Everything’s changed. Now I know she likes pretending to be a puppy when she eats cereal. How it’s best not to argue if she wants to sleep in her rain boots.
A foreign emotion threatens to take over as I realize how little my life has looked the way I thought I wanted it to. It’s easier to feel like you know someone when you witness the hurt and the triumph in the little moments of every day. That’s what being with Quinn has shown me.
I’m sitting here in front of a woman who has the power to help Quinn. To fill her life with more moments of triumph. How could I deny her that? That’s what I can give Quinn by going through with this.
With renewed confidence—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel walking in here—I say, “I’m ready.”
Sue lifts her eyes from the family history form in her hands and studies me through a pair of glasses.
“Okay then. I’d like to talk to you about your auditory processing disorder.”
17
EVERETT
At eight years old, I forgot the correct term the moment it tumbled from the audiologist’s lips. All I knew was that I processed sound differently than most people. It meant that I could hear words spoken, but like individuals with dyslexia, they would jumble, sometimes unrecognizably so, before reaching my ears.
It’s a struggle that has taken up every ounce of space inside my head for as long as I can remember.
Coming from Sue those three words sound casual and clinical. They don’t elicit the same emotional tie for her that they do for me. And I can tell I’m going to be expected to lean into this conversation no matter what feelings it dredges up.
She slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose and drops her eyes back to the documents in her hands. “When did it start manifesting for you?”
The kindergarten portrait frames itself in my mind. A gallery wall of memories that demonstrate my struggle to focus, to follow directions, to comprehend what I was hearing.
I clear my throat. “Five.”
I’m sure I don’t have to tell this woman that it’s like anyother disability. It’s vastly different from person to person, and even though I started showing signs of it at that age, it was several years before they put a label on it.
She scribbles something down, then asks, “Did you have any modifications in school?”
Reduce background noise, use pictures for directions, repeat information—just a few of the suggestions the audiologist gave my mom back then after she’d looked into special education services. According to Idaho state law, APD isn’t automatically recognized under the umbrella of disabilities that qualify. My parents decided to forego the comprehensive school evaluation and opted for a private therapy route.
I shake my head.
It wasn’t from a lack of continued effort. My parents bought an FM system that amplified my teacher’s voice through a device on my desk. When I got caught hiding it, I was moved to the front of the classroom instead. That’s when I mastered lip reading. I learned if I zoned in on a person’s mouth while they were speaking, I didn’t need all of those other forms of help the therapists recommended. I’d hide my lack of understanding by mimicking the behavior of other kids around me.
The only thing I admit to Sue is attending speech therapy. That seems embarrassing enough.
Quinn drops one of her puzzle pieces on the floor and reaches for it. The momentary distraction is enough to get my nerves back in check.
“What helped you cope?”
Sue’s hand must be cramping from the speed at which she’s jotting notes. I’m very aware that everything coming out of my mouth right now is being written down. I choose my next words carefully even if her knowing look gives away that she could have skipped this question.
“Music.”
Her pen stops as she waits for me to elaborate. I hadn’t planned to tell this woman my entire life story, but I gather that’s what she’s waiting for. Everything there is to know about me can be found on the internet these days. You can google my address, my family’s names,hell, even my favorite donut. Between interviews I’ve done, and articles written about me, it’s all there. Everything except this.
“School was difficult for me,” I say.
I know Sue meant for the puzzle to entertain Quinn during this conversation, but watching my daughter smile as she fits two pieces together is therapeutic for me to get the rest of this out.
“I struggled with some aspect of every single subject except music. I didn’t need to hear it when I couldfeelit… the vibrations through the floor. It made everything else melt away. My mom put me in guitar lessons, and I made sense of my struggles through songwriting.”
Sue sets down her pen and leans her back against her chair.
“And what’s it like for you now as an adult?”
