MY SILENT WORLD

by Danna Shirley

I am a ninety-seven-year-old widow and I’m totally deaf without my hearing aids. My auditory professional says that in the most quiet surroundings I can hear approximately forty words out of one hundred. With slight background noise, it reduces to only twenty words out of one hundred. I cannot hear television or radio or conversation unless the person is right in front of me and speaks slowly and distinctly, and then must repeat themselves often.

When I fell and hit my face on the edge of the countertop, I became totally blind in my right eye. Emergency surgery reattached my retina but my sight was lost. That was my good eye which allowed me to read large print books; my only joy in life. My left eye was already designated as legally blind; which does, however, allow me to walk through my home without bumping into walls and furniture. My days consist of drops and ointment to keep my eyes moist and batteries to keep my hearing aids operable. My 24/7 caregivers get me up in the morning and put me to bed at night. They prepare my food and administer my meds throughout the day, walk me to the bathroom, and help in the shower.

A seizure at age ninety-five affected my memory and I lived for several months trapped in my childhood years, not remembering my siblings born after my tenth birthday nor remembering my own husband because we had met as teenagers. Slowly I advanced through my life and began to ask questions about this brother or that sister until I finally remembered them . . . and the love of my life, Howard, who passed away when I was ninety and he was eighty-nine. We shared sixty-eight wonderful years together, three daughters, seven grandchildren, and six great-grands.

We always thought I would go first because of my health issues while he was still strong and healthy and sharp of mind. Alas, prostate cancer took him just a few days after his birthday. I could not live without him for he was my ears and my eyes; my chauffeur to the hair dresser, the grocery store, the post office, visiting family and friends. Everyone thought I would go shortly after his passing but I am still here, seven years later and approaching my ninety-eighth birthday soon. I miss him every day.

I can’t see to read or watch television or crochet afghans. I can’t hear the news or listen to music. I just sit every day in my recliner with a blanket over my feet and legs and let the caregivers do their job. When the weather is nice, I walk around my backyard for exercise. I tell people I twiddle my thumbs and wait for the clock to move so I can retire for the night. I sleep but never peacefully, getting up a few times (or more) for the bathroom, a drink of water, or a throat lozenge when my mouth is too dry.

Is this a life? My inside mind is still young and active and healthy. It’s not fair to live in MY SILENT WORLD!