Everyday Heroes - Oticon

Everyday Heroes
Four stories about hearing
For A Change
By Nassrin el Halawani
The Piano
By Marie Hvolbæk
Bliss
By Katinka Aagaard
Your own story
By (Your name)

Preface
Sounds
Voices
Laughter
A spring breeze caressing the leaves
A summer picnic bathed in joy
A winter storm pounding the shore
A memorable concert
A minor disagreement
A sudden peal of laughter
Blurred or clear
Sounds bring spice to life
For the privileged many
Silence
But for the voices inside your head
Solitude
Never wanting to feel this alone
Isolation
So fi nal you’d rather not discuss it
And like a soldier
You fi ght to keep up
With the conversation
The questions
The competition
Always in fear of what you might miss
What you get out of life
Often depends upon
What you can or cannot hear
With sound
You can achieve the goals you’ve been fi ghting for
And the peace you’ve always desired…
3

For A Change
By Nassrin el Halawani
Mr. Singh took a shortcut through production on his way to the
admin area. The production lines were fully staffed. He could hear
metal carts colliding and the odd shout penetrating the noise here
and there. He greeted his closest colleagues with a brief nod, noticing
how they just stared back under their blue plastic hats, which
made both the men and the women seem identical.
Singh moved swiftly through the production hall, all too quickly
for such a warm June day; a day on which he was all trussed up in
a jacket and tie. He felt nervous and devoid of thought. Eve hadn’t
been particularly impressed when he had told her that he had been
recommended for the post of production manager. She said, as she
had done so many times before, that this might be an ideal opportunity
to get his ears checked by a doctor.
On reaching the admin building, Singh could feel how the soft
carpets automatically slowed his pace. He greeted the receptionist
and turned towards the elevator. He pressed a button. It had just
turned red when he noticed a fi rm grip on his shoulder. Startled, he
turned abruptly to fi nd Michael standing next to him.
‘Hi, we don’t need to ignore each other just because we’re on opposite
sides of the fence, do we?’ said Michael with a smile.
‘No, of course not,’ replied Mr Singh rather tensely, taking in
Michael’s chalk-white teeth. Michael opened his mouth as if to
continue the conversation. Mr Singh saw to his relief that the elevator
had arrived. ‘Got to go,’ he apologised as he disappeared into
the lift. As the doors closed, he saw Michael working his charms at
the receptionist’s counter. She was beaming from head to foot.
Cheaply scored points, thought Singh.
5

Juliette, Mr. Didier’s PA, stood waiting for him. She held out her
hand, and despite his sweating palms, Singh offered her his. He
yearned for a glass of ice-cold water. Following her down the corridor,
he noticed how deftly she was balancing on her stilettos.
Passing the smaller offi ces, she headed for the large one at the end.
On the other side of the door, Mr Didier, the director, Mr Williams,
head of personnel, and Frank, the shop steward, were waiting behind
an impressive arrangement of fruit and thermos cans. They
arose, the shop steward somewhat begrudgingly. Mr Singh walked
in an arc around the table to shake their hands. He greeted Frank
with extreme courtesy, careful not to reveal that, over the past few
years, their relationship had become somewhat strained. They had
been hired simultaneously twenty years ago and had stuck together
for the fi rst few months. Then they followed separate careers paths
– Singh as a manager and Frank as a shop steward.
Mr Singh sat by the spare cup on the opposite side of the table.
Juliette poured him some coffee and took the chair next to him. Mr.
Singh was glad to see that she would be there for the meeting. A
little female company might soften things up and help to curb the
pompous and serious tone that sometimes bothered him so much.
Mr Didier leaned back in the brown leather chair that matched
his suit to a tee. ‘I’m delighted we’re fi nally having this conversation,’
he began. Mr Singh replied that the pleasure was all his, then
glanced involuntarily at Frank. A couple of months previously,
Frank had dropped by his offi ce uninvited to report that certain
employees were feeling ignored. Mr Singh, feeling rather offended,
had retorted that he felt he had a good relationship with his staff.
This was certainly true, but lately there had been a great many
misunderstandings between members of the production staff and
Mr Singh. Lately he had been noticing that some of his staff greeted
him, but failed to make eye contact when he wished them a good
morning in the production hall.
‘It’s no secret that we want everyone in the company to develop,’
said Mr Didier. ‘You know that. You’ve worked your way all the
way up from the shop fl oor to where you are today. The question is
whether you feel ready for the responsibilities that come with the
position of Production Manager?’
‘Of course I do,’ replied Mr Singh. ‘It’s a challenge I’ve been
looking forward to for a long time.’ He could sense that his voice
lacked the spark of conviction that might convince them that he
6

