Chasing Rainbows in New York

My mother has been deaf for so many years I barely notice. She seems unfazed by silence, and I only register her deafness when it becomes inconvenient for me.  Like when she would call to me from another room and, not hearing my response, just call to me again. Like when she makes me write even the most insignificant conversation fillers down. Like when she insists she can hear some people, but not me.  I have become oblivious to the void. 

Until there is music.

Somewhere, over the rainbow. . . .   I was sitting in companionable silence with mom while she watched the news and I sort of half listened. The deafness I’m used to, but the whole nursing home thing, well, that’s a different story. Again, though, she seems unfazed by her new reality, while I focus obsessively on petty inconveniences. My frequent trips to New York. Nursing home smells. My vital and independent mom, confined to a bed. 

Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me. . . .  Maybe. The television is always on, with closed captions for mom and low volume for me. I like background noise, and it occurs to me how privileged I am to be able to have it but ignore it – do something more interesting. It’s a guilty pleasure, relegating sound to some auditory footnote while my mom doesn’t even have a choice.  She cannot hear the steady drumbeat of hallway noise –the periodic beeping of call buttons, the gentle patois of gossiping aides. And she was utterly unaware of the dulcet tones that suddenly wafted in -- soft guitar chords, a sweet and clear male voice, a faint yet equally sweet male voice joining in. I went out to investigate.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops. . . .  An elderly gentleman, sporting a red white and blue tie, bald on top, a soft cloud of strawberry blond hair cascading over the nape of his neck. Had there been a pot of gold, I would not have been surprised. The gentleman in the next room had pulled into the doorway in his wheelchair, and was singing along. Neither appeared to notice me standing there. 

Hearing loss sometimes has its perks, I suppose. Several years ago, mom came with me and my daughter to see Bohemian Rhapsody. Not the sort of movie that lends itself to closed-captioning, but it was a perfect way to give her a chance to rest for a few hours before dinner. It was joyously deafening, Bohemian Rhapsody. Mom slept. We all emerged raving – a win-win. I hoped she could at least feel the beat. 

But now, hearing loss seemed to be anything but a perk. I leaned against the doorjamb and listened.  If happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow – why, oh why can’t I? I clapped. I thanked the gentleman with the soft voice and the soft cloud of strawberry blond hair. He nodded. Then he was gone. Beyond the rainbow? To the elevator? I don’t know.  As quickly as he had appeared, he was nowhere to be found. 

I went back in. Mom hadn’t noticed I was gone, so I didn’t bother to explain. I looked out her window. It was raining, but no rainbows. No bluebirds, just pigeons.