There are many milestones in a woman’s life.
Your first bra, your first period. That first hangover where you think, ‘Ah yes, death is preferable.’ The first time you sneeze and your pelvic floor reminds you to do your damn kegels. Upsettingly, the first time you look at a photo of yourself from ten years ago and realise you were not, in fact, fat, tired or old.
And now, apparently, I have reached the hearing aid era.
I didn’t wake up one morning and think, ‘You know what this life needs? More tiny bits of technology to lose under a sofa cushion.’ No. This all started because I went for an eye test.
Which is exactly the kind of irritating plot twist middle age specialises in.
The eye test that became a hearing test
I went for an eye test because I am – at 42 – at the age where everything is starting to fail. I noticed my night vision wasn’t great, and wanted to get it checked out before I appeared on the news as one of those old ladies who mows down six school children without realising.
While I was there, I ended up doing a hearing check. It was free, and who doesn’t love free stuff? Honestly, I will do almost anything if you tell me it’s free. Loyalty card? Yes. Tiny sample of moisturiser? Absolutely. Unexpected medical screening that quietly dismantles my sense of self? Apparently, also yes.
At the time, I was not remotely worried about my hearing. I had not gone in thinking, ‘Hmm, I wonder whether my ears are slowly giving up.’ I had gone in for an eye test; my eyes were the problem. My ears were just innocent bystanders, or so I thought.
So when the hearing check suggested I had hearing loss, I was completely caught off guard.
In retrospect, of course, it makes perfect sense. There had been signs. Conversations in busy places had become harder. People talking from another room – pointless endeavor. Subtitles were now mandatory.
Apparently, it was me. I went back in for a follow-up appointment with the audiologist, and while my left ear is all well and good, the right is… tragic, basically.
Off to the doctor
After being told my hearing was, technically speaking, crap, I was then informed that a hearing aid would cost me around two grand. Two. Grand. For one ear.
I laughed, because what else can you do? Sometimes your only defence against the sheer audacity of adulthood is to laugh. I said maybe next year, which is what I say when I mean absolutely not unless a bag of money falls directly from the sky and lands in my washing basket.
Then I mentioned it on Facebook, and lovely, sensible people pointed out that I might be able to go through my GP and get help that way.
This had really not occurred to me, but on their advice I made a GP appointment.
Joy of joys, my surgery has recently changed to an email appointment system, which I LOVE. I know people love to moan about online forms, but compared with the 8am phone lottery, it is a miracle. The old system was basically Glastonbury ticket day but for tonsillitis. You’d sit there with your thumb on redial only to be told all appointments were gone by 8:07 and perhaps you could try again tomorrow, assuming you had not simply perished overnight.
The email system? Beautiful and civilised. No panic or hold music. No having to explain your symptoms to someone while your children shout about socks in the background.
I explained the hearing test situation, the doctor agreed that a referral was needed, and off I went into the magical NHS waiting system, where time usually has no meaning.
Actually, in this case, it wasn’t bad at all. I’ve been lucky with the NHS where I am. When I phoned a few years ago about antidepressants, they sorted it and got me face-to-face therapy within weeks which is almost unheard of. My HRT was sorted within the day; I’ve had friends fighting for months. I clearly tick a few boxes or live in a good area.
A few weeks after my GP appointment, I found myself at the hospital audiology department for a proper hearing test.
The hospital appointment
This, of course, brought with it a whole new set of logistical challenges, because hospitals are not designed for ease, they are designed to test how committed you are to the concept of healthcare.
Parking at the hospital is basically The Hunger Games with more Nissan Qashqais, so I decided to get the bus into town and walk. Because I had no idea what traffic would be like, I left ridiculously early and arrived about half an hour before my appointment, so early that the department was not even open.
Rather than stand there in the rain looking like I was casing the joint, I went into the main hospital building for a mooch and to find the loo. I must have looked lost, suspicious or both, because a woman came over and asked, very kindly, whether I was looking for something.
I explained that I was early for an appointment and just trying to find the toilet. She pointed me in the right direction, wished me well, and that was that.
The appointment happened. Tests were done. My hearing loss was confirmed. I went home (via a Wetherspoons breakfast).
Later that same day, I was sorting out some plant cuttings for people from the local Buy Nothing Facebook group, because I am now also the sort of middle-aged woman who propagates houseplants and distributes them to strangers from the internet. A woman messaged to say she was on her way. Usually I leave things on the doorstep, but I was in a good mood, so I replied, ‘I’m in, just knock!’
And who should appear at my door?
Only the same nice woman from the hospital.
Of all the people in the world. Of all the hospital corridors, Facebook groups and plant cuttings. There she was. Like a TV show with a budget so low they have one person playing all the extras.
Anyway, I digress.
Needing a hearing aid
After the hospital appointment, it became clear that yes, my hearing was fucked and yes, I would in fact benefit from a hearing aid. I’ll be honest, I had mixed feelings about it.
On one hand, great. Brilliant. Helpful technology. Wonderful that it exists. I am very lucky to be able to access it, very sensible and practical blah blah blah. On the other hand, absolutely fuck off.
There is something about being told you need a hearing aid that feels like another little badge of ageing has been quietly pinned to your cardi while you were busy trying to remember whether you had taken your collagen supplements.
I know hearing loss is not shameful. I know lots of people have hearing aids. I know they are useful and clever and much smaller than they used to be. I know all of this. But still. There is a small, vain, ridiculous part of me that wanted to say, ‘No thank you, I’m not ready. Could we perhaps try ignoring it for another decade and blaming everyone else?’
But I don’t often let the small, vain, ridiculous part of me win, so I now have a hearing aid.
It’s a tiny, clever, expensive-looking thing that sits behind my ear and connects to my phone, so I can watch Facebook reels of dogs in meetings and no one will notice. As well as that, it somehow makes the world louder, clearer and more annoying.
Because that is the thing nobody tells you. When your hearing improves, you do not only hear lovely things. You do not just hear birdsong and whispered compliments and the gentle rustle of someone bringing you a cup of tea without being asked.
You also hear chewing. Traffic. The fridge. People breathing. Your own hair. Children whining.
It’ll take a while for my brain to adjust to its new input.
Obviously, the only sensible thing to do after getting a hearing aid was to take it to the pub for a proper test drive, for science.
A busy pub is basically the final boss of hearing. Music, chatter, glasses clinking, someone laughing like a distressed goose, men who are VERY VERY LOUD. Normally I would spend half the conversation smiling, nodding, and hoping I had not just agreed to something weird.
But it was better. Not perfect, because I still had to concentrate and my brain was clearly doing the auditory equivalent of running Windows 95 with too many tabs open, but better than before.
The strange thing about accepting help
I think that is what this has really been about for me. Not just hearing loss, but accepting that something has changed and doing something about it, which sounds simple, but is not always easy.
Especially as a woman in your forties, when your body seems to have taken up a new hobby called ‘Perimenopause roulette’. One minute you are just living your life and the next minute you are having conversations about hormones, joints, sleep, eyesight, hearing, pelvic floors, and whether you now need a special pillow.
Nobody prepares you for the amount of change that happens seemingly overnight.
But I have to keep reminding myself that getting a hearing aid is not failure, it is just using the tools available to make life a bit less hard.
And frankly, life is hard enough without stubbornly mishearing everything and accidentally agreeing to things because you thought someone asked if you wanted tea.
If you enjoyed this and you’re feeling generous, you can buy me a cup of tea or a glass of wine – or donate to my houseplant addiction fund – here.
You can also see my Amazon wish list here.