genuinely meant what he said. ‘There’s just one problem,’ said
Frank. ‘We spoke about this earlier,’ he continued, leaning across
the table to catch Mr Didier’s attention.
A shrill sound from the other side of the wall drowned out the
rest of his sentence.
‘That’s Paul’s offi ce being made ready,’ said Mr Didier.
Due to the noise, the only word Mr Singh heard was “Paul”. But
he could already guess the rest. He had heard about Paul’s rapid
exit. It had all happened so fast, he had not even had the time to say
goodbye. Mr Singh nodded, looking at Frank, who was still talking,
using his hands to emphasise what he was saying. It looked
serious. Suddenly he stopped, clearly waiting for a reply. Mr Didier
and Mr Williams also looked expectant.
Mr Singh did not feel nervous. He remained silent, hoping that
the others would carry on where Frank had left off and give him
one or two clues to help him pick up the thread of the conversation.
But no one said a thing. He smiled at Juliette. She smiled back.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear for all the noise,’ said Mr Singh fi nally.
‘Would you mind repeating that?’ At least he had not said, “What?”
like he did at home, which often drove Eve to distraction. Frank
repeated himself, and the noise began again. Frank looked at the
others, who once more were awaiting his reply.
‘I get on well with most of the employees,’ said Mr Singh. ‘I don’t
know anything about the problems you just mentioned.’ He glanced
at Mr Didier.
‘Actually, that wasn’t the question,’ said Mr Didier, looking at
Frank with a surprised expression. ‘Are there any problems?’
The minutes dragged on. Sweating profusely now, Mr Singh
breathed a sigh of relief when the men stood up. ‘We’ll be in touch,’
said Mr Didier on his way out of the conference room. ‘You know
of course that Michael’s also been in for an interview.’
‘Yes I do,’ replied Mr Singh. He smiled at Mr Didier and said
goodbye to the others as they fi led past him out of the room. He
picked up his mobile phone. Normally he always left it on in vibration
mode in his inner pocket, so he would be sure to know when it
rang. Juliette came over and took his coffee cup. She continued to
stand in front of him. He looked up from his mobile phone screen.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘My boyfriend had diffi culty hearing you know,’ Juliette replied.
‘Until he got himself a new type of hearing aid. Perhaps you should
7

consider trying one?’ ‘What?’ he replied.
Juliette began to repeat what she had said. Mr. Singh stopped her
immediately. ‘I’m not deaf! I heard you perfectly well. I’m just
amazed that you have the time to clear things away and get involved
in matters that don’t concern you!’ Mr Singh swept his
briefcase off the table and left, slamming the door behind him. He
walked away with a bad taste in his mouth.
The heat struck him like a wall of fi re as he opened the door of
his offi ce. The sun had been heating the place up the entire weekend.
He closed the glass door behind him and immediately fought
his way out of his suit and tie. He turned on the air conditioning
system – an old-fashioned box from the eighties. The high-pitched
sound it made sailed straight into his ears; an irritating buzzing
that was impossible to ignore. But the heat was even worse.
Mr Singh sat by the desk, cupping his hands over his ears. The
sound disappeared. He gazed into the distance, thinking again of
Mr Didier’s new assistant and what she had said; that he should get
a hearing aid. A hearing aid!
His mother had worn a hearing aid, but had it given her any joy?
He remembered the long drive to the nursing home on visiting
days, and how he had looked forward to descending the stairs before
he had even climbed them. When he saw her sitting alone in
one corner of the common room, while the other residents were
happily playing cards or talking, it pained him. He was always convinced
that he would be able to reach her, but this notion passed as
quickly as it came. Because the moment she asked him the fi rst
question, a distant look would appear in her eyes as soon as he tried
to answer.
She had complained that her bulky beige hearing aids gave her a
headache, and that they made howling sounds. And the evening
always ended up with both of them sitting in silence, side by side,
she with her hand in his, as if he were still only seven years old. He
came to dread those long evenings in her company. And sometimes
he allowed more time to elapse between visits than he should
have done.
Mr Singh got up and turned the air conditioner off, fi nding the
silence welcome. He could not understand it. Sometimes he seemed
to hear very clearly, while at other times he found it diffi cult to
catch what people were saying. And he had been experiencing this
more and more frequently of late. It worried him that it had become
8

so obvious that a total stranger like Juliette had spotted it almost
immediately, and that she was so sure of herself that she had not
hesitated to ask whether the problem was due to his hearing. And
if she had come to that conclusion, what must Mr Didier and the
others have thought?
Mr Singh cursed himself for letting the meeting turn out the way
it did. He had been sitting there, digging his own grave. They must
have thought that he had taken leave of his senses. He should have
told them he was happy where he was and that he wanted to see all
the projects he had set motion through to their conclusion. But he
knew it was pointless. You either continued in the company or kept
going until you hit the pavement. He had seen others go the same
way. Paul had been with the company for 30 years, yet his offi ce
was now being refurbished for someone else. How could he look
any of his colleagues in the eye after today?
Mr Singh arrived home to fi nd Eve curled up in the green easy
chair under the reading lamp, correcting essays with a red ball pen.
He fl opped into the sofa and switched on the TV. At fi rst he resisted
the temptation to increase up the volume but after a while, as the
debate between the politicians became more intense, he did turn it
up slightly. He automatically looked in Eve’s direction to check
whether the volume was too high. And the irritated glance she shot
him told him that it was. So he turned off the TV and went down to
his hobby room in the cellar. Lately he had been completing quite
a few projects – almost too many. Apart from the wine rack the few
projects remaining would not take more than a Saturday morning
to complete. Previously, any time spent in the cellar would have
been viewed as a rare treat, something he did on a Saturday morning
while Eve slept in. And he had enjoyed those hours of solitude.
But now his hobby room had turned into a hiding place – a doghouse
he felt forced to inhabit.
He and Eve no longer fought, as they had begun doing for a period.
Things were in a far worse state than that: Eve had stopped
talking altogether. About his ears and the fact that he ought to get
them checked, and about every other subject. He suddenly felt anxious
– as though he were on the brink of losing her.
The following Friday, Mr Didier walked into his offi ce. He smiled
and closed the door behind him. Mr Singh had not seen him since
the interview and had not expected to see him now. He could feel
9

