This first-person article is by Jennifer Chrumka, a radio journalist from Kamloops, British Columbia. For more information on CBC first-person stories, please see the FAQ.
It was a cool morning early last spring, and I interviewed a farm about her concerns about the upcoming BC wildfire season. We were passing through sections of snow and grape grass pasture when we saw a lark sitting on a fence post. She commented on his beautiful song, and we remained silent as I handed over my microphone to catch his voice. But when I turned up the volume on my recorder, I heard nothing.
The moment solidified something I had long suspected: I was losing my hearing. And that marked the moment when I began to fear the impending end of my vital connection to the world I love – that of radio journalism.
For as long as I can remember, I have a deep connection to sound because I know how valuable it is. Since childhood I have been deaf in my left ear, a rare side effect of a simple infection. I miss casual conversations a lot, and I’ve learned to read lips and work my way through social media while friends and family take part in choreographic dances to stand on my “right” side.
In part, this led me to a career in radio. I spend my working days with headphones, and when I’m in the field, I collect sound with a rifle microphone and control the volume closely. I can spend hours in the studio mixing and layering audio, making documentaries that bring stories to life for the listeners.
I developed a reverence for the sounds I collected: the voices of the last few nuns of a dying order singing songs of worship in a hospital chapel; the roar of cattle moved up the mountain by a young woman whose dream is to take over the family ranch; the deep voice of the former leader of the First Nation Kwikwasut’inuxw Haxwa’mis, standing on an ocean bay, calling the scarce area of salmon. These recordings are saturated with a range of human emotions, along with deep breaths, sighs and awkward laughter that reveal as much as the words that toast.
LISTEN | An audio documentary by Jennifer Hrumka about the reduction of salmon populations
Unreserved24: 03 The first nations are trying to reverse the “heartbreaking” decline in the salmon population
2020 saw the lowest return of salmon on the Fraser River in British Columbia since record keeping began in 1893. The Pacific Salmon Commission reports that only 288,000 sacks have returned. This is a concern for many people compared to the peak years in which more than 20 million salmon will return. 24:03
Disorienting racket
A few months ago I visited an audiologist who confirmed my unilateral deafness. She also said that the hearing in my right ear was mapped at the lowest point of the normal range and could continue to decline. She proposed a type of CROS hearing aid (contralateral signal routing) that would cost several thousand dollars.
I didn’t pause until I said yes, dreaming of not having to bend over to hear my daughter’s voice, and hope that this would allow me to hear the world in all the depth I wanted.
But when I finally got hearing aids, the world didn’t clear up. Instead, he was wrapped in static with sharp, tin accents, as if I were sitting in a plane ready to take off.
A new hearing aid has turned the world into a chaotic mess of noise, writes Jennifer Chrumka. (Duke Han Lee / CBC News Graphics)
The audiologist told me that my brain would get used to it and I would come back for more adjustments. I left her office completely disoriented by the noise in my ears.
For the last few months, I’ve been trying to get used to the new way things sound, but it’s exhausting. Although I’m better at capturing conversations in small groups, it’s hard to handle the symphony of chaos that comes through my headphones when I’m out reporting. The voice no longer occupies a certain place above a set of keys ringing in the hand; the sound of my shoes walking on the sidewalk echoes unnaturally.
This also changes my journalism when I switch from audio to writing.
There is intimacy on the radio that goes with hearing another person’s voice or quietly washing the ocean directly in your ear. It can transport the listener to another world. Now I try to recreate these moments in words – the pauses and the silence, the way the wind rustles through the trembling aspens when the leaves are dry in autumn, or how with the first big snowfall comes the feeling of muted silence. My reverence for sound is still there, but I’m learning to express it differently.
And just as hearing loss in my left ear as a child made me appreciate the world of radio, resigning to its decline in the right made me hold fast to everything I could still hear. I listen more carefully than ever, perceiving the valuable connections with the world around me.
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