The Aid

II

1 month later.

My name is Ian Featherswallow, he signed at the front of the classroom, pointing to his head, then chest.
That was our esteemed BSL teacher. He had a white, comb-styled moustache and shiny bald head and was a senior figure here at The King's College Academy - my home away from home, my new home that was. He looked a bit like the Monopoly guy.
I am 67 years old, he signed, making another gesture, this time wiggling his fingers in front of his nose and signalling the numbers.
Two weeks into the course, I was beginning to become familiar with the basic introductions in the British Sign Language system, but obviously, there was so much more I needed to learn if I was to integrate my way back into society in a meaningful way. And I had to digest it all while battling the mental scars of having recently lost Christopher in tragic circumstances. But I will say, it's amazing how much of a new skill you can learn in two weeks when your life depends on it. I felt like a kindergarten child again learning phonics.
I like listening to music and singing songs, Ian signed. 
I knew that one, considering it was what I did for a living at The East London Piano Academy, so the sign language associated with that sentence pretty much stuck immediately after I was taught it within my first few days of being here. Suffice to say, my singing career was now non-existent. If my situation wasn't so despairing, it would actually be funny. One minute you're a part of an academy that symbolises satisfaction and ambition, the next you're a part of an academy that represents utter gloom and desolation. They really do have academies for everything. 
Ian signed a few more things, then signalled something obscure that stumped everybody, but I figured it out by lip reading - something that no else in the class of seven could seemingly do.
"Maine lobsters taste better than Canadian lobsters", I said, not knowing on Earth how to sign it. I then realised that nobody could hear what I just said, including the teacher. It was a rookie mistake I was still frequently making, so I did what you're supposed to do when you don't know the sign language for the message you want to express and walked over to the whiteboard and wrote what had Ian signed to the class.
Wow! Well done, Nola! he signed. He took the whiteboard marker out of my hand and under my sentence about the lobsters, wrote the words, A gifted lip reader! with an arrow pointing to me. The whole class applauded, and for the first time since the accident, I felt a tiny bit of happiness seep in.
For the next half an hour, Ian presented more rudimentary sign language, but I didn't know much of it since I was still new. He then got us to practise some phrases in pairs, each person in possession of a little, green booklet filled with cute diagrams on how to sign the language. There was also a blank piece of paper and a pen on the respective desks in between each pair, just in case somebody was baffled and needed to write an expression down in words. I was sure I would be giving that piece of paper a workout.
After watching everybody being assigned a partner except myself, I realised there was an odd number of students in the class, so I guessed I would have to team up with Ian. But as luck would have it, another person entered the classroom - a plump, colourful woman that appeared perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties. She was wearing a bright floral dress and sported a paisley bandana. Her blue feather earrings hung well below her shoulder level. I had never seen her before, but she was wearing a nametag like everybody else, so I figured she was a new student.
Perfect timing! Ian signed and then wrote her name on the whiteboard. The class smiled at her and then Ian gave her one of those trusty booklets with the signs in it and paired me up with her at a vacant desk at the back of the classroom under the space tapestry where we would begin communicating with each other in sign language. And that is the day I met Susana.
Hello. My name is Nola.
My name is Susana.
Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you too.
There was a pause, then she looked at me funny and motioned something I was unfamiliar with. I began to refer to my booklet, but she had quickly written it down on the paper between us: Something wrong?
I shook my head. Everything is ok.
She persisted and once again put pen to paper: Your face tells me something is wrong.
It was then in that instant that I realised the best way to cope with my depression was to perhaps come clean and confide in someone, just like everybody else in the class I suspect had done with each other. And this is where Susana and I became a little bit closer. I picked up the pen and started writing, knowing I couldn't possibly execute the sign language yet for what I wanted to convey.
My family and I were involved in a pyrotechnics accident a month ago. I was put into a coma for a week until some swelling on my brain reduced. Luckily, I escaped brain damage, but I've permanently lost my hearing. And my husband, Christopher, died too. I'm sorry, I don't know much sign language yet.
She glanced down at the paper and nodded in sympathy and then took the pen from my hand.
It's quite alright, dear. I hope nobody else in your family was hurt, she wrote.
She gave me the pen back.
My daughter was with me, but by some miracle, she completely avoided harm. Thank God. How about your story, Susana? I wrote.
Over the course of the next hour, Susana and I became quite acquainted with one another, albeit through information jotted down on a piece of paper. She told me she was born deaf, so it prevented her from learning spoken language, but that it was a misconception that all deaf people were mute, and this reinforced what I already knew. Even though no other student in the class could produce speech due to being born deaf, our teacher, Ian, wasn't in that basket. He was capable of speaking, and as such, always mouthed the words when he used signed language. It proved helpful to me.
