Where Silence Ends

As the Chinese proverb says, “The tongue can paint what the eyes can’t see.” However, in a world full of vibrant paintings, I can’t even grasp my own brush.

For most, voice is an essential tool that breathes life into the unseen and unsaid. The ability to express oneself through words is central to human connection.

But for me, Elliot, this proverb doesn’t hold the truth.

Everything I perceive is a vibration—tingly and emotionless. It’s never sharp or warm, never caring or sarcastic. The subtleties of tone, pitch, and rhythm that bring speech to life remain foreign to me, an inaccessible reality. This is the gap that separates the hearing from the deaf.

The sun peeks through the curtain, but I am already awake, nudged out by the steady pulse of my bulky, square-shaped vibrating alarm. While others rise through the jarring sound of a clock, I rise to the world of silence. 

As I make my way to the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look tired, almost hollow. My pale skin clings tightly to my bones as if I were nothing more than a skeleton, fragile and exposed. My eyes, sunken and grey, rarely blink—constantly alert, always searching for cues. 

The strong scent of freshly made pancakes guides me downstairs, each step drawing me into the chaos and turmoil of a family rushing to start their day. My mom stands at the counter, spreading jam on her breakfast, while my sister races up and down the apartment stairs, a blur of motion. On the other hand, my baby brother has developed the habit of sending out high-frequency, irregular vibrations with his cries.

My dad, however, sits apart from the commotion, his face buried in The Times, his eyes locked on the dense columns of text, meticulously written in black, nine-point Times New Roman. His expression is one of someone who has just read something life-changing.

“You won’t believe what I just read,” he frantically signs to the whole family, his hands moving quickly. All eyes are now fixed on him, in suspense.

“They’re launching a cochlear implant. Nucleus 22, it’s called. It’s supposed to help people hear.”

I quickly grab the newspaper and begin reading it. 

"1985 is not just a year of technological advances but a year that is actively shaping the future. From the upcoming release of Microsoft Windows 1.0 to the launch of the Nintendo Entertainment System in North America, groundbreaking innovations are rapidly becoming part of everyday life. Now, another project is making headlines with its potential to change the lives of millions.

The Australian company Cochlear Limited, led by Graeme Clark, has developed the world’s first FDA-approved multi-channel cochlear implant, the Nucleus 22. This revolutionary device differs from traditional hearing aids by directly stimulating the auditory nerve to convert sound into electrical signals, bypassing damaged parts of the ear.

Composed of an external microphone, a sound processor, and an internal implant, the Nucleus 22 promises to improve hearing and sound awareness for individuals with severe to profound hearing loss. Early reports suggest the device could significantly enhance the quality of life for those previously cut off from the world of sound."

My eyes skim through the text again, as if reading it one more time would somehow make it easier to believe. The words blur, the air feels heavier; a new possibility, one I never dared to believe in, stares back at me from the page.

I glance up at my mom, her eyes soft, mirroring the emotions I can’t quite name. “We’ll talk more about this when you get back from school, sweetie,” she signs gently. I nod, still dazed, wave goodbye to my parents, and head out the door.

The school day begins with English. Miss Kermit, our frantic, curly-haired teacher, is diving into To Kill a Mockingbird, her expressions animated and alive. But I’m barely present. My thoughts are consumed by the idea of ‘normalcy’—a concept that has always felt just out of reach. Could this technology really pull me into a world I’ve been excluded from for so long?

The anticipation gnaws at me. The thought of no longer having to lip-read, of being able to understand, to connect without barriers—it's exhilarating. But with the hope comes fear, creeping in at the edges. What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m left more disconnected than before?

I'm lost in my thoughts, still circling around the implant, when I sense a pair of eyes staring, from the left. It's Sadie, the girl sitting next to me, her face twisted with frustration. Her brows furrowed, a tight wrinkle forming between them, and her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Everything about her expression says I’m the reason.

“Why.. ignoring.. 5 times..” is all I can gather from reading her lips. 

She thinks I'm ignoring her. 

My stomach tightens as I gesture towards my ear and quickly say “I’m deaf”

Sadie’s eyes widen for just a second, the shock flickering across her face. I brace myself for a familiar reaction, one with looks of compassion and sadness. One that comes when people realise I'm not like them. But her face looks away, she doesn't stammer an apology, or force an awkward smile.

Her hand moves to her notebook. She tears off the edge of a blank page and scribbles something quickly then carefully hands it to me under the table. 

“Do you think Miss Kermit knows how crazy her hair looks ?” it’s all the note said. 

I let out a small laugh. I can't help it. I glance back at Sadie, her expression now much softer, almost teasing as she flicks her finger towards another note. Time stopped, we were passing notes like kids, teasing, trading silly comments about Miss Kermit’s unruly curls. It’s easy. Natural. Normal. 

Escaping the boring classroom with nothing but ink and paper.

