Either Way

*******

So. Sitting outside with the kids, Bea is at my feet coloring with chalk on the patio, Owen is nearby talking to himself, whacking a tree trunk with a stick.

Bea is four. Therefore she never stops talking.

Owen knows we're talking, but can't hear our words.  He's tired.

"Stop! Talking!"

*signing/speaking* "Sorry. Bea wants to talk. Come over so you can hear us."

"No!  I can't hear you guys! You need to stop!  I can't hear ANYTHING!"

*signing/speaking/trying not to cry*  "Come here."

He sulks over and sits on the chair in front of me.  Hugging his drawn up knees, head down, he barely looks up at me;

"I don't want to talk. I'm all done talking. I don't feel good."

I know.  He doesn't mean physical discomfort. I just know.

"Buddy? What's going on?  You're sad?"

He can't look at me. He shrugs. He nods. A wave hits me. 

Shame.

I've never asked him.

"Sweetie? Is it ok? That you're Deaf?"

Before he can answer, he transforms before my eyes. From the baby who didn't die, into the boy who has to live with who he is.

"No. Don't want to be Deaf. Want to be Hearing."

And I'm drowned.

*******

So. Sitting outside with the kids, Bea is at my feet coloring with chalk on the patio, Owen is nearby talking to himself, whacking a tree trunk with a stick.

Bea is four. Therefore she never stops talking.

Owen knows we're talking, but can't hear our words.

"Stop! Talking!"

*signing/speaking* "Sorry. Bea wants to talk. Come over so you can hear us."

"No! I can't hear you guys! You need to stop! I can't hear ANYTHING!"

*signing/speaking/trying not to cry* "Come here."

He storms over and sits on the chair in front of me. He's leaning toward me, eyes meeting mine in challenge, he seethes;

"I don't want to talk. I'm all done talking. I don't feel good."

I know. He doesn't mean physical discomfort. I just know.

"Buddy? What's going on? You're sad?"

His eyes don't leave mine. He shrugs. He nods. A wave hits me.

Anger.

I've never asked him.

"Sweetie? Is it ok? That you're Deaf?"

Before he can answer, he's out of his chair standing over me - he's huge, at least 6 feet tall - he twists my shirt collar in an angry fist;

"No. It is NOT Ok.  None if it is OK.  And it's all your fucking fault."

And I'm drowned.