On this same Wednesday one year ago, I went through my last pre-op appointments, then sat and waited for the CI surgery that would take place the following morning. Killed time and waited. Went to dinner and waited. Made some nervous conversation. Went to bed and lay awake and waited. Couldn't sleep because of my mixed excitement and anxiety and dread. What was I getting myself into?
Today, after meeting with my auditory therapist, I walked out grinning. My one-year CI remapping will be in a few weeks, and although I've reached the point where I'm continually cranking the volume up on my processor, itching once again for more sound and more range, what I have to work with is pretty remarkable.
First exercise: open set of random sentences that I wasn't allowed to look at or study beforehand. I got half of them completely correct on the first try, and got large chunks of the rest (with some missed words or slight flubs on phonemes). My score: 75%, give or take, maybe even 80%.
Second exercise: minimal-pair drills with monosyllabic words, probably one of the hardest tasks for me since I'm literally listening for a difference of a single phoneme, while listening without any context. My score: 90%. Ninety freaking percent.
And the best part: while I felt confident enough throughout, I had one of those head-spinning moments afterwards when I saw the numbers. Why, hadn't I been guessing most of the time? Doesn't seem like it. My conscious mind keeps chugging along, but beneath the surface my brain is putting two and two together, all by itself.
I couldn't have asked for a better feeling compared to that nauseous sensation I had one year ago, while sitting in those hospital waiting rooms. It's been a steep learning curve, but with the CI my brain is clicking. It's starting to sprint along instead of stumbling. It's hearing!
Showing posts with label brain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brain. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Auditory Memory and Other Ramblings
Auditory therapy, session two. Take-away points: right now it's all about building confidence and auditory memory. (Nothing new. That mental sound dictionary is going to be years in the making.) And it's about making myself stretch, too, defining a set that's neither too open nor too closed. I have to flex my listening muscles, so to speak, and make myself work hard without becoming frustrated or feeling like the answer is out of reach. It's a tricky balance. So how do I push those boundaries? This week we tried several things. Listening and selecting sentences at different volumes and distances, defining a category and then having me discern open-ended statements about it, listening to sets of words and determining which one did not belong. That brain of mine is still reluctant to listen, to put its faith in something previously so unknown, but the more I push it the more it cooperates.
Also, I need to put aside my fear of incomprehension. It's a bit ironic that lack of communication is probably my biggest fear, yet it's something with which I have a tremendous amount of experience. Over the years I've come up with a number of coping mechanisms for situations when I'm just not getting it. My brain has gotten good at glossing things over, at filling in the blanks when it can and trying to cope when it can't. Up to this point, that puzzle-solving process has mainly applied to lipreading, but now it applies to listening too. While deciphering the speech sounds I hear, I need to make myself release some of my inner tension. I'm going into overdrive, piecing together sounds in an attempt to extract a statement that makes sense, and worrying when none of it fits - but, when things do click, it often happens suddenly. No analysis involved: I know what I'm hearing! That's the goal, moving forward - to ask myself, am I listening with my ears or with my brain? That analytical mind of mine has always been a huge asset, but maybe one day it'll be a bit less necessary, or a bit less overburdened, as more of the pieces fall into place. What a great thought.
And, finally - this may be a bit redundant, but I keep feeling stunned at the texture of the world with sound in it. Seven months has not distilled my private sense of wonder. There's a bird building a nest outside my window, and I hear it right now as I type. I've been noticing new types of bird calls around campus, too, and other sounds keep shadowing me, feeling more and more like good friends. The whistling of the wind, the squeal of my bike tires, overlapping machinery, people's voices carrying over from the most improbable places. Hard work aside, all of this is so, so amazing.
Also, I need to put aside my fear of incomprehension. It's a bit ironic that lack of communication is probably my biggest fear, yet it's something with which I have a tremendous amount of experience. Over the years I've come up with a number of coping mechanisms for situations when I'm just not getting it. My brain has gotten good at glossing things over, at filling in the blanks when it can and trying to cope when it can't. Up to this point, that puzzle-solving process has mainly applied to lipreading, but now it applies to listening too. While deciphering the speech sounds I hear, I need to make myself release some of my inner tension. I'm going into overdrive, piecing together sounds in an attempt to extract a statement that makes sense, and worrying when none of it fits - but, when things do click, it often happens suddenly. No analysis involved: I know what I'm hearing! That's the goal, moving forward - to ask myself, am I listening with my ears or with my brain? That analytical mind of mine has always been a huge asset, but maybe one day it'll be a bit less necessary, or a bit less overburdened, as more of the pieces fall into place. What a great thought.
