Crying in Costco: Hearing aids are part of getting older — why was I weeping during my exam?

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I will admit I was totally embarrassed. There I was, sitting in a small, quiet room having my hearing tested, while just outside the door was the hustle and bustle of Santa Cruz Costco. Carts filled with laundry detergent and diapers, pot pies and wine pushed up and down the aisles by shoppers of all ages. 

The noise levels “out there” were high and jarring, and the quiet in the small exam room was a welcome contrast. But something triggered me and I began to cry. Not an ugly cry, but more of a delicate cry, tears escaping from my eyes and sliding down my cheeks like small rivers. I tried to wipe them with the back of my hand, but they just kept coming. 

This was a first. Acquiring hearing aids is part of getting older. Part of the adventure. But, never have I gotten emotional during an exam. 

I have been wearing devices to assist in hearing for several years. I am not self-conscious about them. I was more self-conscious about not hearing voices when people were speaking to me, especially my grandson. 

Lately, however, my old hearing aids were not cutting it. I knew it was time for an upgrade, so here we were. Me in a chair holding a beeper like the ones used on “Jeopardy!” and listening to the different sounds through the headphones placed on my head and pushing a button each time I could detect the beep. The technician monitored the sounds, and there we sat in the small room together, working as a team to figure out just how much my hearing had changed and how to program the new pair of aids when they arrived. 

As we completed the testing, the gentleman performing the evaluation picked up one of my hearing aids and gently brushed my hair away from my face so he could place the small object back in my ear. Then he did the same on the other side. Then I began to cry.

I apologized quickly, but he assured me it was no problem. He looked concerned, but did not panic at a 74-year-old woman having what might be a small nervous breakdown. 

He just sat quietly and listened as I told him that my husband had died and that this week would have been his birthday and that I was trying to figure out what had caused me to weep. He again told me not to worry. Not to be concerned. And he looked me in the eye and smiled. 

The technician stepped out for a moment, and when he returned and sat down opposite me I attempted to explain what had happened. I realized what had triggered me. It was his eye contact, his gentle, caring touch. 

It was like a balm. I had not been aware of how much I have missed feeling the physical, human connection. Not in a sexual way, not at all. But in a soothing, comforting way. 

He listened quietly as I told him that I would imagine that most of his clients are older and that many of them may be living their lives without a partner. That many of them, while having hobbies and friends and social activities and trying to stay healthy and making sure they are up to date with their hearing needs, may be living without much in the way of physical contact. I told him that I would imagine his caring touch was welcome. 

He said that made his day. 

Driving home, I thought about a study I had read years ago where baby monkeys were separated from their mothers. In the 1950s and 1960s, psychologist Harry Harlow created a controversial experiment to monitor how the small creatures developed if they had no maternal care. They were not held or comforted as they grew older. Deprived of physical contact, they suffered. 

Perhaps it is the same for older folks. Perhaps we are not that different from those little monkeys. We are social creatures who take comfort in small gestures. A hand on a shoulder. A pat on the back. Eye contact. To remind us we are still a part of the human family.