Dr. Porter finished up by cleaning out my ears with this weird, pick-like tool, and took a seat on one of the nearby chairs after she washed her hands at the sink. As nice as Dr. Porter seemed, this was just about identical to every other ENT appointment I’d had over the years. I wanted to go home and dive into some homework or find some articles on how to ace job interviews, not sit around in a doctor’s office bored out of my mind.

I wasn’t sure how long Mom had been tapping my knee when I finally snapped back to attention. She was giving me a disapproving glare and nodded at the interpreter on screen, signing, AGAIN PLEASE.

The interpreter pointed at Dr. Porter and signed, SHE ASK IF YOU CURIOUS ABOUT CI.

This again?

I shrugged in response, signing, NEVER WANT CI. STILL NOT WANT CI.

Dr. Porter listened to the interpreter voice what I signed, nodding along in understanding. I watched her say, “Well . . . have many benefits. There . . .”

I definitely stopped paying attention while Dr. Porter went on to list all the pros of getting a cochlear implant, how it could improve my future, how I was a good potential candidate for one. Dr. Porter probably gave the same talk to all the parents of Deaf kids; she was just doing her job.

I genuinely did not see anything wrong with my future or how a cochlear implant might make it better. And why would I voluntarily agree to a surgery I’d be just fine without?

More to the point—and what people didn’t seem to understand—I liked being Deaf. Some of the best things in my life happened without my being able to hear, like excelling in my studies at Pratt, meeting Melissa, meeting Nina and Beau . . .

The appointment wrapped up sooner than expected and with no hearing test either. I made sure to thank the interpreter for his time before ending the call, grateful we hadn’t had a repeat of our visit to the ER with Connor.

I shook Dr. Porter’s hand on the way out, and she waved us off with another tired but cheerful smile. Mom fell into step beside me as we made our way back through the waiting room toward the elevators. I noticed she had a couple sheets of paper in one hand.

WHAT’S UP? I signed, nudging her and pointing to the papers.

FROM DOCTOR, Mom signed, holding the papers just so to prevent me from seeing any of the writing on them.

ABOUT? I signed, pushing the issue.

We were in the elevators on our way down into the parking garage when Mom finally handed the papers over to me. As expected, the papers contained facts about cochlear implants, which insurances typically covered the surgery—if at all—and what the follow-up therapy would look like.