‘Sophie, Sophie, listen to me—’
‘No, Mum, you listen to me. Sometimes I just want to stop wearing my implants, because it doesn’t get easier – and I don’t think it ever will!’
By this point I had heard enough. I saw so much torment and resentment in her. The thought of her stopping wearing her implants petrified me. Had all these years of heartbreaking experiences, struggles, sacrifices and hard work come to this? My head was exploding and I was raging with fear and anger.
‘Where do I fit in, huh?’ she went on, challenging us. ‘I actually don’t fit into either camp! I go to bed deaf, I wake up deaf and I will die deaf! And I have to live with that and accept that,’ Sophie said with finality.
I was silent because I actually understood. She felt she didn’t fit in to either world, and I couldn’t help her.
‘That’s it, I’m done with this,’ were the last words she said as she pulled out her implants, slammed them on the dining table and stormed downstairs.
Li and I were utterly stunned. I had never expected this.
I was so shocked that it weren’t until much later in the night that I burst into tears. This was something new. It felt like a great wedge had come between us. I’d sensed it slowly growing, but Sophie’s bitterness was new. Clearly she felt very passionate about us not teaching her to sign, and about us, as a family, not learning to sign. Time and again I had tried to explain the reasons why we hadn’t gone down that path, but apparently this had just made her angrier and more resentful.
I didn’t sleep that night, and when Li woke in the morning, he was firm with me: ‘Please don’t bring this up with Sophie, Mary. I will speak to her. I want you to back off. When you are angry, you might say things that you don’t really mean.’
‘But Li, we’re losing her! I can’t bear it!’ I said in despair.
‘We won’t lose her, Mary. Give her a few days – everything will be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right, Li.’
However, Sophie didn’t want to speak to us and left early to catch a flight home. Her implants were gone. My heart was aching with sadness, just when I’d thought that together we had jumped over all the hurdles.
A week went by and Sophie still hadn’t been in touch. I wanted to call her, but Li stopped me. It was killing me. Each day that passed without hearing from her, my fear that she was moving further away from me increased. But Mothers’ Day was coming up. Surely she’d call me then.
Around this time, Bridie told me that Sophie had broken up with Matthew. I was shocked and wondered why Sophie hadn’t told me herself, but I must admit part of me was rather relieved.
On Mothers’ Day I woke up early, still thinking about Sophie and our fight. Even though my anger had dissipated, my sadness and worries had swelled. I reflected over and over on what Sophie had said that night. How had I failed to sense what she was going through? I had prided myself on knowing my daughter so well throughout her life, and blamed myself for moving away. I felt the urge to move back to Melbourne to be with her. I sensed that Sophie’s anger and frustration wasn’t just about her past struggles – they were about her future, and that must have been so terribly daunting and frightening for her.
By noon on Mothers’ Day, Sophie still hadn’t called. It was excruciating and I was so sad. And then, finally, she called in the afternoon. ‘Hi, Mum. Happy Mother’s Day!’
My happiness was beyond description. Hearing those few words, I felt such relief. That phone call was the best Mothers’ Day gift ever.
We didn’t have a long conversation. She asked how my day was going, but I couldn’t possibly tell her that I’d done nothing but wait for her bloody call. Instead, I told her that I’d had a good day and suggested that we needed to talk about what had happened and I was willing to listen this time. We agreed that it would be best if we could talk face to face, and it was decided that she would fly up again in a couple of weeks’ time. I felt much better after that conversation, but I knew, too, that I wouldn’t feel good until we’d spoken properly and in person.
I wasn’t aware that Li had called Sophie a few days earlier for a chat, telling her that we understood her struggles and loved her no matter what, and reminding her just what sacrifices I had made for her. It was he who had encouraged Sophie to call me on Mothers’ Day. I was just glad that she’d listened to her father and that I would see her soon.
A week before her visit, though, she sent us a long email that came as a real shock and caused us great angst.
1 June 2015
Hey Mum and Dad,
Hope you guys are going well.
I wanted to wait until I could talk face to face next week, have a heart-to-heart conversation about what happened last time I was in Brisbane.
However, knowing that Mum will interrupt me again, I’m going to try writing it down. I’m going to write from my heart. Please listen with your hearts. That’s all I ask.
Also, I’ll try my best to write this so there are no miscommunications because I love you guys, okay? I really, really love you both and I always will. Please don’t ever doubt my love for you.
I just want to say that I’m finally happy. I’m so happy and I want to tell you why.
It was when I met Meg two years ago at Hear For You. Since she can only sign, I learned how to sign for her so that we could work better together. Be a better team together.
Meg not only taught me Auslan, she also taught me more life skills: she taught me how to cope at parties, how to cope with my deafness, how to manage phone calls, work, noisy situations – basically how to cope with all things deaf. She unwittingly and openly shared with me a wealth of information, strategies and skills that I never dared dream of.
Because I was working with Meg two days a week, learning and asking all kinds of questions, my life changed almost within a year. It was Meg who changed my life – the life that I always dreamed of but could never achieve until then. To be happy.
Then I noticed other things: I no longer had breakdowns regularly. I no longer felt isolated and lonely and felt that I had no friends. I no longer dreaded going to parties. I no longer said ‘sorry’ because I am deaf. And why should I say that when it’s not even my fault that I am deaf?
I was twenty-three years old when I finally was at peace with my deafness. Fully accepted it and loved it.
You see, I have to love being deaf because my deafness is going to be there when I wake up, when the batteries run out, when the cochlear implant breaks, when I go to sleep. My deafness is going to be there until I die. My deafness is never going away and my cochlear implants remind me every day. It’s a long life to live if I continue to not fully embrace such a permanent and significant part of myself.
When I was twenty-four, I met Matthew. He was wonderful: Matthew showed me more of the beauty of being deaf.
Then I started to worry:
‘Will my parents accept me for who I am now?’
‘Should I tell my parents that I’m fluent in Auslan?’
‘Should I tell them that I’m in love with Matthew and we only use Auslan? Will they love me and Matthew anyway?’
Because of my anxieties about these things, I started seeing a psychologist. Because I was worried about what my parents thought of me now. For the first time in my life, I was worried that my new-found confidence as a deaf person would put a barrier up between my family.