his palms beginning to sweat. Judgement was about to be pronounced
in a much more personal way than anticipated. Mr Didier
perched on the edge of the chair opposite. ‘We agreed to give
Michael the opportunity this time,’ he said. ‘But things can always
change, as you well know.’
The room was so packed that it was diffi cult to get the door open.
Mr Singh was surprised at how popular Michael had suddenly become,
and at how many people were trying to worm their way into
his good books. Mr Singh had forced himself to attend, not because
Mr Didier had invited him personally during his visit earlier
in the day, but because he wanted to avoid losing face yet again. He
strolled over to the refreshments table to collect a glass of red wine.
He could hear the murmuring of voices and music. As he ventured
further into the room he bumped into a colleague who was in the
process of saying something. The person next to him began to
laugh. Presuming that they were sharing a joke, Mr Singh joined
in. He was still laughing when he noticed that the others had
stopped; they now seemed to be discussing something serious. He
straightened his tie and glanced around cautiously. Luckily, no one
seemed to have noticed.
When he arrived home, Eve had changed outfi ts. She was wearing
the green dress they had purchased on their trip to Paris. He
could smell her perfume as she moved back and forth, fi nishing
things up. He had refused the dinner invitation, asking Eve to tell
them that he was unable to attend due to pressure of work. Now he
suddenly regretted that decision, even though he knew that if he
did accompany her, he would regret that too. He would just sit there
trying to guess what the others were talking about, frightened that
he might lose the thread and be unable to keep up. He would feel
like a fool – a feeling that had become all too familiar of late.
Standing at the window, watching her car disappear around the
corner, he felt a faint pang of jealousy. It simply could not be right
that life was just passing him by like this. That positions that should
have been his, went to others. That he couldn’t talk to his own wife.
And that he was almost avoiding his friends altogether.
It was one o’clock in the morning and there was still no sign of
Eve. Mr Singh had done nothing but sit in the sofa trying to fi nd out
what to do next. He felt lonely and insecure. Could he really be going
deaf? Did he need hearing aids? And if so, how would his col-
10

leagues react? When Eve fi nally came home and crept gently into
their bed he had lost all track of time. Despite being exhausted he
had had no sleep at all.
The next morning he could not help feeling irritated that Eve had
enjoyed a pleasant evening and that none of the other guests had
particularly missed his company. Eve had sent him their regards,
but that was all. Now she was sitting in the sofa, chatting to a friend
on the phone. The conversation seemed to last forever, even though
they had just spent the evening together. But his hobby room no
longer seemed an appealing alternative.
Mr Singh went to work early the next morning. He had spent all
Sunday thinking about Juliette and the hearing aid she had mentioned.
He had been keeping an eye out for her arrival, and as soon
as she turned up at the reception desk he drew her to one side. Her
manner was reserved, which was understandable considering the
outcome of their previous meeting, he thought. He swallowed his
pride and sent her a warm, apologetic smile.
‘You mentioned something about a hearing aid.’
‘Yes I did.’
‘Well, I was wondering whether you’d mind telling me a bit more
about it?’ he asked.
Juliette explained that her boyfriend, a former musician, had suffered
ear damage and that his hearing aids had virtually given him
a new lease on life. ‘They’ve given me a new lease on life too,’ she
said. ‘We can actually talk on the mobile now, for the fi rst time in
three years.’
Back in the privacy of his offi ce, Mr Singh called his doctor for
an appointment. He explained to the secretary that both his career
and his marriage were in jeopardy. He knew this sounded melodramatic,
but it was how he felt. The doctor, a man his own age, offered
him an appointment that afternoon.
‘I can’t see anything abnormal, so I think I’ll refer you to a hearing
specialist,’ said the doctor after examining his ears.
Mr Singh called the clinic he had recommended and made an
appointment for two days later. When he arrived he felt nervous,
but the hearing specialist, a mature woman, seemed friendly and
welcoming. She performed various hearing tests and when they
were over, Mr Singh blurted out in a worried tone, ‘I don’t want
any of those ugly, old-fashioned things that look really clumsy.’
The specialist assured him that the kind of hearing aids Mr Singh’s
12

mother had worn belonged fi rmly to a bygone era. She explained
that some modern hearing aids could be used with digital electronic
devices such as mobile phones and Ipods – if he was interested
in such things. Mr Singh replied that he had never owned an
Ipod, but that it wouldn’t take him long to rectify that.
The specialist produced a box containing different types of
instruments, and Mr Singh found himself pleasantly surprised.
They came in all sorts of colours and in different, contemporary
looking designs.
At the next meeting, during which the hearing specialist was
supposed to fi t the devices they had agreed on, Mr Singh felt far
more relaxed. He had chosen a model in silver, made to sit behind
the ear. And the earpieces looked much like the headsets most
people used. He felt excited and a little nervous being at the clinic
again, but was determined to keep his expectations realistic to
avoid feeling disappointed if the devices should fail to help
because his hearing problems were not the same as Juliette’s
boyfriend’s.
‘Sounds can seem a little overwhelming to begin with, but you’ll
soon get used to it,’ the specialist explained. Mr Singh nodded
lightly. He was sitting completely still because the specialist had
hold of his left ear. He could feel her hooking the device around the
back of his ear, and then pushing the earpiece gently into place. It
was completely painless. The specialist then repeated the procedure
with his right ear. The fi rst sharp sound Mr Singh heard was
the sound of her chair as she rolled it back to her desk. The next
thing he heard was the specialist’s voice. When she said, ‘Let’s do
a little test,’ it sounded almost too loud and clear.
Mr Singh’s own voice sounded rather sharp and foreign to his
own ears as he heard himself say that the hearing aids were probably
a good fi t. ‘They might need to be fi ne tuned, but we’ll know
that in a couple of days,’ said the specialist. ‘We’ll book you in for
another appointment when you’ve had time to acclimatise to the
devices. Then we can talk about some of the other things you have
to get used to when getting hearing aids.’
So much had happened in such a short space of time. Mr Singh
offered the specialist a farewell handshake and set off down the
stairs. He felt good. He could hear his shoes squeaking and the
sound of his own footsteps. It occurred to him that he had not heard
such small sounds for many a year.
13

