“Breast milk is best ...” as I walked back to the living room.
In the living room, Juliet was still arched back. I scooped her up, but like a fish, she flipped and flailed. I nestled her into the crook of my arm and placed the bottle to her lips, but she squirmed herself to an upright sitting position with her back to me. She wanted to face out as she drank her bottle, her eyes away from me .
How were we going to relate to each other? All my worries about motherhood were back, strong as ever. With Juliet here, I’d be less available for Sophia. Juggling two, I’d be less focused than with one. And my girls’ deafness, on top of everything, was like an enduring signpost of my own impediments to hearing, to connection and closeness.
I draped Juliet over my shoulder to burp her, and sang to her from a mixed-up, past repertoire of show tunes and operatic arias. I landed on a song I remembered all the words to,
Freddie’s song from My Fair Lady . I could picture the freckled, redheaded boy who sang the song in the production I was in as a teenager, when I dreamed of becoming a singer. “I have often walked down this street before. But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before. All at once am I several stories high, knowing I’m on the street where you live.” The boy belted it out and now so did I. I didn’t stop for Bill’s footsteps down the stairs, and I continued on as he watched.
“I don’t think she can hear anything at all,” Bill said when I was finished. The brainstem test that would tell the exact degree of Juliet’s hearing loss was a week away, but Bill repeatedly expressed his impression that Juliet was completely deaf. He paired himself with Sophia—whom I now missed desperately—while I, exclusively, cared for Juliet. I thought back to how Bill had held Sophia as a newborn, how he had balanced her in her entirety upon his strong forearm, zooming her face close to mine for kisses, then swaying her gently to sleep. Was it just the logistics of a second baby—a natural, sensible division of labor—that split us so? Or had the prospect of complete deafness driven Bill away?
“She can hear my singing,” I said assuredly, and I moved on to “Quando Men Vo” from La Boheme .
But in the middle I stopped. Bill was in the kitchen and I asked him to come back.
“What about her sight, Bill? Do you think she can see?”
“I am not sure,” he said, his eyes not meeting mine now either.
Surrounded by old people wearing flimsy grey goggles, I sat with Juliet at the ophthalmologist’s office and narrated board books. The Three Bears. Hop on Pop. Time for Bed. When I came to Brown Bear Brown Bear, What Do You See? hastily stuffed into the diaper bag, I cast it aside and then thrust all the books back into the bag. It was doubtful that Juliet could hear anything I was saying to her, and with tears flooding my eyes and occluding my own vision, I was panicked that she couldn’t see. I sat impatiently, holding Juliet face-out as was usual now, and racked my brain for the information I once knew about Usher’s Disease, the syndrome in which deafness is linked with blindness.
The waiting was interminable. The room smelled like formaldehyde mixed with ammonia. We were taken in for dilating drops, then sent back into the crowded waiting room. Highlights. Your Big Backyard . I couldn’t just sit there without showing her anything. When we were finally taken in to meet with the doctor, Juliet was squirmy from having
sat so long. Quickly, the doctor shined a light into the backs of her eyes to examine her pupils. Just as he lowered the light, Juliet looked into my eyes for the first time. She looked into my eyes! I grabbed Juliet close in the darkness, and between heaving breaths, I planted soft kisses all over her face—her cheeks, her lips, her nose, and her eyes—her sparkling, light-filled, blueberry eyes.
Just weeks after Juliet’s arrival, I was preparing to teach again at Mount
In the living room, Juliet was still arched back. I scooped her up, but like a fish, she flipped and flailed. I nestled her into the crook of my arm and placed the bottle to her lips, but she squirmed herself to an upright sitting position with her back to me. She wanted to face out as she drank her bottle, her eyes away from me .
How were we going to relate to each other? All my worries about motherhood were back, strong as ever. With Juliet here, I’d be less available for Sophia. Juggling two, I’d be less focused than with one. And my girls’ deafness, on top of everything, was like an enduring signpost of my own impediments to hearing, to connection and closeness.
I draped Juliet over my shoulder to burp her, and sang to her from a mixed-up, past repertoire of show tunes and operatic arias. I landed on a song I remembered all the words to,
Freddie’s song from My Fair Lady . I could picture the freckled, redheaded boy who sang the song in the production I was in as a teenager, when I dreamed of becoming a singer. “I have often walked down this street before. But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before. All at once am I several stories high, knowing I’m on the street where you live.” The boy belted it out and now so did I. I didn’t stop for Bill’s footsteps down the stairs, and I continued on as he watched.
“I don’t think she can hear anything at all,” Bill said when I was finished. The brainstem test that would tell the exact degree of Juliet’s hearing loss was a week away, but Bill repeatedly expressed his impression that Juliet was completely deaf. He paired himself with Sophia—whom I now missed desperately—while I, exclusively, cared for Juliet. I thought back to how Bill had held Sophia as a newborn, how he had balanced her in her entirety upon his strong forearm, zooming her face close to mine for kisses, then swaying her gently to sleep. Was it just the logistics of a second baby—a natural, sensible division of labor—that split us so? Or had the prospect of complete deafness driven Bill away?
“She can hear my singing,” I said assuredly, and I moved on to “Quando Men Vo” from La Boheme .
But in the middle I stopped. Bill was in the kitchen and I asked him to come back.
“What about her sight, Bill? Do you think she can see?”
“I am not sure,” he said, his eyes not meeting mine now either.
Surrounded by old people wearing flimsy grey goggles, I sat with Juliet at the ophthalmologist’s office and narrated board books. The Three Bears. Hop on Pop. Time for Bed. When I came to Brown Bear Brown Bear, What Do You See? hastily stuffed into the diaper bag, I cast it aside and then thrust all the books back into the bag. It was doubtful that Juliet could hear anything I was saying to her, and with tears flooding my eyes and occluding my own vision, I was panicked that she couldn’t see. I sat impatiently, holding Juliet face-out as was usual now, and racked my brain for the information I once knew about Usher’s Disease, the syndrome in which deafness is linked with blindness.
The waiting was interminable. The room smelled like formaldehyde mixed with ammonia. We were taken in for dilating drops, then sent back into the crowded waiting room. Highlights. Your Big Backyard . I couldn’t just sit there without showing her anything. When we were finally taken in to meet with the doctor, Juliet was squirmy from having
sat so long. Quickly, the doctor shined a light into the backs of her eyes to examine her pupils. Just as he lowered the light, Juliet looked into my eyes for the first time. She looked into my eyes! I grabbed Juliet close in the darkness, and between heaving breaths, I planted soft kisses all over her face—her cheeks, her lips, her nose, and her eyes—her sparkling, light-filled, blueberry eyes.
Just weeks after Juliet’s arrival, I was preparing to teach again at Mount
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