The bell rings. A low, steady vibration shakes the room, but I don’t notice it until the motion begins. Desks scrape, chairs screech and the classroom becomes a blur of students heading out the door, eager for lunch. Sadie waves at me and rushes off to join her friends, slipping back into the world of easy conversations and casual noise.

I watch her go, the last note still crumpled in my hand. The gap between us, between our worlds, lingers in the air. A crude reminder of realities I can't fully touch. The weight sits heavy in my chest as I gather my things and head to meet Andrew. 

Andrew is my childhood best friend; we both share the bond of being deaf, a connection that runs deeper than words. As I approach, I see him leaning against the door frame, his posture relaxed but his expression tense, I know he’s heard about the implant.

We walk together, side by side, in the dimly lit yellow corridor that leads to the door of our deaf club standing like a forgotten relic. The oak wooden surface, once finely polished and ornate of carved flowers, was now dulled by years of dust and neglect. 

As we enter the room, the atmosphere shifts.  

Andrew steps forward, his energy palpable. “I’m done pretending we’re something to fix. The implant? It’s just their way of erasing us,” he signs aggressively, his hands sharp and quick with each motion.

Katie shakes her head, responding with deliberate, calm gestures. “I disagree. Embracing this new technology doesn’t mean rejecting the deaf community. It’s about enhancing our quality of life, Andrew. No one’s asking you to choose between deaf identity and the implant.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow as he signs back with more force. “Enhancing? The implant is a threat. Sound doesn’t make us complete. We are not broken people needing to be fixed.”

Katie's hands move faster now, as the tension rises. “It’s not about being broken. It’s about opportunity. Technology offers the possibility to experience sound for those who want it. It’s not an obligation. No one is forcing anyone.”

Andrew scoffs. “I’m tired of this ableist mindset. They ignore the real barriers—physical and societal. Instead of trying to ‘treat’ us, why don’t they focus on creating real accessibility? On fighting discrimination in education and employment? That’s what we need, not an implant that makes us feel like we’re not enough as we are.”

“You're the only one here who feels attacked, Andrew. Being deaf isn’t your only personality trait. Not hearing doesn’t define you and just because I support the implant doesn’t mean I’m any less proud of being deaf. It’s about what feels right for me.”

“It’s not just me, Katie. Society decides whether being deaf defines me or not. I’ve been bullied my whole life for being different—called disabled, mute, faulty. The only place I found comfort was in the deaf community, and now they want to take that away from me too. I’m a Big D Deaf because I embrace our culture, language, and literature. Our stories live in sign. We share experiences in sign. We build connections in sign. Think about Alexander Graham Bell. While he had his views, his influence sparked crucial conversations about how we define ourselves as a community.”

As the argument between Andrew and Katie heats up, Ian raises his hands to sign.

“I see where both of you are coming from, but there’s something else to consider,” his expression was thoughtful. “Technology like this implant… it feels like we’re tampering with nature. There’s a reason some of us were born deaf, and I’m not sure it’s something we should mess with.”

Ian always had very traditional views, Katie turns to him. “But technology has always evolved to help us, Ian. Look at how it’s improved lives across the world.”

He shakes his head “Not all technology has been a success. Look at nuclear power. In the '50s, they said it would revolutionise energy and improve everything. But we’ve already seen disasters—The Windscale Fire. Sometimes, we push too far, too fast, without thinking about the consequences.”

Andrew nods, seeming to find agreement in Ian’s words. “Exactly! We’re taking a gamble here. And with what? Our bodies, our very identities?”.

Silence echoes in the room, each lost in thoughts. “Maybe we should stop the meeting and speak another time, we all have a lot to think about” I sign, the others nod in agreement. 

Life continues, but I feel like I’m stuck in place. School, home, the routine—it all feels distant, like I’m moving through a fog. Sadie reaches out more often now, writing small notes or catching me after class. I didn’t expect it, but I find myself looking forward to it, like her presence helps clear the haze in my mind.

My parents don’t push me, but I know they’re waiting, watching, letting me figure it out.

One night, my mom brings up the topic. “There’s been a lot of information about the implant lately, why don’t we go see a doctor together? Just to get some clarity?”

I hesitate, the weight of her words settling in. Clarity. That’s what I need, isn’t it? But even the idea of moving forward feels daunting, like a decision I’m not ready to face. Still, I nod and a few days later, we find ourselves in the waiting room of the clinic, surrounded by the sharp scent of antiseptic and sterile white walls. 

My parents sit on either side of me, their presence calm but reassuring. The doctor enters, his face soft but serious, signalling that this isn’t just a casual conversation—it’s a decision that could shape the rest of my life.

The doctor sits across from us, his lips moving as he begins to explain. I focus, trying to catch what I can. “…procedure… four hours… under the skin…”

I glance at my parents, who nod along, absorbing every detail I’m missing. My mom starts signing to me, breaking down the doctor’s words into clearer, slower fragments.

