CHAPTER IV
Facing the Hard Situation
The Beginnings of Deafness—The Cows in the Corn—Re-adjustments—The “House of the Deaf”—Spirits of the Past on Our Side—The Course in Philosophy—The Reverence of the Ignorant Herder—The Slave and the King.
Every deaf man will tell you that for months or years he was able to convince himself that there was no real danger of losing his hearing. Then, suddenly made evident by some small happening, Fate stood solidly in the road pointing a stern finger—and there was no denying the verdict: “You are on the road to silence!” How foolish and dangerous to fight off the disagreeable thought when most cases of deafness could be cured or greatly helped if taken in time! It is safe to say that if the first symptoms of defective hearing were as uncomfortable as a cinder in the eye, or as painful as an ordinary stomach-ache, the great majority of cases would be remedied before the affliction could lead its victims into the silent world. But deafness usually creeps in without pain or special warning; if it is caused by a disease of the inner ear there are probably few outward symptoms, and it will not be considered serious. Then suddenly it will demonstrate its strangle-hold upon life, and cannot be shaken off; it is like a tiger creeping stealthily through grass and brush for a spring upon the careless watcher by the campfire.
I first looked into the dim shadows of the silent country one night in Colorado. Our people had broken up a piece of raw prairie land, ditched water to it and planted corn. It was a new crop for the locality, but we succeeded in getting a good growth for cattle feed. In those days there were few fences, except the horizon and the sky, and cattle wandered everywhere, so as the corn developed we took turns guarding it. One night a small bunch of fat cattle on their way to market was herded about a mile from our cornfield. Feed was scarce on the range, and these steers were hungry. We could see them raise their heads and smell the corn. We knew they would stampede if they could break away. I was on guard; my duty was to ride my pony up and down on the side of the field nearest the herd.
Those who know the plains which roll away from the foothills of Northern Colorado will remember the brilliant starlit nights. The dry plains stretch away in rolling waves of brown to the east, while to the west the mountains lift their snow-caps far up into the sparkle of the starlight. It is a land of mystery. Any man who has ever lived there has felt at times that he would give all he possessed to be back there with the shapes that live in the starlight. Great dark shadows slip over the plains. You see them slowly moving and you wonder at them. How can they shift as they do when there are no clouds? That night, far over the prairie, I could see the fires which the herders had built; two or three horsemen were slowly circling about the bunched cattle.
It seemed entirely safe, and at one corner of the field I got off the pony and let him feed as I walked along the corn. The night was still, and I could hear nothing, but suddenly my little horse threw up his head, snorted and pulled at his picket pin. I fancied he sensed some sneaking coyote, until out of a shadow near the field I saw half a dozen black forms with white gleaming horns, running for the corn. Part of the herd had broken away, and as I mounted the snorting pony the sickening thought flashed in upon me that I could no longer hear them. Before we could turn back the herd forty or fifty steers had entered the corn. They went aimlessly, smashing and crashing their way through the stalks, and with the other riders I went in after them, but I could hardly hear them. I remember that in order to make sure I held my fingers to my right ear to shut out sound. In the shadow of the corn I ran directly into a steer! He was tearing his way along, but I did not know he was there until my hands touched him. Then for the first time I knew whither I was bound. Probably there is nothing quite so chilling to the heart, unless it be the sudden knowledge that some dear friend must soon walk down the road with death.
Deaf people who read this will recall incidents connected with the first real discovery of their affliction; up to that time they have been able to throw the trouble out of mind with more or less confidence. They could argue that it was due to a cold, or to some little trouble that would soon adjust itself; they were slightly annoyed, but soon forgot it. Then—perhaps they cannot keep up with the conversation; they seem suddenly to lose the noises which are a part of daily normal life. Neither their work nor their play can go on without a complete readjustment of their methods of communicating with others. Suppose society refuses to do more for them than they have ever done for the afflicted? Many a man has been made to realize how small a moral balance he has to draw upon when at last he knows that for the rest of his life he must depend largely upon the charity or indulgence of those with whom he associates. For this is really our condition in the silent world. A person of dominating power may push through life thinking himself a master, but we must live with the humiliation of realizing that our friends cannot regard us as normal. It is a staggering blow to the man or woman of fixed ambition, or of that warm personality which demands human sympathy and kindly companionship. The old life must be broken up.
My first thought was to seek “medical advice.” That is what we are always told to do. The air about the deaf man is usually vibrant with advice, and frequently the less attention he pays to it the better off he is. The local doctor in the nearest town was an expert with pills, powders and blisters, but he went no farther. Like many country doctors of that time, he was little more than an expert nurse, though if you had told him this he could have shaken a diploma in your face. I went to see him one evening after milking. He had a kerosene lamp with a tin reflector with which he illumed my ears; his report was that the trouble was caused by wax growing on the ear drum. If I would come in by daylight he would scrape it off with a small knife. There was nothing to be alarmed about; I would outgrow it. As a precaution he would advise me to blister the ears—or that part of the skull immediately behind them—and——
“My charge is two dollars!”