At street level it was a different story. It was like being thrown into
an inferno of noise; the sound of cars accelerating and beeping
combined with the sound of voices. And in the middle of it all,
a child began to cry loudly somewhere behind him. He turned
around to check whether his ears were deceiving him and found
that there was indeed a little girl, standing with her mother just a
few feet away.
When Eve came home, Mr Singh was watching the TV. He had
not turned the volume up, and she noticed immediately that something
was different. She looked at him quizzically. He pointed at
his right ear and told her all about his new hearing aids. She threw
her arms around him for the fi rst time in months, and didn’t seem
at all upset that he hadn’t told her of his plans.
In the beginning Mr Singh wore his devices for just a few hours
a day, so he could get used to all the new sounds gradually. And the
more he heard, the more he realised just how much he’d been missing.
Only after a month did he begin using them at work. It was a
liberating feeling, and it made an enormous difference. One morning,
he stopped and greeted some of the production workers on his
way to the offi ce, and asked them how things were going. They
answered, looking quite surprised. Mr Singh smiled as he continued
on his way.
A new internal ad for a production manager appeared. Mr Singh
thought about Michael and wondered how he was doing in his new
job. He suddenly felt the urge to call him and fi nd out. He had a
handy little device that automatically connected his hearing aids to
his mobile phone at the mere touch of a button. Soon, Michael’s
voice came through loud and clear in both ears. And Mr Singh was
surprised at how friendly and welcoming he was. Michael suggested
meeting at the bar around the corner for a quick after-work
drink.
The bar was full of people, many of them from work. Mr Singh
had not been there in years, but the place seemed much the same.
The music was fairly noisy but despite the noise, Mr Singh had no
problem following what Michael was saying. And what he told Mr
Singh about the job encouraged him to apply for the position. He
did not feel like waiting; he would speak to Mr. Didier forthwith
about the possibility of fi lling the vacant position.
That night Mr Singh and his wife had a few old friends over for
14

dinner. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing: Mr Singh and his friend
were standing in the kitchen, improvising with whatever ingredients
they were able to fi nd. Eve was sitting with his friend’s wife in
the living room, from whence the odd burst of laughter could be
heard. Laughter must be the best sound of all, thought Mr Singh.
As he prepared for bed he felt as though he had found himself
again after many years of absence. Sitting at the night table, carefully
placing his hearing aids in their container, he began thinking
of his mother and of all the opportunities that lay in store because
of this amazing technology.
Opportunities he’d previously never had.
15

The Piano
By Marie Hvolbæk
Simon tramped quickly down the stairs. He needed to hear his own
footsteps if he was going to stop himself crying. It was Monday
morning and he was on his way to school – somewhere he’d rather
not go at all. He felt as though he was living in a world of his own,
particularly at school, where he found it hard to follow what the
teacher was saying. Sitting in the classroom, he suspected that his
classmates might be talking about him. But he couldn’t be entirely
sure. The morning’s fi rst lesson would be dictation, which he
loathed because he always felt so stupid having to put his hand up
and ask the teacher to repeat herself.
Simon always spent the breaks together with his friend Jacob.
Most of the time they would just sit on a bench, talking. Simon
would often tell him about the big black piano that stood in his
grandmother’s living room.
‘Why are you so interested in that piano?’ asked Jacob.
‘I don’t know...’ said Simon, smiling.
‘I’d like to hear you play one day. But you’re so secretive about
it,’ laughed Jacob.
‘I’ll play for you one day, trust me.’
The other children were playing at the far end of the playground;
Simon could hear them shouting, but not what they were saying. In
another few minutes the break would be over.
Ten-year-old Simon lived with his mother in a small house in the
suburbs. Most of his memories of the house were good, apart from
an incident two months previously, which would probably stay with
17

him forever. This was the day on which it became clear for the very
fi rst time that he was living in his own little world. He was sitting
on the terrace, examining something with his magnifying glass. He
loved to watch insects wandering over the wooden boards and
across leaves made translucent by the sun.
His mother was sitting in the shade of the porch, reading a magazine.
Simon was tracking an ant through the newly-mown grass.
The sun was beaming down on the back of his neck as he crawled
along the edge of the fl ower beds and round the house, with his nose
almost to the ground. His magnifying glass was his window on a
vibrant world full of caterpillars, ants and woodlice. He could study
bumble bees gathering pollen; one fl ew right past him, and he
chased after it, using his magnifying glass as a telescope.
Suddenly he found himself out on the road, with a cyclist frantically
ringing his bell and braking hard in front of him. The cyclist
looked fl abbergasted, but Simon just stood there, frozen. His
mother came hurtling out with her dress fl uttering around her legs.
Simon only noticed her as she swept him up and carried him over
to the pavement. He was still paralysed, watching the cyclist ride
slowly away.
A couple of weeks earlier, Simon had been playing with some of
his classmates. After school he had followed them to the park to let
off some fi reworks on the sly. He had been happy to be invited,
because these boys never hung around with just anyone. The leader
of the gang was Peter. He was already a tall, skinny, crewcut boy
with a taste for wearing baseball caps back to front. He was the one
that had brought the fi reworks. As they let off the fi rst few bangers,
Peter was in high spirits, and he was grinning as he pulled a huge
rocket out of the bag.
‘I’ve saved the best for last,’ he yelled, sticking the rocket into the
ground. ‘You light it, Simon,’ he said, laughing. And one of the
other boys produced a lighter. Simon stood up slowly, feeling that
if he got this right, it would win him a great deal of respect.
‘Just do like this,’ said Peter, using the lighter to demonstrate.
Simon took the lighter and had to fl ick it a couple of times before it
fl ared into life. Then he carefully lit the fuse, quickly withdrew his
fi ngers and stepped back a few paces while watching it burn. The
sparks were swallowed by the rocket and it suddenly whizzed into
the air. Simon stumbled backwards in fright, a screeching tone
18

