Lost in the Crowd 

I recently moved to a new house. It was a Friday and a friend of my partner whom I had not yet met and who lives in our new village invited us for a drink with him and his wife. We had spent the past few days assembling flatpack furniture, moving boxes, and cleaning, and were both feeling tired.

As we walked towards the bar, my partner asked me how I wanted him to refer to my hearing loss, should it come up. “Can I use the word deaf?” he asked. I was glad that he felt comfortable talking about my hearing loss identity. I use different words to refer to my hearing loss depending on the context. I told him that it’s OK for him to use the word “deaf”—this is a clear way of describing my hearing loss. In social situations, I tend to say, “I am deaf in my left ear,” or “I have no hearing on the left side, so I might not hear you.” I was ready to explain my hearing loss early on in the conversation, as we would likely be seeing more of my partner’s friend and his wife in the future.

It was a sunny afternoon, and lots of people were sitting outside the bar on the terrace. As we scanned the tables, my partner stopped in his tracks. “There he is,” said my partner, looking over at a table of 15 or so people engaged in lively conversation. This was not the small get-together we had been expecting. Had they already seen me, I wondered? Is it too late to turn around and go home?

I have never been a fan of large groups of people, and since my hearing loss, my aversion to them has only grown. Not only can I not hear a single person speaking in a large group, but I also find it difficult to locate the speaker if someone addresses me, that’s when I even realize someone is talking to me. I much prefer meeting my friends one-on-one or in small groups, where I can actively engage in conversations and easily ask for repetition if needed.

As we approached the table, my partner’s friend greeted us and we became enveloped into the group. I sat down to the right of my partner, so he could relay anything that was said to me from my deaf side. Due to the high level of background noise and various conversations happening at the same time, I was unable to gauge the volume of my voice when introducing myself. 

I proceeded to try my best to follow any snippet of conversation that I managed to catch. I had a brief chat with the guy directly to my right—my hearing side—the only person at the table I could comfortably hear. However, he was soon drawn into a different conversation when another group member addressed him.

This was not an occasion to interrupt the flow of the conversation, introduce myself as the new deaf person in the village, and share my deaf awareness tips. So, I settled into my chair, observed the faces of the people squeezed around the tables, and leaped on any word I could make out.

The conversation as I heard it went as follows:

Indiscernable chatter… “Thailand”…. Indiscernable chatter.

“Thailand?” I echoed, turning my hearing ear to my partner with curiosity. “Have they been to Thailand?” My partner nodded, explaining that his friend and his wife used to travel there a lot. The conversation continued around us and I observed my partner seamlessly re-immerse himself, effortlessly contributing to the discussion.

Indiscernable chatter… “Yoga”… Indiscernable chatter … “Beach”… Indiscernable chatter.

“Yoga?” I asked my partner. “She went to a yoga class on the beach,” he replied. I glanced across the table at the woman in question and considered asking her for more information. However, I knew I wouldn’t catch her response. She caught my eye and said something that may have been directed towards me. I smiled at her, just in case she had been addressing me, and then she paused. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned to continue speaking to another member of the group.

I felt so lonely. I wanted to escape. 

My ears were ringing with increasing volume in response to the chatter around me, and I resigned myself to sitting with a smile on my face, taking a deep interest in my wine glass. My mind wandered to a place I’d rather be: sitting on top of a mountain, looking at the view over a valley, with only the sound of nature around me.

On leaving the gathering, I wondered how others may have perceived me. Was I the shy person, or perhaps rude? I’m sure many of the people in the group wouldn’t recognize me outside of the bar setting, so I didn’t worry too much about it. I would have the chance to explain my hearing loss to my partner’s friend and wife another time.

Reflecting on the situation, I pondered what made it feel so challenging to advocate for myself. I think, firstly, I was initially overwhelmed by the sheer number of people sitting around the tables—I hadn’t mentally prepared to navigate such a large crowd.

Secondly, the people around me were in the flow of after-work Friday drinks. These were essentially strangers to me, many of whom probably weren’t even aware my partner and I had joined the group. It just didn’t feel right to start talking about my hearing loss. 

Thirdly, it was so loud, that I couldn’t hear myself talk, meaning I lacked confidence in expressing myself.

Fourthly, If I had advocated for myself in this situation with multiple conversations happening at the same time, what good would it have done? Perhaps I might have gathered a few more snippets of conversations. But the other 14 or so group members weren’t going to be silent while one person spoke at a time so that I could hear them, which is what I would have needed them to do for me to be able to access the conversation.

And finally, I was tired. I had spent the week moving and simply didn’t have the energy to self-advocate.

I generally consider myself a strong self-advocate, but occasionally, I need to take a step back.

And, I’m ok with that.