The natural history of this archipelago is very remarkable: it seems to be a little world within itself.  —Charles Darwin, “Voyage of The Beagle”


After my father died, we left New Jersey with its death and dying and cold winters and fled to Southern California. We were the three of us in a station wagon—my mother, my sister, and I, and it was a simple case of “should we turn left or right?” Which, I’ve come to realize, is the way most of life works.

Door number one: you stay in college, wear turtlenecks, work in a university. Door number two: you drop out of college, run for three hours a day, wait tables. (And turtlenecks, they’re the devil.)

Turn right: he does drugs “one last time” and dies. Turn left: and there he is on the sofa in his frayed cutoffs and we never make the trek to California.

So a should we turn left or right happens and we choose left instead of right and end up in Santa Monica, where we live next to a man, his two daughters, and their beagle, Darwin, whom they keep locked up in a cage.

Darwin was a mean little dog. But hey, I might be mean too if I was confined all day to a small metal prison inside a dark kitchen. His bark was anxious, filled with accusations. I can see now how lonely he must’ve been in that little box. The kitchen empty, the lights out, and Darwin sitting in his own piss. I’d be angry too.

* * *

I’m leading a yoga and writing retreat in The Galapagos Islands and no matter where you go, you hear Darwin’s name.  Me? I can’t hear well, so I only catch the tail ends of sentences. Bits of words: tortoise, finch, North Seymour Island, sea lion, lava, Darwin this, Darwin that. It’s rumored Darwin rode on the backs of ancient tortoises. A cacophony of noise. Meaningless to my failing ears.

People say I don’t pay attention. You don’t listen. You’re an airhead, they say. I want to wear a sign that says  “Don’t make up stories. I just can’t fucking hear,” but that may be too on the nose, so I usually just drop a few steps back until I am away from sound altogether.

It’s exhausting straining to make out what people are saying. I read lips, but that’s also sleep-inducing. Staring so hard at mouths making their O shapes or their various forms of joy or disgust, it can wear a person out.  Sometimes I simply stare into space, because really, what else is there to do when you can’t hear and you’re tired of pretending?

I’m alone in a crowd of people, the bearer of silence among noise. Easily confused by the letters C and D and E.  I think Tom is John. I hear my name when it isn’t called. Everything starts sounding the same. Everything starts to sound like nothing.

I think of bursts of silence as holy things.

The name Darwin is spoken and I see that little dog trying to bark his way out of a cage. My own drifting off from groups is something like that. I bark my way out of a room until I am gone.

* * *

Our guide, Carlos, tells us to look up when we get to the South Plazas Islands. “There’s a frigatebird,” he says, and points to a bird soaring overhead. “Their bones are hollow and full of air. They don’t have to flap their wings, so it saves them energy.” He tells us that they often attack other birds. “They are mean birds.”

I think of Darwin the beagle and my own conservation of energy. And how subjective a word “mean” is with its latching-on abilities. You can slap that word, with its simple meat sound, onto just about anything. Mean bird, mean dog, mean girl. How it can cover what we don’t understand. A lazy slab of raw judgment.

Frigatebird. I hear “frig it.” Synonymous with “fuck it,” which seems fitting to me. These sky bullies with their reddish throat pouches that look like balloons.

I often make up my own words to get by in the world. I’ll write down what I think someone is saying and Google it later. Usually I’ve gotten it wrong, but Google will guess close enough and show me the right version without any judgment.

My evolution has been backwards—from hearing to not hearing.

* * *

During my yoga class, I ask everyone what they want to let go of. Judgment, the word “should”, my anger at my family, are among a few of the things written. I ask my students to step outside onto the grass, under the coffee trees here at Semilla Verde. We stand in a circle, eyes closed, out in the rain in the mud of The Galapagos, and it feels like the right thing to do. One woman has tears streaming down her face. A cat walks by and also a giant tortoise. I think about turning left or right.

We stand in the grass in our bare feet and I ask, “Can you feel how connected we all are?” which sounds like some bad yoga teacher cliche. The cat stops in between us, the woman with the tears down her face looks up, and under the canopy of trees I try to memorize colors because when I can no longer hear sounds I will still hear colors.

One of the women on my retreat hands me a note folded into a little triangle. It says: “The truth is I’m in excruciating pain. The truth is I don’t know how to express myself. ” How misunderstood so many of us are—the woman with the the note, Darwin the dog, me with my bad ears.

* * *

I’ve bought each person a mini Ecuadorian bottle of champagne for Thanksgiving. (You’ve never really seen a star-filled sky until you’ve stood on the balcony of Semilla Verde Lodge in Puerto Ayora, Ecuador.) We go outside and clink to what we’re grateful for.