piercing his ears. The other boys had vaporised.
Simon had passed into some kind of dream state. His head felt
strangely heavy. The swaying leaves had suddenly gone quiet. He
could see a dog standing a short way away, barking at some doves,
but its bark sounded strangely muffl ed. Simon picked himself up.
He looked down to check his arms and hands, and found everything
intact. The lighter was on the ground a few feet away. He
picked it up and threw it into a rubbish bin as he left the park.
Out on the street, where cars were speeding by, everything looked
normal. But it did not feel that way. He felt like a spectator sitting
behind a window in another universe.
Simon ran home and slammed the front door without really understanding
what had transpired. He kept to his room all evening,
afraid to tell his mother the full story.
‘I’m going over to Grandma’s place,’ shouted Simon. ‘All right my
darling, have a good time. Remember to be home by six now!’ His
mother watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
It took Simon only a few minutes to get to his grandmother’s
house. He always dropped by on his way home from school, to
practise the piano. His grandmother was old and thin, with redblond
hair tied up in a bun. In her youth she had been a professional
pianist, but in later life she had begun teaching the children
of the neighbourhood.
Simon was met by the aroma of baking biscuits as his grandmother
opened the door. ‘Hello Simon, how’s your day been?’ His
grandmother smiled and gave him a small hug. Simon made no
reply, not wanting to admit that it had been yet another bad day. He
did not want to think about it.
He ran past her, into the living room, and sat down in front of the
keyboard. A sense of excitement always overtook him as he considered
all the great pianists that had perched on this very stool.
Sitting there, reading the music, it didn’t matter that he felt different.
He could not hear all the notes, but he could sense the strings
vibrating and feel the weight of the keys as he practised his scales.
He felt totally at one with the piano.
When his grandmother tapped him on the shoulder Simon jumped,
knocking the plate of biscuits she was carrying, out of her hands
and onto the fl oor. Simon was embarrassed.
‘Don’t worry about it Simon, we’ll just pick them up again.
19

They’re still edible,’ she said with a sympathetic smile. ‘Would you
like a soft drink?’ Simon nodded. ‘How’s it going with the piano?
You’d better keep those fi ngers supple if you want to be a real pianist
one day.’
Simon imagined what it must be like to be on stage, sitting at a
piano, accompanied by a whole orchestra. He could see it all now:
the lights, the audience parked in the shadows like an army of small
black ants, elegantly dressed and energetically applauding him; the
conductor in his penguin suit presiding over the orchestra pit, and
Simon himself, solitary at the piano, at one with those black-andwhite
keys.
In Simon’s town, time passed slowly. He had followed the same
route to school for fi ve years, trying every day to spot something he
had not yet discovered. First, he would traverse the small side streets
out to the high street, where the hotel, hairdresser, bank and shopping
mall were located. After that came the lakes, and then came
the hill with the yellow building whose main entrance bore a huge
sign with the school’s name. Luckily, Jacob was waiting for him in
the school yard. Together they walked up to the classroom on the
second fl oor.
20

From his spot by the window, Simon could view the whole town
and beyond; he could see parts of a world not yet explored, and
dream about visiting them one day. He could picture himself soaring
across the city limits on a huge piano with black lacquered
wings. Sometimes he felt as though he hadn’t even been to school;
sitting by that window, the other children and the teacher would
simply cease to exist. And the sounds in the classroom would merge
and become a low background hum – a soundtrack for his daydreams.
After school, Peter approached him. He said something that
Simon didn’t catch, and laughed. Unable to ascertain whether Peter
had made a joke or whether he was just making fun of him, Simon
became uneasy. Peter cupped his hand round his mouth and
whispered something else Simon couldn’t understand. He could
see that some of the other boys were now approaching, with smiles
on their faces.
‘Knock it off Peter,’ shouted Jacob from the other end of the
schoolyard. He was moving towards them too.
Simon could feel his heart racing and his breathing becoming
more laboured. His eyes fl itted back and forth over the group of
21

children now surrounding him. They did not look angry, but Simon
felt no less threatened for it. Peter was standing right next to him
now, still whispering, poking his tongue out and making faces at
him. Simon began to feel dizzy, and when Peter grabbed him, he
became so alarmed that he punched him hard in the stomach.
Simon could feel Peter’s stomach absorb the blow; he crumpled to
the ground without a word. The other children were rooted to the
spot.
‘I’m going to have to send you home for a couple of days, Simon,’
said the teacher with a concerned expression. She was talking in a
clear and cool manner.
‘Why did you hit him?’
Simon could not provide a clear answer. He was studying the
windowsill and the white fl akes of old paint – the kind that can
pierce the hand that tries to brush them away. He was also examining
the grain of the wooden table top, and the scratch marks and
initials carved there.
‘Simon!’ she said. ’You can be a strange little boy, and I can’t for
the life of me understand why you hit Peter. I’ve called your mother,
and she’ll be picking you up soon, so you’d better go downstairs
and wait for her.’
The teacher rose and began cleaning the blackboard, occasionally
casting an inquisitive glance in Simon’s direction. Simon
wanted to confess everything but could not bring himself to speak.
So he remained seated.
The teacher seemed to have become a totally different person.
Perhaps it was the light that made her look so alien, or perhaps it
was what she had said. Simon suddenly felt under attack. ‘I got
scared… I couldn’t hear what he was saying!’ he shouted.
The teacher paused, put the backboard wiper down on the table
and sat opposite him once more. ‘Simon, when you say you couldn’t
hear him, what exactly do you mean? Simon?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know what’s wrong. My ears have been
hurting for ages; it’s like they’re howling all the time. It started
when I was playing around with fi reworks with Peter. Jacob says
that something might be wrong with my ears.’
‘Could that be true, do you think?’
‘Maybe!’
‘It must be awful to go around feeling like that. We must do
something. I’ll talk to your mother about it.’
22