Susana informed me that she was previously a part of another deaf community group, but due to lack of funding and the disbandment of it, decided to register here at The King's College Academy. I suspected she knew just about everything there was to know about sign language, but due to the commonality every student shared with one another, felt like she was part of a family, so here she was. She told me she was single, from Mexico, enjoyed craft beer and had an obsession with Tom Hardy. It made me giggle for the first time since the freak accident.
Oh la la, I wrote on the paper.
In a short space of time, I really was warming up to Susana and was glad she had joined the class. She had a way of making me feel more at ease with her smile, body language and other quirks. I told her more about myself such as my love for singing and The East London Piano Academy and how Christopher was a whiz on the piano as highlighted by his soul-stirring performance of "Chariots of Fire" that he played to me on our wedding night, then we stopped writing for a minute and Susana motioned something to the back of her ear. At first, I thought it was sign language, but then realised she was addressing a bit of an elephant in the room. I reached for the pen.
That's my cochlear implant. I got it surgically inserted shortly after I awoke from my coma. I can't hear anything now, but in a few days, I have an appointment at the hospital to get it activated, I wrote.
Congratulations, she signed, and I smiled.
Have you ever thought of getting an implant or hearing aid? I wrote.
I tried a hearing aid a few years ago, but the sound became too distorted, and I don't want an implant, she answered on the paper.
I felt empathy for Susana. Actually, I felt terrible for her. I couldn't fathom somebody coming to terms with never hearing again, but it appeared Susana had fully accepted that fate. I wondered why she refused to get one, so I begged the question, and she answered hastily.
They're not everyone's cup of tea. As you may know, cochlear implants bypass the damage, unlike hearing aids which amplify sounds from damaged ears. You're going straight to the source and stimulating the auditory nerve directly with implants, sending signals to your brain which results in hearing. But some people may have nerve damage or ear abnormalities, rendering them useless. And the thought of a surgically positioned implant sounding warped when Dr. Dolittle turns it on is enough to make a grown man cry, she wrote.
It was a lightbulb moment. I peered around the class at the other students and noticed not one single individual had an implant fitted. I wondered if it was because students routinely left class once their hearing was restored, but then I considered Susana's situation, still desiring to be a part of such a community that she could relate to. Nevertheless, I had pinned all my hopes on the day the audiologist would switch on my implant, and I prayed everything would work out.
At the conclusion of our work in pairs, Ian gave us another crash course of iMotion - an app for your smartphone that translates acted out sign language to words. I video recorded myself making a few signs from the booklet and sure enough, the phrasings appeared, confirming the meaning of my sign language. If you were a bit off with your signals or too dramatic with your gesticulations, it would say, "Incorrect", or instruct you how to rectify it if it had the gist of what you were trying to sign. It was quite a nifty app. I turned to Susana and filmed her making some gesture I had never seen before, then appeared the words: Blue cheese is disgusting. I nodded with a smile beaming across my face, and with that, the class began drawing to a close. I reached out to shake Susana's hand, but instead, she leant over the table and kissed me on the cheek. I opened up my little booklet and looked up an illustration under the signs of affection on page ten.
You're wonderful, Susana, I signed.
She squeezed my hand tightly with a twinkle in her eye. I could feel a nice friendship brewing between us, and it sparked a glimmer of hope inside of me among all the turmoil. I waved her off as the classroom emptied and then picked up my backpack and made my way for the exit, but Ian pulled me up.
Wait, he signed.
He walked over to the whiteboard with his marker.
I want to try something. I'm going to talk, and I want you to lip read, then write down what you think I've said. No sign language, he wrote.
Then when we sat down together under the space tapestry where Susana and I had been working in pairs with the sheet of paper. And the dictation began.
"Can you understand what I'm saying?" he asked.
I flipped over the paper and wrote exactly what he said.
"What's your opinion about pizza?" he asked.
I again jotted down precisely what he uttered using the power of lip reading.
"Australia is a fascinating country", he said.
Austria is a fantastic country, I wrote.
He took the pen from my hand and corrected me, writing down the true utterance. I waved my hands in the air as if to surrender, and he laughed.
Regardless, your lip reading expertise is quite extraordinary. It will serve you well indeed, he wrote.
I thanked him and began to stand up to leave, but he held up his hand, prompting me to sit back down. He scribbled something again on the paper.
Nola, about your query this morning before class began, I didn't just recommend David because he is merely a close friend of mine - he is renowned as the best in the business. I hope you find his services satisfactory. It was great seeing you today in class again, Nola. P.S. David will be at your house upon your return home this afternoon