Our guide Che Che’s excitement at his job. “Hey guys! Look at that, the male sea lion is surfing!” To see someone so passionate about his job. I’m grateful for that. I want to be that,

This beautiful place,

Spending Thanksgiving with people I choose to spend it with for the first time in my life,

Ecuadorian champagne,

the iguanas.

We clink and drink and stare up at the marvel of a sky.

When we come back inside someone turns down the lights. For ambiance. And there I am at the head of the table alone inside all the noise. It’s too dark to lip-read. I’ve lost my only tool so I drift back to New York City in October. I’m at Le Pain Quotidien, having lunch with the poet Michael Tyrell. We’ve been friends a long time. We’ve traveled to China together, we both received a fellowship to study at Bucknell as poets for a summer. We call each other Bubby, and neither remembers why.

I ask him to read a poem so I can record it. “Mike, read something. I’ll record it and post it. People need to know your work.”

The café is loud and I can’t hear most of what he says between my hearing loss and the clanking plates, but I record him anyway on my iPhone. He’s a beautiful poet. He reads a poem called “Falling Stars” because, he says, that was all he had on him.

I’m not sure I

saw anything bright fall, from heaven.

My best friend calls them bad omens,

anyway, falling stars she calls them.

She sees bad things even in the sky, these days—

See those clouds up there, she says,

the government sprays them

to keep us under control.

I have a disease because of them.

There are fibers growing from my skin.

You don’t have to believe me.

I’m used to not being believed.

Last week she said she saw a man

licking a pay phone at the commuter station.

He did it quickly, guiltily—like a shoplifter.

But when he was finished he held his head high,

as if this, by whatever design,

was his lot, and nobody else’s.

* * *

As we sit in the dark and people begin spewing their Thanksgiving thank yous, one of the women says, “I’m grateful for the shooting star I just saw,” and I think of Michael’s poem.

I’m useless as the head of the table. The voices make their own little countries, each one its own little word map. Unable to make sense of the words, I close my eyes and decide I must be like the man licking the payphone in Michael’s poem. By whatever design, this is my lot, and nobody else’s.

* * *

The first time I acknowledged that my father was gone was Thanksgiving 1983. He had been dead since July 15, but somehow the empty chair at the head of the table that Thanksgiving was the first time I spoke of his absence. “Where is my father?” I asked.

That was the night my mother decided we’d leave New Jersey, our house, bad weather.

* * *

Rob, the man who owns the house here in the Galapagos, is a lively Brit who’d gone to Spain to become a dive instructor. He’d somehow ended up owning a coffee farm in the Galapagos, where he now runs a hotel with his Ecuadorian wife and their two small children. He reads my latest work over my shoulder and startles me with his thunderous voice: “Your father sounds like me. Loud and farts a lot.”

I tell him I don’’t mind that one bit and that I like loud people.

I do like him. He is about to move to mainland Gyuaquil so his daughter Iona, a dead ringer for Pippi Longstocking, can attend a good school with the kids of the “movers and shakers” of Gyuaquil. He says that he knows Iona will stay Iona, and that what has made her here in the Galapagos—all those morning walks with tortoises—will remain a part of her. I believe him.

I watch Iona pick flowers with the cook’s daughter, an Ecaudorian girl who speaks no English. Each hands me a bouquet of purple flowers yet neither says a word. Purple flowers in-hand, I think that perhaps words are overrated. Talking, unnecessary.

* * *

As a volcano erupts and empties its magma chamber, the surrounding rock will collapse into it and leave huge craters in the earth. On Santa Cruz Island, collapsed into the earth, sit Los Gemelos, The Twins, as they are called,  two large craters that were once underground magma chambers. Rob’s love of the place is evident. He has taken my group here to explain about natural selection and Darwin, survival of the fittest, volcanoes and moss. I stand as close to him as I can so as not to miss anything.

* * *

When I was a child I used to make this weird sound when I concentrated. It was a miserable sound, a godawful droning noise, like one of those old tests that television networks used to broadcast (This is only a test…)  For hours at a time, as I colored or read, I would make that sound as if I were alerting the world to something. People made fun of me for it. I forced the sound back into my body and locked it inside of my head.

* * *

After decades of living in profound denial, I finally accepted that I had severe hearing loss. The audiologist put me in a box, stuck a piece of white paper over his mouth, and asked if I could hear what he was saying with the paper covering his lips. I couldn’t.  I understood then that I was going deaf.

Again I thought: words overrated, talking unnecessary.

In a box, locked up like Darwin the dog.

When the doctor said severe hearing loss on top of tinnitus, it occurred to me that the eeeeeeeeeee sound I had made as a child was my way of mimicking what I heard in my head. I was trying to get it out. I was trying to drown it out. Anything to make it stop.

