Rebecca Willman Gernon, Memoir Author

 “John, go over there and sit down.” I motion to the empty chairs as I walk toward the receptionist’s desk.

John climbs onto a chair and squirms his way to the back of the deep seat. The toes of his rubber boots jut toward the ceiling. He is a compliant child, happy to do what I ask without question. In public he is quiet, almost to the point of shyness, but at home, he talks and talks. To me, the characters on Sesame Street, his father, his sister, and his toys.

The sudden warmth of the office is stifling. While continuing to hold Amy, I pull my wool scarf away from my neck and unbutton my coat. “I’m Rebecca Willman. We’re here to see Dr. Profitt.” The receptionist nods and hands me a clipboard. I print my name in block letters at the bottom of a long list and retreat to the chair across the room.

Since Amy does not walk yet, I brace her against the back of the chair back for support while I remove her snowsuit. When I pull off her knit cap, static electricity sends her wispy blonde hair skyward. I smooth the flyaway hair and pull her floral tee shirt over the top of her pink slacks. Sitting on the edge of the chair, I help John unzip his jacket while scanning the room for a coat rack; there isn’t one.

“Scoot forward a bit, John.”

He uses the wooden armrests to pull himself to the edge of his seat, dislodging clumps of snow from his boots. I shove his jacket and Amy’s snowsuit behind him. I pick up Amy and hold her on my lap. She squirms to free herself of my grasp, but I have no intention of letting her crawl on a floor that is covered with snowy footprints and muddy smudges.

The waiting begins.

The old man beside me tickles Amy under her chin. “What’s his name? How old is he?”

“Her name is Amy, and she’s eleven months old.” My exasperated voice tells him he is not the first person to mistake Amy for a boy. Most people pay no attention to her lace trimmed shirts, but focus instead on her short hair and assume she is a boy. To make her hair situation worse, Amy has inherited my fine thin hair, with one difference. I’m a brunette; she’s a blonde, so she appears bald.

“Sorry.” He picks up a worn magazine.

“That’s okay. A lot of people think she’s a boy.”

A woman in a starched white uniform appears in the waiting room. She runs her finger down the list of people on the sign-in sheet and calls, “Mrs. Carstens. Mr. Beckman.”

Two people stand, gather their belongings, and disappear down the hall.

The nurse scans the room until our eyes meet. She consults the list again. “Rebecca Willman.”

I rise, grab my purse and Amy’s small diaper bag. “John, get the coats.”

I stare at the nurse’s back as she leads us to a small examination room. “The doctor will be with you in a minute.” She exits, pulling the door shut.

Today my worries, not my claustrophobia, press upon me. The tiny room has two chairs, an examination table, and a metal desk. The back of the desk is lined with glass jars filled with tongue depressors, cotton balls, and swabs. An odd assortment of metallic instruments lines the front of the desk.

John sits on a chair and swings his boots. The flickering movement of his white boots distracts me from peering at the metal tools. I rise to get a better look at the unfamiliar medical tools, and the door springs open.

“Go ahead and put Amy on the exam table,” Dr. Profitt says. The nurse follows him into the small room and stands beside the desk, ready to assist him.

I met Dr. Profitt a year ago for the first time when he tested my vision and prescribed new glasses. He is Grand Island, Nebraska’s, only eye-ear-nose-throat doctor. If he wore a red velvet suit, with plenty of padding, he could pass for Santa Claus. Under his snow white hair, black-rimmed glasses perch on the end of his nose. His voice is soft. His gaze is filled with solemn concern, which calms me. He looks over the top of his glasses with dark blue eyes at Amy. He cups her chin in his hand and tips her face toward him.

As he examines Amy with various tools, my nervous chatter fills the room. Dr. Profitt nods, says “Uh huh.” When I gasp for breath, he encourages me to tell him about Amy’s birth, her allergies, and other medical history. I rattle off the requested information. His soothing voice, and father-like image lull me into uneasy calm.

CLANG! “Sorry.” The nurse grabs the large metal tuning fork she had dropped onto the desk and nestles it into a foam slot in a wooden box and closes the lid. She stands by the door, as if anxious to hurry into the hall.

“I can’t see anything physically wrong with Amy’s inner and outer ears,” Dr. Profitt says, “but she does not hear.”

On December 13, 1969, 10:15 a.m., those four ominous words ring louder than the tuning fork. Moments ago my voice filled the room, but now I’m unable to speak. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth.

While Dr. Profitt continues to explain the result of his examination, I recall the countless times Amy moved her lips in silent imitation to my lullabies and chatter. What kind of mother am I? Why didn’t I figure this out sooner? I should have known she didn’t hear after the Fourth of July. Cherry bombs were exploding all around her. John was screaming as loud as the rockets exploding overhead, and Amy slept through the whole fireworks display. People around us even commented they couldn’t believe Amy didn’t wake up. That was my wake-up call and I missed it.

From my subconscious rise stories my mother told me about visiting the Chicago School for the Deaf when she was a child. “Deaf children don’t speak because they can’t hear their language.” This is all my fault. I should have known months ago.