And, finally - this may be a bit redundant, but I keep feeling stunned at the texture of the world with sound in it. Seven months has not distilled my private sense of wonder. There's a bird building a nest outside my window, and I hear it right now as I type. I've been noticing new types of bird calls around campus, too, and other sounds keep shadowing me, feeling more and more like good friends. The whistling of the wind, the squeal of my bike tires, overlapping machinery, people's voices carrying over from the most improbable places. Hard work aside, all of this is so, so amazing.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Order from Chaos
It's coming in baby steps, but with each day my hearing gets better and better. I keep marveling at the ability of the brain to adapt and rewire itself. My brain has somehow filed away an amazing number of sounds in only eleven days, and now I'm approaching a much more cohesive portrait of what the world sounds like. Still imperfect, still grainy and somewhat mechanical-sounding, but cohesive. What is essentially the staccato note of a nerve firing, over and over, is being interpreted, smoothed, and woven into a larger tapestry. I'm beginning to accept the presence of sounds new to me, and even to expect them, all while I listen for new noises. Which include: Myself chewing - and very loudly, I might add. Myself fidgeting and tapping my foot on the floor. The whir of the computer. The swish of clothes as I walk. Notes on the piano, high high low. Words suddenly fitting together as I hear them read from the storybook page. My current CI volume is maxed out, and I'm hungry for more - which is great since I fly back to CA tomorrow for a re-mapping on Monday!
This entire process is essentially order emerging from chaos. And it happens with little conscious effort on my part, besides attention and practice. It's all my brain figuring out this new stimulus, and starting to do that with poise instead of going haywire. (Now there's actually space inside my head for me to think, which is nice.) Imagine how many new synapses it must have formed since last week. And consider the fact that the 16 electrodes, or even the 120 virtual electrodes, of the implant are nothing compared to 16,000 normal auditory hair cells. If I "hear," it's all because of brain integration. I'll say it again: brains are remarkable, remarkable things!
At the same time, I keep wondering if the new connections I'm making are overriding older ones. I'm curious if that auditory cortex space that I'm learning how to use (heretofore almost useless, since I heard so little for so many years) was previously storing other information. Where would that information go? What was that part of my brain being used for? Surely it can't just have perched there, inert, for 20 years. Perhaps that's part of why CIs are harder for older congenitally deaf recipients to adapt to - the established nerve connections don't want to let go of their "free" storage space!
Of course, it's technology that makes all this possible, and once you start it's hard to go back. And, it seems, many people who are implanted never do. I had breakfast with a longtime friend earlier this week, and we discussed the decline of sign language and Deaf culture, mostly because of the advances of CIs. The Deaf community that was present several decades ago, a community which arose from the small group of people sequestered together in institutions because they could not function in the hearing world, is diminishing. With anger and resentment, surely, but still diminishing. Technology has opened up other options, and many people with hearing losses can now leave sign language behind in order to negotiate their mainstream world with success. For my part, I don't know what I would do without the high-tech advances that connect me to my world - not just CIs, but email and the Internet and Skype and smartphones. (This deserves its own post at some point.)
Anyway, when I met my friend a few days ago she asked me if, sometime in the near future, I'd prefer she stop signing to me. I was startled. Despite the roaring noise taking over my skull, I hadn't considered the possibility that sign language could be no longer necessary between us. That it could become a relic of my past. But she was right; it could happen. "No, keep signing," I told her.
Similarly, I had coffee with another longtime friend this morning. He has gradually lost his hearing over the course of his life, and was worried that with the CI I would stop signing to him. He explained that a few of his deaf and hard-of-hearing friends have taken that path, and nowadays brush sign language aside because they only want to speak. Immediately, I saw a side of the CI debate that I hadn't fully grasped before. And it provides its own chaos, its own dilemma. What happens to those without CIs who are left behind? When their communal sign language declines, they must feel abandoned, betrayed, confused. Where do they go, when they want to form relationships, but when they can communicate with fewer and fewer people, however hard they try? The worst part of being deaf is this painful isolation and limitation - which I know all too well. What happens when your world becomes even more limited, when those who used to sign no longer do?
