Jo Milne, 39, from Gateshead, suffers from Usher syndrome as well as being deaf, the syndrome also affects her ability to see. Last year she underwent a risky operation to have cochlear implants. Thankfully the operation was a success and Jo is now able to hear.
My guide dog, Matt, shuffles at my feet. We’re on a crowded train and I’m trying to build a mental picture of the other people in the carriage.
I smell a strong, sweet perfume. My fellow passengers probably haven’t noticed it — they’ll be busy chatting on their mobile phones or reading the paper. But to me it’s a clue. Does the lovely scent belong to a girl on her way to meet her boyfriend? Or perhaps she has a first date? I can’t see her, but I know she’s there.
I can smell coffee, too. I tell myself to be careful in case there’s a hot drink nearby. This is my life as a deaf-blind woman. I long to speak to every person in the carriage. I’d love to make eye contact and smile, to ask them about their day and chat about mine.
Instead, I sit trapped in a world that is getting darker by the day, a silent world interrupted only by the blurry low-level white noise my hearing aids give me.
My mind leaps forward to the weeks ahead. There is just a month to go before I have cochlear implants. The surgeons are confident they have a good chance of working for me.
They tell me that, at the age of 39, I might be able to hear for the first time the voices of those I love: my parents, my two sisters, my niece, my friends, my colleagues. It’s an incredible prospect. But it comes with serious risks. If the auditory nerve is damaged it will strip me of even the fuzzy noise I’ve come to rely on (a sound that’s a bit like what you hear when you’re underwater).
I smell a strong, sweet perfume. My fellow passengers probably haven’t noticed it — they’ll be busy chatting on their mobile phones or reading the paper. But to me it’s a clue. Does the lovely scent belong to a girl on her way to meet her boyfriend? Or perhaps she has a first date? I can’t see her, but I know she’s there.
I can smell coffee, too. I tell myself to be careful in case there’s a hot drink nearby. This is my life as a deaf-blind woman. I long to speak to every person in the carriage. I’d love to make eye contact and smile, to ask them about their day and chat about mine.
Instead, I sit trapped in a world that is getting darker by the day, a silent world interrupted only by the blurry low-level white noise my hearing aids give me.
My mind leaps forward to the weeks ahead. There is just a month to go before I have cochlear implants. The surgeons are confident they have a good chance of working for me.
They tell me that, at the age of 39, I might be able to hear for the first time the voices of those I love: my parents, my two sisters, my niece, my friends, my colleagues. It’s an incredible prospect. But it comes with serious risks. If the auditory nerve is damaged it will strip me of even the fuzzy noise I’ve come to rely on (a sound that’s a bit like what you hear when you’re underwater).
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| Jo, pictured with her guide dog Matt, suffers from Usher syndrome which robbed her of her hearing and most of her eyesight |
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| Jo Milne is pictured here showing the digital processors around her ear that allow her to hear |
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| Jo, pictured hours after the surgery at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham in 2014 |
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| Jo, who is seen here giving a speech to raise deaf-blind awareness, has been going blind since her late 20s |
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| Jo, pictured with her niece, Casie. Jo said hearing for the first time was 'like no sensation I’ve ever felt before' |
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