Simon was sitting in the sofa, looking down at his hands. One was
a little swollen. His mother had questioned him all the way home
and chastised him for not having said anything. Now she was sitting
in the kitchen talking to his grandmother and teacher.
His hand was sore. For one awful moment he was afraid that he
would no longer be able to play the piano. He felt angry at Peter for
ruining his hand. He donned his jacket carefully and sneaked into
the corridor, keeping an eye on his mother the entire time. Then he
opened the door gently and trotted down the road without shutting
it behind him.
He let himself in to his grandmother’s house using the key she
always hid in the pot plant by the terrace. The lights were out and
the curtains were drawn. The piano crouched in the dark like some
giant shadow, taking up even more space than it usually did in her
living room. Simon entered the room slowly and stood hesitantly
in front of the piano, too anxious to touch it. And all his anger
seemed to evaporate. Exhausted, he fl opped into the easy chair and
gradually fell asleep. He had no idea how much time had elapsed
when the lights suddenly went on in the living room. His mother
and grandmother were standing there – his mother almost out of
her wits. She was gibbering on and on, but he was too tired to pay
attention.
The next day dragged by. Simon’s mother had decided to stay
home and she was now pottering about in the kitchen. Simon had
skipped his regular piano lesson with his grandmother, choosing
instead to cycle as fast as possible through the town. He raced past
the hotel, the hairdresser, the bank and the shopping mall. He could
see the hill and the big yellow school out of the corner of his right
eye, but he pushed on with both eyes half closed and with both
hands grasping the handlebars. He realised that he could cycle all
the way to the city limit if he wanted to; it wasn’t that far. He braked
hard when he reached the town sign. The sun was dazzling and the
wind was wafting the sand up from the road. In theory, he could
just keep on going. Up ahead, the road widened, fl anked by trees
and bushes, stretching off into infi nity. But his mother… she would
be worried. And he wasn’t really sure whether he was ready for this
quite yet. Perhaps one day.
Simon returned home to fi nd his mother and his grandmother
waiting for him.
‘Where have you been? We’ve been so anxious.’
23

Simon ran up to his room. Shortly after, his mother knocked on his
door, asking for permission to come in. Simon didn’t answer. He
was lost for words.
She opened the door, walked slowly over to him and perched on
the edge of his bed. ‘I’m worried about you. I think we need to get
your ears checked. And I’ve had a word with the school doctor
about it.’ Simon looked at his mother, and she smiled at him.
‘Do you feel brave enough to get your ears checked by an ear
specialist tomorrow?’ she asked.
After seeing the ear specialist they went to the audiologist’s clinic.
Reviewing the results of the tests, she said, ‘Well, you seem to have
got through the fi rst phase very nicely.’ Simon nodded at her and
smiled. He began scanning the room – the books in the bookcase,
the small plastic models of ears, and the large window that made
the room bright and a silhouette out of the audiologist.
The audiologist took a picture of a smart-looking hearing aid out
of her desk draw and began explaining how the device worked.
And Simon and his mother listened carefully. When the meeting
was over, Simon did not know how to react. He tried to imagine
what it would be like to hear clearly again. He felt his energy
returning, as though he could cycle to the ends of the earth if he
so desired.
Simon was dreading the return to school. He was afraid that his
classmates would make fun of his hearing aids. He arrived half an
hour before everyone else in order to avoid having to walk through
the entire classroom to his spot by the window. And there he sat,
gazing out.
The fi rst person to arrive was Sara, who greeted him with a hello
as she sat down. The class wasn’t due to start for another twenty
minutes. ‘Is it true that you play the piano?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yeah, a little,’ he answered.
She got up and walked over to his desk. ‘Is it hard? I wouldn’t
mind giving it a try.’
Simon looked up at her.
‘What are those things on your ears?’ she asked, pointing at his
hearing aids. Simon felt awkward, not knowing how to reply.
‘They’re cool. Is it some kind of headset?’
‘No,’ said Simon reluctantly, ‘they’re hearing aids.’
24

‘Really,’ she answered in a more serious tone.
‘They work a bit like a headset though,’ Simon added quickly.
‘You can connect them to your mobile and your iPod and
stuff…’
‘Cool – I’ve got an iPod,’ she smiled. ‘Want to try?’ Simon connected
the iPod while Sara selected a song. ‘It works!’ he smiled.
It had been a long time since Simon had sat at the piano. The sun
was shining despite the heavy rain clouds; the tree outside the window
had shed its leaves, ready for winter. And Simon sat at the
keyboard in the bright autumn light. Earlier that day, he had rung
Jacob, and they had cycled through the town, past the hotel where
a young couple were talking with the receptionist; past the bank,
where a businessman was shouting into his mobile, and over to the
mall, where dozens of girls were standing around gossiping about
their latest purchases.
‘Hi Sara,’ shouted Simon.
‘Hi,’ she shouted back, smiling.
‘How are things going?’ asked Jacob.
‘I can hear lots of things I haven’t heard in ages.’ Simon replied.
‘Like cars a hundred metres away, people talking on the street,
phones ringing, and the music in the supermarket. There are sounds
everywhere. I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.’
‘That’s amazing Simon. What’re you going to do now?’
‘Go home and play a bit of piano, I think…’
‘Well, see you around. Have a good time!’ Jacob waved and
hopped back on his bicycle.
Gazing out of the large bay window, Simon could hear the wind
battering the windowpanes. He could also hear his grandmother’s
crackly old radio, out in the kitchen. And for the fi rst time in a long
time, he could hear every magnifi cent note on the piano, from the
moment he began to play.
25