“Before the surgery, the doctor says you’ll need to go through some evaluations. They’ll do things like CT scans, hearing and blood tests to make sure you’re a good candidate for the implant.”

I focus on her hands, trying to picture it all. She continues.

“The surgery itself will take about two to four hours. They’ll make a small cut behind your ear and drill into the bone a little to fit the implant. An electrode will be placed in your cochlea, and they’ll put the internal processor under your skin.”

Her fingers slow down, almost as if she’s hesitating.

“After the surgery, they’ll activate the external processor.” She pauses, her eyes softening. “That’s when you might hear sound for the first time.”

My dad leans forward, signing the question that’s been on his mind.

“Are there any risks?”

The doctor nods, and my mom translates as he speaks.

“The surgery is relatively safe, but no operation is without risk. Some people experience dizziness, taste changes, bleeding, or even facial weakness. These side effects however usually go away during recovery. In rare cases, there can be complications, like infections.”

The ride home from the hospital is quiet. The doctor’s words still echo in my head, surgery, risks, recovery—all of it tangled with the possibility of hearing.

I barely sleep that night, my mind replaying the conversation over and over, and by morning, I feel more lost than ever.

At school the next day, I spot Sadie by the lockers. She smiles when she sees me, her eyes soft with understanding. We find a quiet corner in the hallway, and before I know it, we’re both sitting on the floor, her shoulder lightly brushing mine.

“I’m scared of choosing the wrong option,” I confess.

“I understand,” she writes on her notepad, glancing up at me. “The surgery might scare you, but it’s such a great opportunity to experience sound, Elliot.”

“That’s true,” I reply. “I’d finally be able to fit in, be like everyone else.”

But as the words leave my lips, Sadie’s expression shifts. Her mouth drops open, and her eyes widen as if I’ve just said something unforgivable.

“Elliot,” she writes quickly, her brow furrowing. “You shouldn’t be getting the implant just to fit in. If that’s your sole reason, maybe you should remain deaf for the rest of your life.”

Her words hit me hard, resonating in the silence between us.

“If you do this, it should be because you want to try something new. You deserve to hear your own voice, your mother’s laughter, music that moves your soul, and the chirping of the birds. You’re not just a label! You’re Elliot, with your own strengths and your own story. You don’t need to change who you are to fit into someone else’s idea of normal.” she continues, her writing steady and firm. 

“It’s not about fitting in; it’s about embracing who you are. Hearing isn’t what makes you whole. You are enough, just as you are. If you decide to get the implant, do it for you, not for anyone else.”

I’m enough, just the way I am. This is what I keep repeating to myself as I lie in the hospital bed. A few months have passed since my talk with Sadie, and her words made me realise that sound will never complete me—what will is my mindset. I’ve spent my whole life seeing myself as disabled or different. Only recently did I realise that I was the only one who saw myself as broken.

I’ve learned that good people will always find a way to communicate with me—through paper, hands, expressions, or even just a smile. I don’t have to change just to be part of a world I excluded myself from.

I’m changing because I want to explore the world, to be more independent, to listen to my favourite songs.

And so here I am, the grip on my blanket loosening as the anaesthesia takes effect.

My last conscious thought is a mixture of hope and fear.

I blink my eyes open, the world still blurry and hazy from the anaesthesia. Slowly, the faces came into focus—my family, Sadie, Ian, Katie and even Andrew came, despite his scepticism. They are all seated around my bed, their expressions a mix of relief and anxiety, their smiles soft yet unsure. My mom reaches out, squeezing my hand, her touch warm and comforting.

I sit up, and after I gradually gain consciousness the nurse comes and signs at me.

“Are you ready Elliot ?” 

I nod, feeling my chest tighten with emotion. She moves to the small machine beside the bed, adjusting it to activate the implant.

There was a brief pause—just a heartbeat of silence—before the world erupted in sound.

The first sound I hear is my own breath, soft and rhythmic. My eyes widen as my breath hitches. Then, almost in disbelief, I whisper,

“Hello.” 

I wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotion—how strange it was, how raw. My voice sounded… unfamiliar, almost fragile. It’s overwhelming—terrifying, even—but simultaneously beautiful. A sound I didn’t know I had within me. I press a hand to my throat, feeling the slight tremor of my vocal cords, connecting the sensation to the sound. It was real. For the first time, I wasn’t just feeling my existence—I was hearing it.

I turned my head slightly, catching the rustle of fabric as my mother shifted in her seat. The quiet scrape of a chair leg against the floor startled me—it was so sharp, yet so subtle. Suddenly the door creaks open, and a rush of voices floods in. Laughter, chatter, the rustle of footsteps—each sound hitting me like a burst of colour. 

Tears welled in my eyes as I realised how many little things I had missed. 

My mom leaned in, her voice shaky. “Can you hear me, Elliot?”

I nodded, my throat tight, tears in my eyes. “Yes. I can hear you.”

This cochlear was never just about fitting in; it was about discovering myself anew.