These questions surrounding sign language are complex, but my feelings are in line with what I've written before. It doesn't have to be sound or silence. Either-or. Regardless of what happens with the CI, sign language will hold a place in my heart that spoken words cannot describe. Many of my closest and most valued relationships have been cultivated in its presence. It has shaped my perceptions and the flow of my thought. It reassures me and allows me to relax, just as I imagine someone else might feel upon hearing the native accents of his homeland. Like all languages, it has a history and a personal significance that extends beyond its practical use. However far I dive into the world of hearing, I cannot let these things go.
Even as I take delight in the brain, in sound, and in technology. Since I'm still straddling that fence, I'd best find a comfortable place to sit.
This entire process is essentially order emerging from chaos. And it happens with little conscious effort on my part, besides attention and practice. It's all my brain figuring out this new stimulus, and starting to do that with poise instead of going haywire. (Now there's actually space inside my head for me to think, which is nice.) Imagine how many new synapses it must have formed since last week. And consider the fact that the 16 electrodes, or even the 120 virtual electrodes, of the implant are nothing compared to 16,000 normal auditory hair cells. If I "hear," it's all because of brain integration. I'll say it again: brains are remarkable, remarkable things!
At the same time, I keep wondering if the new connections I'm making are overriding older ones. I'm curious if that auditory cortex space that I'm learning how to use (heretofore almost useless, since I heard so little for so many years) was previously storing other information. Where would that information go? What was that part of my brain being used for? Surely it can't just have perched there, inert, for 20 years. Perhaps that's part of why CIs are harder for older congenitally deaf recipients to adapt to - the established nerve connections don't want to let go of their "free" storage space!
(The auditory cortex, highlighted here, must keep lighting up inside my skull! Check out the awesome source article, which discusses music and auditory memory, at http://www.dana.org/news/brainwork/detail.aspx?id=766.)
Of course, it's technology that makes all this possible, and once you start it's hard to go back. And, it seems, many people who are implanted never do. I had breakfast with a longtime friend earlier this week, and we discussed the decline of sign language and Deaf culture, mostly because of the advances of CIs. The Deaf community that was present several decades ago, a community which arose from the small group of people sequestered together in institutions because they could not function in the hearing world, is diminishing. With anger and resentment, surely, but still diminishing. Technology has opened up other options, and many people with hearing losses can now leave sign language behind in order to negotiate their mainstream world with success. For my part, I don't know what I would do without the high-tech advances that connect me to my world - not just CIs, but email and the Internet and Skype and smartphones. (This deserves its own post at some point.)
Anyway, when I met my friend a few days ago she asked me if, sometime in the near future, I'd prefer she stop signing to me. I was startled. Despite the roaring noise taking over my skull, I hadn't considered the possibility that sign language could be no longer necessary between us. That it could become a relic of my past. But she was right; it could happen. "No, keep signing," I told her.
Similarly, I had coffee with another longtime friend this morning. He has gradually lost his hearing over the course of his life, and was worried that with the CI I would stop signing to him. He explained that a few of his deaf and hard-of-hearing friends have taken that path, and nowadays brush sign language aside because they only want to speak. Immediately, I saw a side of the CI debate that I hadn't fully grasped before. And it provides its own chaos, its own dilemma. What happens to those without CIs who are left behind? When their communal sign language declines, they must feel abandoned, betrayed, confused. Where do they go, when they want to form relationships, but when they can communicate with fewer and fewer people, however hard they try? The worst part of being deaf is this painful isolation and limitation - which I know all too well. What happens when your world becomes even more limited, when those who used to sign no longer do?
These questions surrounding sign language are complex, but my feelings are in line with what I've written before. It doesn't have to be sound or silence. Either-or. Regardless of what happens with the CI, sign language will hold a place in my heart that spoken words cannot describe. Many of my closest and most valued relationships have been cultivated in its presence. It has shaped my perceptions and the flow of my thought. It reassures me and allows me to relax, just as I imagine someone else might feel upon hearing the native accents of his homeland. Like all languages, it has a history and a personal significance that extends beyond its practical use. However far I dive into the world of hearing, I cannot let these things go.
Even as I take delight in the brain, in sound, and in technology. Since I'm still straddling that fence, I'd best find a comfortable place to sit.
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