Bliss
By Katinka Aagaard
It was spring. And the sun was casting a stark, white, translucent
light over the living room where Michael was sitting in his chair,
reading the paper. It was early evening and out in the kitchen, Jane
was fi ddling about with her pots and pans. Michael felt hungry, and
he was distracted by the sound of Zach’s computer game. His son
was screeching round a car racing track, leaning from side to side
as he turned the wheel. At only nine years old, Zach was already
navigating quickly and securely.
The high, jarring gaming sounds got Michael thinking: ‘Imagine
being happy to hear such annoying sounds from a computer!’ It
reminded him of a story he had not told in a long while; one that his
son certainly had never heard.
‘We’ll be eating soon, Zach,’ Jane’s voice rang through loud and
clear from the kitchen, but Zach showed no reaction. Michel went
and stood behind him.
‘You can fi nish this round, but then you have to turn the computer
off, okay?’
Zach nodded, and then leaned to one side in an attempt to turn
the car. He crashed.
‘I’m dead anyway, daddy.’
Michael felt Zach’s pulse ’You feel pretty alive to me.’
Zach grinned and shoved his father.
‘Come on, let’s sit on the sofa until dinner’s ready,’ said Michael.
And with an air of assumed gravity he said, ‘Did you know that
your mother and I haven’t always known each other?’
27

‘Of course I do,’ answered Zach.
‘Well, let me tell you how we met. It’s a long story, and it all began
with a horse. I had been a vet for some years, but had just
opened my own practice – my own business, that is. In our little
town, everyone knows everyone else. One of my regular clients
was a girl named Tina. She was a couple of years older than you are
now, and had a pony called Bliss. The horse often suffered from
colic, and whenever it got sick at night, I would have to tend to it.
One evening, quite late, Tina’s parents rang to say that there was
trouble again: Bliss was sluggish and lying down all the time. I
drove out to their little farm right away. I examined Bliss, and
checked whether she had fever, which she didn’t. I listened to her
stomach and lungs very thoroughly, but I couldn’t hear anything
out of the ordinary. The symptoms all pointed to colic, so I gave her
the usual treatment.’
‘The next morning, Tina’s father rang me. Bliss has become
much worse. The family had called in another vet who had told
them that the lungs didn’t sound normal, which suggested the horse
might have pneumonia. I could hear by the father’s tone of voice
that he thought me – to put it mildly – a bit of fool. And I couldn’t
understand how I could have been so mistaken.’
‘Dinner’s on the table!’ Jane looked at her husband and son.
‘What are you two sitting around talking about?’
‘I was telling Zach how we came to meet.’
‘I want to tell the story too!’ she replied, with a cheeky smile.
‘You’ve probably told him the bit about the horse, but I bet I can
remember more details than you. Let’s eat fi rst, though.’
Jane passed the serving dishes around, and they ate as dusk began
to close in. When they had cleared away the plates, they sat
down once more, and this time it was Jane’s turn to continue. ‘Let’s
see then,’ she began. ‘I had just moved into a new apartment. I’d
been living there alone, together with my cat, Mr C. Back then, I
was working quite hard, much harder than I do now, even though
your father might disagree.’ She paused. ‘My downstairs neighbour
sometimes played music very loud. Not very often, but when it did
happen, it nearly blew the windows out of the building. And when
the TV was on, I could almost hear what was being said from upstairs.’
‘I was on my way down to complain about the noise, when I
bumped into my neighbour on the stairs. He was a very handsome
28

man with dark hair and brown eyes. I’ve always had a weakness for
brown eyes, so I didn’t really say anything other than a passing
hello. But it did occur to me that there might be something wrong
with his hearing, since he always turned the volume up loud. And
one day, when I was standing in a queue at the chemist, I saw some
hearing aid brochures and I popped a couple into my handbag.
Then I sneaked one into my handsome neighbour’s letterbox. And
after a while it began to be less noisy down in his apartment. I
couldn’t be certain whether I’d had anything to do with it, but I
hoped that I had.’
Michael interrupted. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought that brochure
was an advert that just happened to be delivered to my door.
But I couldn’t have been more mistaken. It turned out that someone
had been pretty sneaky.’ He glanced at Jane and continued. ‘In any
case, I ended up getting myself a hearing aid. It took me a while to
make the decision though, because I was ashamed to admit I had a
problem. That may sound crazy now, but back then, I found it really
embarrassing. And when I fi nally did get a hearing aid, I didn’t
like it at fi rst, because it wasn’t like getting my old hearing back.
‘Anyhow, I decided to try it out every day for a week, and it
gradually changed my life. I found it much easier to talk to people,
and much easier to talk on the phone. I was becoming a bit irritable,
you see. And I suddenly understood why; I felt like a complete
idiot always having to say “What?” and “Sorry”. I also learned
that mistakes such as the one I’d made with Bliss happened because
I couldn’t actually hear anything wrong with the pony’s
lungs. The moment I realised that, I drove straight out to Tina and
her father, to explain and apologise. Luckily we had a constructive
chat; her father understood that the problem had been caused by
my hearing rather than my abilities as a vet.
‘But daddy,’ Zach interrupted. ‘Can you hear me say “moo”?
Can you?’ Michael grinned and nodded. Zach continued. ‘What
about “cock-a-doodle-doo”? Or “meow”?’
‘Yes, I can hear all those sounds. And talking about “meow”, one
day I found a poor little cat that had fallen out of a window in my
apartment building. I recognised it as belonging to my upstairs
neighbour. When I picked it up it mewled terribly, which got me to
thinking that it had probably broken something. Over at the clinic
I took some X-rays and discovered that it had indeed broken its
front leg. I put the leg in a splint, gave the cat some painkillers, and
29