“Rebecca,” Dr. Profitt says, pulling me from my self-persecuting reverie to the stark reality of the examination room. “You should have my diagnosis confirmed by an audiologist.”

Confirmed? Not confirmed, I think, but rather penetrating deeper into my mind so all my hopes and dreams for Amy will be buried under a mountain of problems.

“Do you want me to send a letter to the university’s audiology department requesting an appointment?”

The room is stuffed with silence. Always prepared to give a quick response, I am locked in a slow-motion world, speechless. The nurse stands by the door, her pen poised to write my response on Amy’s chart. John has added thumb sucking to his boot swinging behavior. Dr. Profitt leans over the exam table, removes a small flashlight from his shirt pocket. He flicks the light off and on. Amy reaches for it, and he hands it to her. My answer will set the room in motion. Seconds pass. I force my dry, paralyzed tongue to move. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Dr. Profitt nods to his nurse and she scribbles something on Amy’s chart. He removes Amy from the exam table and hands her to me. Turning to John, he pats his booted feet and says, “You look just like your Daddy.” As he exits, he calls over his shoulder, “Tell John and Esther ‘Hello’ from me the next time you see them.”

“I will.” John and Esther are my husband Jack’s parents. I could pass Dr. Profitt’s greeting to them fifteen minutes from now if I stopped at the family-owned grocery store on my way home, but I have no desire to utter ‘she does not hear’ in a busy grocery store.

Outside I suck cold air into my lungs. An hour ago the sun shone; now the sky is sullen and grey. A light snow is falling, covering the dirty, two-week-old snow with a pristine blanket. This could be a sign. Don’t give up hope, Rebecca. Dr. Profitt could be wrong.
***
After the appointment, I had planned to stop by the grocery store, pick up a few items, and tell Jack about our appointment with Dr. Profitt, but my mind is numb, bogged down with trying to process the diagnosis. Lost in thought, I drive past the store and am turning into our driveway before I realize the forgotten errand.

It doesn’t matter. I really didn’t need anything. I could call Jack at the store, but most of the time he is too busy to take phone calls and I’m not in the mood to drive back to the store. The news won’t change. I can tell him tonight.

Before I fix John and Amy’s lunch, I pull the baby gate across the open stairwell that goes from our kitchen to the basement. I spoon mounds of Spaghetti-Ohs on three plates. My lunch slips down my throat, untasted. The meal finished, I wipe a tomato sauce smile off Amy’s face and remove her from her high chair. She crawls toward the baby gate.

I turn her on the polished linoleum floor so she now crawls toward the living room. The gate is attached to sheet rock. If she pushed her twenty pounds against it, it would give way, allowing her to fall two steps to the landing, or God forbid, down the entire flight of stairs to the concrete basement floor. I move her high chair in front of the gate, forming a second line of defense.

“Can I watch Sesame Street?” John asks as he wipes his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Sure. It’s on channel twelve.” I stack our dishes on the counter; consider leaving them there until I wash dishes tonight, but my compulsion for neatness will not allow this. I fill the sink with water and squirt in Ivory liquid.

Amy crawls to the living room; the knees of her pink slacks pick up dust and food particles off the kitchen floor. She crawls to where John is seated on the floor, holding his blanket and stuffed dog, sucking his thumb. With a soft pop, he removes his thumb and says, “Look Amy, it’s the cookie monster.”

Amy shifts from her knees onto her butt beside John. She grabs for the dog.

“No! It’s mine.” Ever the diplomat, he extends a corner of his blanket to her. She pushes it away and reaches for the dog again. John rises, keeping a firm grasp on the dog and blanket and finds her pink cat pillow. “Here, take this. It’s yours.”

Amy grabs the pillow and stuffs her fingers in her mouth. John giggles, at the antics of the cookie monster. He leans over Amy, shakes his body and growls, “Coooookie.” Even with two fingers in her mouth, Amy is still able to smile. Oscar the grouch keeps me company as I wash the dishes and stack them in the cupboard. I align the silverware in the drawer, close the cupboard doors, wipe down the counters, and join John and Amy in the living room as a zombie on the couch.

The rest of the day, Dr. Profitt’s diagnosis whirls in my brain, gouging a deep groove of remembrance . . . an ugly wound that I'm sure will never heal. At last, Jack arrives for supper. I spew the result of Amy’s examination as he removes his winter coat and stuffs his gloves in the pocket. I speak the words, “Dr. Profitt says she does not hear,” to the back of his head, not his freckled face.

He tosses his coat on the couch and turns. With a wrinkled forehead and brown eyes filled with confusion, he stares at me as if I had just spoken gibberish. Then he walks across the room, picks up the newspaper, and sits in our worn recliner.

“We need to take Amy to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln so an audiologist can test her.” I set a tossed salad and several bottles of dressing on the table.

Jack looks up from his paper as if I had just asked him to fly. “I can’t take a day off from work to do that.” He buries his head in the sports page.