The phrase adapt or die makes sense. I’ve adapted to the constant ringing in my head. When it becomes too much to bear, I adapt by drinking wine. Or by sleeping.

* * *

During one of our designated beach days, while we do our best not to accidentally step on the gigantic iguanas all over Tortuga Bay, Rob tells us that some of the kids on the Galapagos Islands don’t know that they live on an island. They have no idea that there is ocean all around them, that there is geography beyond their bodies.

I remember Michael’s poem and the man licking the payphone. This is our lot, I think. Me, the payphone licker, the kids on the island. The frigatebirds. We do what we must to survive.

Snorkeling on Bartolomé Island, I would never know that I am hard of hearing unless I remind myself—and why would I? Why the constant need for reminders? So I just float there for a long time on the surface of the sea, listening to my breath as if through a can. I can turn left or right and it won’t make a difference.  My ears, having evolved into something else, are no longer part of my body.

The key to evolution is remembering. The last line of Patrimony, Philip Roth’s memoir about his dying father: “You must not forget anything.” It plays in my head as I snorkel. Underwater, I remember what causes me pain and how to avoid it. This is our lot, I say to the fish silently.  I remember Darwin the dog and the colors in front of me (aqua blue, tortoise grey, inky green) as if they have already vanished, my memory the only sure confirmation of their existence. I remember my heart, and I hear it, maybe, probably, for the first time ever.


** Thank you Michael Tyrell for your brilliance, poetry and friendship.

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JENNIFER PASTILOFF is the founder of the popular The Manifest-Station blog. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including, most recently, The Rumpus, Mutha Magazine, and Modern Loss. She can be found drinking coffee (or wine), reading books, writing or downward-dogging. She leads yoga/writing retreats and workshops around the world. Jen has another writing retreat with author Emily Rapp in October in Vermont. All information at www.jenniferpastiloff.com. She tweets at @jenpastiloff. Jen is currently writing her first book.

32 responses to “Survival of The Fittest: On Losing My Hearing”

  1. Anita says:

    Love your words. Your talent immense

  2. Marika Delan says:

    you are so beautiful. like someone who was at one of the retreats told you- you are one of the best listeners she has ever met and it is true. you listen when you read peoples words and when you are able to read the ones on their lips. and although my disability is different, i relate to the isolation and fear you describe in your gorgeous writing. always pushing forward through it all. you are the cat’s meow, JP. keep inspiring, keep living and writing and loving.

  3. Lisa says:

    Thank you for sharing your story. Your words are so poignant; they speak to my soul and fill me with longing to write, to begin what I’ve always known I was meant to do.

  4. Katie says:

    I love this so much.

  5. Thank you Jen; you are in inspiring. You make me think; and you remind me to trust my own truth. Thank you thank you!

    ‘“Can you feel how connected we all are?” which sounds like some bad yoga teacher cliche.’ To me, it has only become a cliche because people say it like they’re telemarketers reading a script they don’t understand. But to say it, and mean it as I’m sure you do, that is divine.

  6. Tina F says:

    Thank you Jen for putting in words what is so hard to explain to others after you’ve asked them to repeat something and they do…loudly and dripping with frustration. Like you, I retreat. Hearing loss is invisible, unless people notice (if I’m even wearing it). Either way, I appreciate how you verbalize the missing-out-on-things separation that hearin loss brings. And that it’s not replaced by silence, by by noise you can’t get away from – that buzz/ring/siren in your own head. Thank you for being. Thank you for speaking. Thank you for hearing me.

  7. Tricia says:

    This made me breathless – beautiful.

  8. Jen, I am so sorry your hearing is that bad. I can imagine how frustrating that must be. I think though that perhaps it has made you into the wonderful person you are…you have so much compassion and really care about people. I so admire your views and being able to read your writings. You have a special view on life that gives the rest of us hope. That’s very special.

  9. Denise Barry says:

    Absolutely beautiful.
    I learned something….why do I need to keep reminding myself of the things that hurt me, and then try to talk myself out of the pain?
    Thank you Jen. As always, you touch souls.

  10. Jo Ellen Corcoran says:

    Exquisite. On again you have helped me to see another side of my hearing loss husband. Spoken words can be misheard, but the love and openness in my heart can still be received.

  11. Jo Ellen Corcoran says:

    I spend hours with my 7 week old grand daughter. She doesn’t care what words I use, she cares about looking into my eyes.. The gateway to my soul. My heart. It’s all about the love.

