Many Lives (19 page)

As I got older I learned to compensate, but it took years for me to be able to ask people to be on my left side, in order to be able to hear them speak. I remember people thinking I was
coy, or getting the wrong idea because I'd be looking intently at them while they were speaking. I knew I needed help but it wasn't something I could bring up, because my deafness wasn't acknowledged. I felt alienated.

Listening is very tiring for a person with a hearing loss. We have to fill in a lot of the blanks to follow the gist of what's being said. When someone covers their mouth with their hands we can't hear what they're saying because we won't be able to read their lips. I've made friends laugh because I've not heard the last thing they said; which might have been to do with a completely different subject but I've replied as if they were still talking about their original topic. It's funny among friends, but my hearing loss can make me feel panicky at an airport or train station. I can't hear anything over a tannoy if there are other sounds around me. I can't tell where individual sounds are coming from, I just hear a wall of indistinguishable noise.

Deaf people seek quiet places. That might sound odd, but they're the only places we can hear with any clarity. I love to visit with friends, one on one, in a park or at home; never in a popular noisy restaurant. As deafness increases, sociability decreases. We're upset at not being able to hear and are annoying to communicate with. It's a slow spiral to isolation.

I have two charities that I support with all my might. One is Sense, and the other is Hearing Dogs for the Deaf.

Sense supports deafblind people. One really important thing the charity does is assist people in communicating with their hearing-impaired relatives and friends. A tiny and sweet example might be to offer a deafblind person a cup of tea by taking their hand and writing the letter âT' on it, and watching for a response. We're deaf,
not stupid. We don't want big embarrassing mime acts. We don't want big anything. We definitely don't want to be shouted at.

Deafness can be very lonely. I'm fortunate that I'm happy in my own company. I actually need to spend a lot of time alone. Listening is exhausting. I'm also fortunate that I have a job in which I know what the other people are saying â because of the script. I know when I'm getting tired; I start to talk too much. That way I don't have to listen so much. Being with my dogs is a way that I can be in company and not get tired. Everyone knows what amazing companions animals can be; imagine having one that listens for you. A hearing dog will let you know when the telephone is ringing or when someone is at the door; it will wake you up when the alarm goes in the morning and, to top it all, it'll be your best friend. A hearing dog can be any size or any breed, though mongrels tend to be the most intelligent. I've known some scruffy little mutts who have turned their owner's lives around â even saved their lives. The dogs seem to know it, too; the right pairing of a trained hearing dog and its master is a close and very moving friendship.

My mother did the best she could, based on what she knew and on her own personality. Making it up as we go along, what more can we do as parents? I started out as a novice, we all do, but ultimately my children have been my greatest teachers. As if looking in a mirror, I see myself reflected back from them. I'm forever indebted, for where would I be without them? It's such a complex and difficult challenge, such a beautiful and humbling experience. Maybe we get wise by the time we're grandparents.

My contract's twist, which was not negotiated, was my hearing loss. There were the wonderful absolutes of the 1950s and then I just rode the crest of the wave. But it would have
been like that â it was in my contract. I always found myself in the right place at the right time, but I would have; that was what I'd negotiated. The only thing I hadn't been told was that I was going to come into this life deaf. But how good is that? What would the point to coming back have been if there wasn't an edge?

I was hosting an award ceremony for the National Council for Communicative Disorders in Washington, D.C. Earlier that day I'd been to the Holocaust Museum; it had recently opened. I felt a bit anxious because I hadn't written my opening speech, but I really wanted to see this new museum. The speech wrote itself. I realized that, had I lived in Nazi Germany, I would have been killed â like anybody else with an impairment. Instead, I was able to welcome a deaf Miss America onto the stage of the John F. Kennedy Center to congratulate her for overcoming her disability and to celebrate her success. That was a good feeling.

It was through the National Council of Communicative Disorders that I met Senator John Glenn and his wife Annie. How can you have an astronaut as a friend? This life is extraordinarily bountiful. It's the munificence of the life I've been given. It has included an impairment that's offered me a very particular insight and a grasp on humanity. An impairment can be an asset. It's an area in which I feel responsible.

I'm so lucky to have come so far from when I was a little girl who couldn't hear very well, who wouldn't answer to âSteph', because âSteph's deaf'; all the way to becoming a well-known actress who's proud to spread a better understanding of deafness. I'm no longer ashamed of my impairment, but proud of my success.

It's been a long journey.

Photographs