Niang always made a loud clucky sound with her tongue when she was amazed at something. One day, I clicked my tongue like Niang and to my surprise, Sophie turned to me. I couldn’t believe it! I turned my head away to try again and Sophie again responded. ‘Sophie! You heard me!’ I was so delighted that I danced around and hugged her and kept on clicking. What a breakthrough! I now knew she could detect some sounds with her big powerful hearing aids.
My focus on Sophie did not waver. I set up her cot next to our bed so that I could put on the hearing aids and the FM equipment the minute she woke up, and then started talking. ‘Good morning, my beautiful girl! Let’s change your nappy. Nappy time! Nappy time!’ And I talked loudly all day, every day.
Funnily enough, Sophie rarely tried to take out the clunky hearing aids. She could read my face very early on, so perhaps she knew leaving them on made me happy. I quietly savoured this small achievement.
Though Sophie and I combined lessons and play, it was often to the point of exhaustion. At times like this, I would remind myself of the story of Helen Keller and her devoted teacher Annie Sullivan. Their one-on-one struggle to find a way for Helen to comprehend and to communicate gave me strength. Could I do what Annie did? I would certainly try.
Niang and Dia continued to work in the garden and cook our favourite meals, while Li, when not at rehearsals or performing, was still determined to look for a cure. He spoke to a good friend who was passionate about qi gong, a healing, spiritual exercise with flowing movements and deep breathing. The friend believed qi gong could help Sophie with her deafness. Late one night I woke up and thought I heard a strange, low humming voice: ‘Hmmmmmm . . . Hmmmmm . . .’
I turned in bed and noticed Li wasn’t there, and rising quietly, I followed the voice. There he was, sitting on the edge of Sophie’s bed, cross-legged like Buddha, and he was humming. His hands were in prayer position in front of his chest and his eyes were closed.
‘What are you doing, Li?’ I asked in hushed tones, startling him.
‘Oh! San Huang told me that this exercise will heal Sophie’s hearing loss,’ he replied earnestly.
‘You are mad, Li! Come to bed now! It’s not going to work,’ I said, annoyed.
‘Well, how do you know? It’s worth a try!’ Li insisted, closing his eyes and continuing his ‘Hmmmmmm . . . Hmmmmm . . .’
He also began asking around in the Chinese community for the best acupuncturist. Eventually, he found one in Washington, DC and we flew there a couple of months later and met a small, middle-aged Chinese woman who spoke very good English. She peered into Sophie’s ears. ‘She’s not going to see anything like that!’ I thought.
At the end of the examination, the acupuncturist said, ‘Yes, I think acupuncture could return some hearing, but I think you need some very special expertise.’
I cringed at the thought of having to hold Sophie down for all those needles to go into her head and ears. I was sceptical, but Li visibly perked up at the referral to an acupuncturist in Beijing – the best in the world! There was a lot to discuss when we returned to Houston.
In the meantime, I continued Sophie’s speech therapy sessions. I would tell her out loud exactly what we were doing and repeat it again and again. Our life was filled with my voice. At the park I would say, ‘Up, up we go! Up we go!’ as I pushed her on the swing. Always at the back of my mind, I was trying to imagine her life without sound.
Over the next six months, I watched the language capabilities of young children the same age as Sophie explode, yet she continued to have no language. It was a cruel thing to see. In fact, the ‘Ba ba ba’ and ‘Ma ma ma’ she had once babbled had stopped. I would later learn that this was common for deaf children.
I also learned that most babies start developing an auditory memory bank from the sounds they hear in utero. Humans need this bank of sounds to form a language. Deaf children don’t have an auditory memory, so Sophie had none of that memory. I began to realise the enormous complexity of the English language, and that we were fighting against time.
Our new way of life became very challenging at home. Up until Sophie’s diagnosis, our lives had been all about music and the two languages. Now, we packed away music and other noises from the house – stereo, radio and television – to create a quiet environment to best enable Sophie to hear. I became very aware of background noise at all times. And I kept thinking, How could anyone have a life without music? We still had Niang and Dia with us, but it wasn’t the same as before. How could it be, when such a pall of sadness hung over us all?
It came to a turning point when the speech therapist advised me not to confuse Sophie by having two languages spoken at home. Oh, God, how would we manage this?
‘Li,’ I said, swallowing hard, ‘the therapist told me two languages will confuse Sophie. It might delay or even stop her totally from learning English.’
‘So we shouldn’t speak Chinese in front of her?’ he asked, the hurt visible in his eyes.
‘Yes, and you need to speak English,’ I replied, feeling incredibly sad for him.
I could tell Niang and Dia didn’t really understand but they respected our decision. No longer did we see their smiling faces and hear their endless chatter at the dinner table. We now ate in silence. It was bewildering for Sophie, too. I started to worry for Niang and Dia and their relationship with their granddaughter. They couldn’t speak English and we were not to speak Chinese, yet they had come to look after Sophie and help her become bilingual. That’s when I knew the current situation was not going to work.
‘How was Sophie today?’ Li asked me one day when I took Sophie’s hearing aids off and put her to bed. My joy in any small achievements was also his joy.
‘I don’t know, Li. I can’t tell. I’m so distracted. I am really worried about your parents.’
Li remained silent. He was thinking.
‘Niang feels helpless. It’s obvious,’ I continued. ‘And it’s awful to see Dia so quiet and withdrawn. Sophie can see there’s something different about them. What are we going to do?’
Li spoke quietly and I had never seen him look so forlorn.
‘Mary, I think they will have to go back to China. It will be best for Sophie. I’ll talk to them now. They will understand.’
This broke my heart. Poor Li. He had been separated from his parents from such a young age, and the time spent with them since Sophie’s birth had been the happiest of his life. The thought of them being separated again was gut-wrenching.
Over the next few days and nights I saw Li and his parents in deep conversation. I could only guess what they were talking about. Sometimes Niang would come and take my hands and look into my eyes, and Dia would sit with his head in his hands, despairing yet resigned. It was agony for all of us. But all too soon, and in another way not soon enough, Niang and Dia made the difficult decision to return to China.
Later, it was agreed we would all go to China together. Li wanted to take Sophie to the acupuncturist in Beijing, so it was the perfect opportunity to visit Li’s family too. The timing was good because Houston Ballet would soon close for the summer break. Li also wanted to take Sophie to see a famous Chinese healer up in the Laoshan Mountains in Qingdao. His brothers had told him about the healer. I was sceptical, but understood it was important to Li.