waxing the number of the last wideness?” Then we get to see his coping mechanisms in action. The judge turns around, one of the lawyers protests that it’s not a common name, and the judge brushes off her complaint. He looks at the juror and asks what the question was. You can see a moment of panic on the juror’s face, then he takes a stab at it. “You asked me the name of the last witness,” he says. The defense lawyer looks triumphant, but the judge is no fool; he knows that her protest gave the juror a clue as to what the question was.
“Yes,” he says, “but the question is whether Cary Agos …” and he turns around again. Again we hear and see what the juror hears. “… hurt lemons bussing the important tree-mills of honeycuts.”
The room is silent while everyone looks to the juror for his answer. Finally he shrugs, and next we see him leaving the courthouse.
And that, folks, is how I hear many things if I don’t have visual cues to work from. Luckily I do really well if I’m in the room with someone, even if I can’t see their face. I can catch about 90% or more of what’s being said. It’s when sound is transmitted – through the phone, the TV, or at the movies – that I have the hardest time.
It was so gratifying to see a TV show get it right for once. We’ve seen ridiculous cochlear implant surgeries. (On House, when the patient came out of surgery able to hear already, and then proceeds to rip the implant out of his head with his bare hands … no. Just, no.) We’ve seen people (on Switched at Birth, of all places) call CI surgery ‘brain surgery.’ (Again … no.) But this was totally believable, and absolutely accurate.
Good job, The Good Wife!