This week marked almost the halfway point of my life: the first half with hearing, the second with deafness and, then, cochlear implants. I’ve lived in between two worlds and cultures, hearing and deaf, never fully belonging to either.

During my first year in medical practice, I lost almost all my hearing in both ears. For most adults, hearing loss is gradual, but for me it was sudden. Despite treatment for autoimmune inner ear disease with some ups and downs, my hearing continued to deteriorate.

I was devastated! After so many years of school and medical training, could I continue to be a physician?

Today as a family physician I am disabled in a way that I never could have dreamed in 1997 when I joyfully marched across the magnificent auditorium stage. I wore an ostentatious maroon gown and a green velvet sash, an enormous smile and relaxed shoulders. I shook the presenter’s hand and took hold of my diploma. Four years of delayed gratification, hundreds of thousands of dollars, countless late nights and long days culminated in this moment. The camera shutter in my soul CLICKED eagerly to capture it all.

Floanne, a fellow nurse, was a close friend of mine for thirty years. She was widely known for the grace and compassion she showed to those around her. Sadly, in her later life, she developed peripheral neuropathy. After a million-dollar workup at a hospital, the physician specialists declared her condition a mystery and therefore untreatable. Flo became confined to bed—unable to stand, walk, hold a book, or use eating utensils without assistance.

Dedicated physical and occupational therapists worked with her, and eventually she regained the use of her hands and could tolerate short periods in a wheelchair.

As a clinical psychologist, I saw many people disabled by intense emotional problems and psychotic illnesses. All were compromised to some degree. Many of the most compromised were inpatients on psychiatric units that I ran, before such units started closing down. Many ended up on the streets. Some were lucky enough to have family take them in.

One man I worked with was different. My psychology chief at the VA knew I taught relaxation therapy and asked me to see if I could help a patient on the spinal cord unit. After he got out of the service, “Tom” had been stabbed in the neck by a robber-addict’s needle. Paralyzed, he had feeling in one finger, but that arm stayed spasmed to his chest.