  12. christine breit says:

    i took your class two weeks ago in Santa Monica while visiting my friend. It was amazing and what i realize reading your piece just now is that i was able to hear every word of it….unusual for me because I have a lot of hearing loss. I usually follow someone close to me. I came back to NJ and my friend and yogini Debbie Kephardt mentions your blog on fb. What a coincidence! So, I’ve been following you, and plan to attend one of your retreats in the near future….Thanks so much

  13. Wow. Humbled by these responses, guys. Thank you, Jen. Very grateful that you all took the time to read this.

  14. Scott Paseltiner says:

    Beautifully written, Jen. Lyrical to read and gave me an authentic feeling about what you’re experiencing. Thank you for sharing.

  15. Amy (and Claire) Quinones says:

    Beautiful Jen..I had my daughter read this..much to her chagrin. She is still not ready to talk openly about her hearing loss and reply herself, but she said that she, too, experiences some of the same things that you articulated. She frequently hears people call her name when they haven’t, and is often exhausted after trying to keep up with the conversation when she is with her friends..lucky for her they mostly post:)
    I really appreciate your candor. I have been thinking since Kripalu how to get her to write something or read something about her “lot” and this was perfect. Not sure if you were prompted to write this since Kripalu but whatever the inspiration was…know that you helped/touched someone today….and her mom.

  16. Bernadette Murphy says:

    Fabulous work, Jen. So loved this. Am sitting on the island of Mo’orea in French Polynesia, thinking about the coral reef regenerating itself and my own self-regeneration and am so grateful to know the stories of strong women like you who show me how.

  17. I just want to know why is it taking you a long time to start learning American Sign Language and also do you know anything about disability rights?

    As a Deaf person myself, I grew up in an era where the hearings were thought as final authority on everything, no matter their ages. It was always better to fake at being hearing rather than be deaf. If a four year old kid told me through an interpreter to “shut up and make me a sandwich” I would have been heading toward the kitchen before the interpreter could finish the sentence.

    But now after learning about disability rights, I would have at least complained about it to the interpreter behind the kid’s back while making his sandwich.

    Small baby steps I guess. 🙂

  18. Mieleoffski says:

    Thank you so very much for your wonderful words. I feel less isolated. I felt as though you were describing my hearing loss.

  19. EJ says:

    Thank you for sharing. Your writing just flows. I had no idea of this until you shared it. Thank you, thank you.

  20. Janice says:

    Jen, thank you for sharing this. It reminds me of that quote: be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle. xo

  21. naomi nye says:

    Jen, You are so amazing. You help us all see better, think better, live better. Be better. Surely you are hearing better than the rest of us, in some deeper way.
    Look at what you notice! How many spin through the days with senses tightly knotted…
    I love the bouquets of flowers from little girls.
    Thank you thank you.

  22. rob h says:

    I envy the tortoise its shell. You are a true blessing Jen. Thank you so much.

  23. So beautiful, poignant, courageous, not a trace of self-pity. “This is our lot.” so human and immense.

  24. Dale Favier says:

    Oh, this is wonderful. So much resonates (ironically enough.) I laughed aloud at ‘I want to wear a sign that says “Don’t make up stories. I just can’t fucking hear.”’

    Thank you so much.

    It’s funny, there are lots of people who have no idea I can’t hear very well. Only a few really cotton on. The rest have made up stories that account for me, I guess; that I’m absent-minded or aloof or something. But in any case — we’re awash in information we can’t quite decode, even those of us whose ears work perfectly. I often think the ability to let go and stop trying to decode — which comes to us, as you say, as a necessary adaptation — has been a great gift to me. I can’t even pretend to keep up: if I could I would probably do so way too often.

  25. You are a brave and beautiful human and a wonderful writer. I hear all of your colors. xo

  26. cheryl andrews says:

    I am so grateful for the many other gifts you have and who you are because of them. Your voice – ( your writings) always touch my heart and make me feel, think, and act more like myself. I know you have lost your hearing aids lately and I hope you will be able to replace them soon.

  27. Marlene says:

    Thank you Jen for sharing your story so eloquently. I just started following you and I love your writing. I, to have a significant hearing loss. I spend much of my time decoding words in conversations. It does become exhausting. Thank you again for explaining your hearing loss so well. I look forward to meeting you at your Princeton workshop.

  28. Sara S. says:

    Loved loved loved this!! I can relate on so many levels in all of your experiences & wisdom that comes to many of us with hearing loss! I can relate to you entirely & have always seeked comfort from those who could relate to some of my struggles & experience with hearing loss, hearing aids, and tinnitus….and the whole world that surrounds us in a different light! I have a very difficult time finding many who speak my language & “get me” at times when even just the everyday grind is so tiresome & exhausting just to hear some days. Thank you so much for sharing your experience, strength, & hope! 🙂

  29. Lucy Gola says:

    Thank you for sharing your life journey with all us humans! So young and yet so wise. Hearing loss is hard. But in yoga class or Zumba or belly dance i Leave it at the door.
    I will pass along your words of hope and love. Lucy

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