Why not? This is your daughter. You work for your parents. I don’t see why you can’t take a day off to go to Lincoln with me. I keep those thoughts to myself. Three years of marriage has taught me begging is pointless. I remove a pizza from the oven. “Supper’s ready.”

Jack puts the paper down. “Good. I’m hungry.”

End of discussion.
***
We watch the 10:00 p.m. news in silence, propped up on pillows in our bed. The space between us is narrow, but that slender gap is a barrier to our unexpressed feelings. The glow from the TV gives our bedroom an eerie glow. Jack waits until after he hears the sports report before he snaps off the TV and curls onto his side, facing the wall. This is how he falls to sleep most nights, but tonight I see his back as an impenetrable wall. I want to tell him about the doctor’s visit again, hoping that this time the story will have a different ending.

I stare at his back, angry and envious. After ten hours of standing on his feet, preparing produce, lifting heavy boxes, dealing with customers, and handling a variety of other tasks necessary to maintain a large grocery store, sleep comes easy for Jack; tonight is no exception. It’s not fair. I’m a nervous wreck, and you’re sleeping like you don’t have a care in the world.

I rise and shuffle to the bedroom John and Amy share. Our duplex has only two bedrooms, but they are large. There is plenty of room for a crib, twin bed, dresser, rocking chair, and boxes of toys in a room I have painted a bright yellow. Circus print curtains cover the windows. A small night light plugged in a socket under Amy’s crib casts soft shadows on the ceiling.

John has kicked off his blankets. He lies sprawled across the bed sideways. His footed Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas dangle off his twin bed. I roll him back to the center of the bed, dislodging his thumb from his mouth in the process. I pull a blanket over him and brush his dark curls from his brow. He moans, but does not awake. He rolls onto his side, finds his thumb. I find his rhythmic sucking noises calming.

On the other side of the room, Amy sleeps in her crib. I smooth her wispy blond hair and wonder if she will have hair as thick as her brother’s. Amy was born on January 23, the same day my younger sister was born nineteen years ago. Amy and her aunt share more than a birthday. Each opted to suck the first and second fingers of their right hand, with one disgusting difference: Amy shoves her ring finger up her nose. I reach to remove her offending nose-picking finger as I have done countless times. For an instant life seems normal, then Dr. Profitt’s words, she does not hear, pierce my memory. Instead of plucking the nose-picking finger from my daughter’s face, I wipe a solitary tear from my cheek.

I sink into the rocking chair beside her crib and rock as if possessed. The rocker squeaks my internal plea to God: Why? Why? Why? God is silent.

I drift back to my junior year in college, a short five years ago. I was in my dorm room with my three best friends discussing our dreams of marriage and children. We were idealistic in our views of fidelity and child rearing. Someone broached the subject of having a handicapped child. I remember the comment I uttered that day as if I had said it five minutes ago. “I could deal with any kind of handicap but retardation. Everything else can be overcome.” The old adage, “Be careful what you ask for,” springs to mind. Realization arrives. I have brought this misfortune upon myself by my own words, and yet the rocker still squeaks: Why? Why? Why?

I am afraid to ask God, “Why me?” I fear He is punishing me; if I press Him for answers, He’ll remind me of sins I want to forget. If this is my cross to bear, take it away, I pray. I don’t want it. I want to return to the life I had two weeks ago; the one I had before my visit to Dr. Profitt.

I drift into a groggy sleep. In my dreams monsters chase me, snapping at my heels, bent on devouring me. I jerk awake, sorry that the monsters didn’t eat me. There is no escape.

Every inch of my body hurts, as if I have contracted the flu from hell. I look at Amy. Her cheeks are rosy. The fingers on her right hand droop away from her lips; a trickle of saliva shines in the dim light. I lift her blanket and touch her chubby feet and legs, than extend beyond the hem of her pink nightgown. She appears perfect. How can she be flawed? What am I going to do? Who can I talk to? I don’t know anyone who has dealt with this handicap. I am alone.

The rocker chants, Why? Why? Why? as I slip into a fitful slumber.

Three hours later I am betrayed by the sun. December 14 dawns bright and sunny. The words she does not hear did not destroy the world; only my existence is in turmoil. I stare at a face in the mirror. It resembles someone I once knew, but sorrow, worry, and agony have claimed my youthful face. The vacant eyes in the mirror blink; I must still be alive.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

My numb body is jolted into reality by a child’s voice. It’s John. Amy is approaching her first birthday, but as of yet hasn’t made a noise, except to cry or an occasional laugh.

John’s voice jars the vicious four words, ‘she does not hear’ back into high gear. I squeeze my eyes shut, plug my ears with nail-bitten fingers, and try with all my might to force the words into submission. A tug on my nightgown breaks my concentration.

“When are we going to eat?”

“Right now, John.” I shuffle to the kitchen, pour milk into a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and set it before him. I continue to hold the box of cereal, confused, unable to decide if I should place it back in the cupboard or leave it on the counter.

“Juice, Mommy. I want juice now.” John’s plea interrupts my ruminations.

I pull a container of orange juice from the refrigerator. “Be careful. Don’t spill it.”