Sitting in the dark, lit only by a few candles and the lights on our tree, the voice leading me through an end-of-the-year reflection asked me to come up with a word that was representative of the year about to end. A word instantly came to mind, but I didn’t like it, In fact, I hated it and tried mightily to land on another one that felt less painful. Less hard. Less awful. Words like surrender, submit, give in (I know, that’s two words, but I was desperate). But try as I might, I couldn’t. The only word that rang true was loss.
Who wants a year best described by the word loss? Not this girl.
Last Thursday I went to the audiologist for my annual hearing test. She is thorough, funny, and kind, and I was having a good time with her, until I wasn’t. After coming out of the booth where I’d been sitting repeating back the words coming through my headphones, she informed me that I’d lost more hearing than she likes to see in the two years since my last test. She referred me to an ENT to make sure there wasn’t something “more nefarious” causing it than the passing of the years. (Probably not given that the loss is equal on both sides, but we’ll see.) After adjusting my hearing aids to compensate for the loss, all of which falls within the range where most speech occurs, I left her office with her words ringing in my ears that are slowly losing their hearing.
Stopping in the rest room before heading to my car, I tucked my new, favorite, been looking for them for years, fleece lined, fingerless, New Zealand wool gloves that I’d purchased in Iceland under my arm as there was no place to set them in the stall. Standing up, I turned around and reached out to flush what turned out to be an auto-flusher, and came out of the stall with only one glove. I can only guess where it is now.
Getting into my car in the parking lot, all I could do was cry. At that point, I’m not sure which I was grieving the loss of more, my hearing or those damn gloves that I’ve been looking for my whole life
My hearing is just the latest in what feels like a series of losses. Things that I might not ever be able to get back, and most of them related to the number of years I’ve been on the planet. It’s been a hard pill to swallow, and yet I’m beginning to understand that loss can be good medicine for what ails me. Loss asks the hard questions. Can I show up with love and joy even when I don’t have as much of myself to show up with? Can I be grateful for what I still have rather than angry about what I don’t? Am I able to live into the truth that giving in to something is not the same as giving up on it? Is it possible for me to shine a light on what it looks like to age with grace even when things I’ve come to count on fall away? I hope so. No, I know so.
Loss is a part of life. It begins on the day we arrive on the planet, and doesn’t stop until we find ourselves on the other side.We are meant to lose our lives by giving them away.
Who wants a year best described by the word loss? I guess I do. That’s my word and I’m sticking to it.
