be-musings

I watched a fascinating show about a 1-year-old girl, who had been deaf since birth. Never heard a sound. At the point that I tuned in, was during a surgery. I love that part. The doctors cut her behind the ear, and implanted a cochlear device and watched the toddler/baby and family through the healing process. The mom was visibly shaken as the child recovered from surgery, head bandaged on the side of the incision. The dad was uncomfortable with emotion, and the child was brave yet shaken. She progressed so quickly through recovery.
The parents brought her back to the hospital after her skin had healed, and tested the device that you see on the child in the photo. It was like attaching a magnet to a fridge. Weird to see. They had tested the child's hearing, with the unit turned off. The girl heard nothing, and kept playing with the toy that was occupying her. The physician turned the receptor on a little, and gently called her name. An exciting thing happened. The girl paused in play, looked up from the toy with contemplation on her face and smiled. It was the first sound she had ever heard. Then she began to play again. The sounds were still barely audible to her, but they knew the device was working. On the next phase, the receptor was turned up to a more normal range. Immediately the girl dropped the toy, shocked and seemingly in pain. She began to cry because of the noise. She wasn't used to it, and it barraged her senses.
I'm going to pause here. This image tugged at me a bit. For the first year of her life she missed out on the joy of sound, without knowing it. She endured the pain of the operation, which was not of her choice. She was too young to know what she was missing or decide to chase after its attainment. That choice was made for her, as the best thing to do for the beloved daughter. When she was tested, that which was to benefit her initially caused pain and confusion, even perhaps terror. It hurt too much.
I don't always know what is best. I don't necessarily know that something has been missing from my life or that something has been "not quite right". I don't know that I haven't been whole. Maybe that's it more exactly. But my Father does. And sometimes He arranges things for my benefit that really hurt bad. Sometimes I'm disoriented and screaming because it hurts.
A month after the first implant testing, the family returned for follow up. The device was working beautifully, and the girl was enjoying her hearing. She was revelling in what it brought to her, that she had never experienced, therefore knew she missed. She was able to interact more fully with her parents and brothers. The family was ecstatic at the change. The surgery paid off.
When I get through those parts that my Father has arranged for me (and the dissecting, in some cases) I can look back and see why it was necessary and how my life is more complete or full because of it. If only I can remember that the next time that the dial is turned up and I'm scared, looking for consolation.
But then, daddy will be there to hold me.