drove it back to my upstairs neighbour. She thanked me over and
over again. Then she made some coffee and while we were sitting,
talking, I noticed a brochure that was stuck between some books in
her bookcase. It was identical to the one I’d received about the
hearing aid. I asked whether she had any problems hearing, and
suddenly a very strange expression appeared on her face. Can you
guess why?’
‘No,’ said Zach.
‘Neither could I at fi rst. Your mother obviously found it too embarrassing
to admit that it was she that had slipped the brochure
through my door. Things got a bit tense there, for a moment. But
when she returned from the kitchen with more coffee, it was as
though I was seeing her for the very fi rst time. It occurred to me
that she was the kind of person I could share all sorts of good experiences
with. And I really wanted to that; I wanted her to be with
me and nobody else.’
‘So what did you do then, daddy?’ asked Zach.
‘I used my super powers.’
‘Wow, really?’
Jane shook her head. ‘He didn’t use any super powers; he was
sneakier than that. A couple of weeks after Mr C had come home
with his leg in a splint, I got an anonymous letter. It said that I was
to go to the Golden Duck restaurant the following Saturday. There,
I would meet a man who would be wearing a pink rose in his buttonhole.
He signed the letter: Your soon-to-be, not-so-secret admirer.
That did make me laugh. I had a pretty good idea who was
behind it, but it still took some courage to show up there. Luckily,
my curiosity got the better of me. And when I arrived at the restaurant
and saw Michael sitting there with a rose in his buttonhole, I
went all fuzzy inside. We gave each a great big smile and ordered
some food and wine.’
‘Champagne,’ corrected Michael.
‘Yes, that’s right. We drank champagne.’
‘I knew I had to thank her somehow, for putting me on the right
track to...’ Michael gave his ear a tug, and Zach laughed. ‘We discovered
that we had a great deal in common but we had trouble
agreeing on which would make the best pet – a cat or a dog. I
thought a dog would be best, but your mother preferred cats. I used
all my veterinary arguments to convince her that dogs were the
superior race. She said that she thought that cats must be smarter
30

ecause it was always them that decided whether to come or not
when called. For her, that’s a sign of true intelligence.’
‘And I was trying my best not to gawp at you the whole time,’
said Jane. ‘That’s because it made me blush, which was weird and
slightly irritating. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my
entire life. That’s what cured me of my bashfulness.’
Michael picked up the thread of the story once more. ‘Anyhow, it
got late, and I wanted to drive Jane home, but I only had my company
car. It was full of veterinary gear, which Jane had to sit on all
the way home. But she took it really well, and we laughed a lot and
listened to music. And that evening, we kissed for the very fi rst
time. Out on the stairwell.’
‘Gross!’ said Zach, with a scrunched up face. ‘That’s nasty!’
The telephone rang. Michael answered it. And after a brief conversation
he turned to the family and said with a surprised smile. ‘I’ve
to go out on call. Want to come with me? Something special is happening
tonight. But you’ll have to go straight to bed when we come
home, Zach.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Jane.
‘To help an old friend.’
They drove to the countryside and stopped at a farm, where they
were met by a young girl. She led them to the stables.
‘You’re a bit late,’ she said, smiling. They peered through the
railing to see a pony with a newborn foal that was trying its best to
get a purchase on four long and wobbly legs. Michael entered the
box and examined both mare and foal.
‘Both of them are strong and healthy,’ he pronounced.
“Yippee!” exclaimed Zach, happily. ‘Daddy, can I have a pony
too?’
‘We’ll see. Come over here!’ He waved Zach over. Do you remember
me telling you about Bliss – the horse with pneumonia,
that I failed to diagnose properly?”
Zach nodded.
‘Well, this is her. She could have died.’
‘But she didn’t, did she, daddy?’ said Zach, smiling contentedly.
‘And now she’s had a baby.’
‘A foal,’ corrected Michael. ‘When a horse has a baby, it’s called
a foal. We’d better leave now, so Bliss and her foal can get some
rest. Congratulations, Tina!’
32

They drove through the forest and back to town, with Michael
leaning from side to side whenever the car turned, just like Zach
did when playing his racing car game.
‘And that’s how daddy became Bliss’s vet again, and how he met
mummy and got married and had you,’ said Jane. ‘How’s that for a
great story?’
Zach was very sleepy now. ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied, after thinking
about it. ‘You know, I didn’t think grownups could have so
many grand adventures.’
33

Write your own story
The fi nal chapter of this book is completely blank. Because we
want to invite you to share with us your own story – whether it’s
similar or completely different to the tales you’ve read here.
You can choose to submit your story in print either by post to:
Oticon A/S
Kongebakken 9
2765 Smørum, Denmark
Att.: Melanie Kleinhammes Ibsen
Or by email to Melanie at contact-us@oticon.com
We are looking forward to receiving lots of different stories about
your experiences with hearing loss. Such real life experiences are
not only of great interest, they are also a great help to hearing aid
wearers and their families. And your story could be among them.*
We look forward to receiving your input!
* We reserve the right to use selected stories for our next collection of short, non-fi ction articles.
By submitting your story you fully accept that Oticon may use it for marketing purposes, either
in full or in part, free of charge and for an indeterminate period. You will be accredited as the
author, but you may, if you prefer, remain anonymous.

www.oticon.com
Four stories about hearing
At Oticon we could write poem after poem about the
importance of good hearing, but instead we have
chosen to engage the skills of three budding authors
studying at the Writer’s School in Copenhagen.
The short stories they have crafted provide some
insight into how hearing loss can aff ect people’s
lives – at school, at work, at home and among
friends. And how hearing aids can turn a potentially
negative situation into something positive.
The fi nal chapter of this book is completely blank.
It represents our invitation to you to share with us
your own story – whether it resembles or completely
diff ers to the tales printed here.
We look forward to receiving your story!
911 47 510 00/12.07