We were in a new state with a new doctor at a new hospital, and I was desperately hoping we weren’t about to start this whole process over again. I tried not to pout like a little kid the entire way to Children’s Hospital, but I’d always dreaded these ear, nose, and throat appointments. Nobody liked being poked and prodded in the ears or having your hearing tested when it was pretty obvious you had none.

NERVOUS? Mom signed to me when I happened to glance her way.

FOR JOB INTERVIEW, YES, I signed. FOR DOCTOR APPOINTMENT, NO.

FINE FOR BOTH, Mom signed, then tossed an arm around my shoulders to give me a squeeze.

A handful of minutes later, a chipper nurse came up front to retrieve us and take us to the back where the exam rooms were. Not a surprise, a small flat-screen TV on a cart with wheels sat waiting for me in the purple room the nurse led us to. This nurse—Mom signed to me that her name was Wendy—seemed to know what she was doing and got the VRI booted up in a matter of moments.

The interpreter on screen was a kind, elderly gentleman who had no problem jumping right into the appointment. Once Wendy took down my height and weight, we had about a ten-minute wait before the doctor actually arrived, which was a bit awkward with the interpreter just sitting there on screen waiting along with us.

When the door opened, a short woman with graying blonde hair falling out of its bun came walking in. She looked tired, but she still greeted us with a smile. I thought my last doctor, Dr. Hartwood, was a bit of an old grump, so it was nice to see a happy face in the office.

The interpreter finger spelled that the woman’s name was Dr. Porter, and she got right down to business after the introductions were over. She took a peek down my throat, up my nose, and spent the most time looking in my ears.

More than one doctor told Mom and me that my ears were in good shape. Very minimal damage to my eardrums thanks to two rounds of ear tubes as a kid—not an uncommon thing—but otherwise perfectly fine. I just couldn’t hear. The interpreter on screen signed the same thing—your ears look fine—and it just made me think even more that this whole appointment was totally unnecessary. But Mom had always been a big fan of the saying better safe than sorry, which I guessed was true.