Raising Ryland

by Hillary Whittington

  “You’re telling me Ryland’s never thrown a tantrum that you couldn’t figure out the solution to?”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Exactly.”

  We learn that there’s an up-and-coming baby boutique in the notoriously hip area of North Park that’s offering a Sunday morning free baby sign class for parents to sample and see if they like it enough to enroll.

  On the Thursday before we’re supposed to meet for the intro class, my in-laws offer to babysit Ryland to give me a day to get some things done. The timing of all this strikes me—alarms me—that Friday, two days before the class, when I get a phone call from my father-in-law. I’ve just clicked Ryland into her high chair for her lunch when the phone rings. I nestle the wireless receiver between my ear and my shoulder and answer. “Hello?”

  “Hill,” Rand says. “Can you talk?”

  “Hi, Rand, yeah, of course. I’m just getting ready to feed the baby.”

  “That’s actually why we’re calling. Hill, uh . . .” Through the phone, he struggles. “Peg and I are concerned about the baby.”

  I glance at Ryland, who’s secure in her high chair. Then, cautiously, I reach for a chair and slowly take a seat. “You’re concerned? Why?”

  “We really think her hearing needs to be checked.”

  I stay silent, trying to grasp any one of the emotions that are surging through me right now—panic, a mix of shame for what I fear was unintentional ignorance and negligence as a new parent on my part, a gratefulness that my in-laws care so much about my daughter, and a shame for my anger that their concern is about to turn our world upside down. He continues. “She isn’t responding the way she should be to sounds.”

  I steady myself, my fear taking shape as a reality like a waterfall freezing midstream. A month ago, I called the pediatrician because I’d begun to wonder whether Ryland’s behavior was normal. Loud noises never seemed to frighten her. She still wasn’t answering to her own name. The nurse at the pediatrician’s office offered to make an appointment for us, but I told her I’d look at my schedule and call her right back. Then, because Ryland is perfect and because to think that anything could be wrong with her was the most terrifying thought I could imagine . . . I talked myself out of going. I haven’t called back since.

  “We’ve been watching her, Hill,” Rand says, “and this is something we’ve been noticing for a while now. We’re worried. I think something needs to be done.”

  With the air knocked out of me, I manage to tell him, “I’ll talk to Jeff, Rand. Thanks for letting me know.”

  That phone call is the final push that I need. I click the TALK button on the phone to turn it off, then turn it immediately back on. I dial our pediatrician’s office. “Mrs. Whittington, hi,” the nurse says. Immediately she hears the new urgency in my tone. “If I squeeze Ryland in for two o’clock today, can you come in?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “We’ll be there.”

  Ryland’s face is confused as I rush around the house and load her into the car. On the way to the appointment, I begin to run scenarios in my head: I think of the signs that I’ve allowed to convince me that Ryland can hear . . . then all of the many signs that have made me worry maybe she can’t. Jeff and I had taken note that the only toys she likes to play with are ones with mechanized motion or flashing lights—visual toys. Only when we tap her shoulder can we get her attention, and when she’s upset, she doesn’t calm to our voices unless she actually sees us enter the room.

  I enter the pediatrician’s office gripping Ryland in my arms. I’m usually excited for her to see the pediatrician, to get the news that she’s in perfect health and here’s what stages are coming next and here are the new foods that are age-appropriate for her to try now . . . but today, inside the waiting room, the cartoon animal décor and bright colors seem darker than they ever seemed before—and for the first time, I realize that the doctor’s office is not a cheery place for every parent who comes in.

  The pediatrician enters the exam room, smiling as usual. He’s young, thin, and handsome, with young children of his own. “You always have the answers,” I tell him. “We needed to come and see you today.”

  On the chair of the exam room, I sit Ryland down and reach in my diaper backpack to pull out the hand puppet that I always carry to keep her occupied. She takes it, balling up its fuzzy nose in her fist.

  “Something isn’t right with Ryland,” I tell the doctor. “I seriously think . . .”

  He listens patiently as I search for my words.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been in denial.” Right here, the fears that have been shoring up inside me bust open like a broken dam. “She isn’t talking or turning toward sounds. I really think she may not be hearing. . . .”

  “Mrs. Whittington, listen,” he says. “Children develop at different stages, and Ryland could just be a late talker. If anything, maybe it’s possible she could need ear tubes.” I watch as he turns and types something into the laptop he carries, then turns to me. “I typically don’t order hearing tests until children are eighteen months old, but I sense your concern, so I’ll go ahead and order a BAER test.”

  “A BAER test?”

  “It is a sedated hearing test that measures brain wave activity in response to certain sounds. I’ll go ahead and send a request to your insurance company, but it could take a few weeks to get in, depending on when they have an appointment available. And Mrs. Whittington, really—I wouldn’t lose any sleep over this,” he says. “I’m sure she’s just fine.”

  I leave the pediatrician’s office and call Jeff, not at all appeased. Something inside me knows that I’m right: my daughter cannot hear. “‘I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it,’ he says!” I tell Jeff. “Clearly he’s not a mother!”

  When we arrive home, I keep things quiet . . . not because I think noise will disturb Ryland from unwinding for her nap, but because there’s a part of me now that doesn’t want to leave her out of any sensory experiences that I can enjoy. I call my cousin Melissa, who offers to come stay the night with me. I accept immediately, knowing she will be a strong shoulder for me to cry on.

  And then that night, almost as if she can sense my worry, Ryland decides to take her first steps.

  I videotape her walking back and forth on our living room floor, both concentrating and smiling in her cow-print, fuzzy jumper. My feelings are mixed as I videotape: I’m beside myself with excitement for this new stage, but deep down, I know that normal stages of development like this one won’t always come easily for this sweet little girl.

  Melissa stands quietly with me when I put Ryland down for bed. We exit Ryland’s room and stand just outside her doorway. “Let’s stay here a minute until she falls asleep,” I whisper. “I want to try something.”

  She nods in cooperation. “Okay.”

  When the room has gone completely silent, we exchange the glance of a shared mission: our eyes meet, I bite my lip, and I nod as I push open the door and we begin our tiptoe back into the nursery. I look at Melissa . . . and then I let out a loud whistle.

  Nothing.

  “Ryland!” I shout. “Ryyyy-land!”

  Ryland doesn’t even stir.

  “Come with me,” I tell Melissa. We march toward the kitchen and load our arms with pots and pans, a wooden spoon in my grip. We clang, clang, clang them together . . . and Ryland stays sleeping, soft and sound.

  I haven’t slept when Jeff returns home in the morning wearing his pressed navy blue uniform. Immediately, he hugs and kisses me. I begin to weep in his arms. “When she wakes up,” he says, “I’ll try it, too.”

  Comforted by his concern, I nod. After Ryland is awake and fed, we sit her in the middle of the family room floor so she can play. Jeff goes into her toy chest and picks up a couple of wooden blocks. He walks up behind Ryland and looks at me, pained by what he’s about to do. Then he stretches both arms widely and smacks the blocks together.

  The cracking sound echoes through our home—in fact, I flinch, knowing th
at if any of our neighbors were sleeping, they’re definitely not now.

  But Ryland doesn’t budge. She remains contently focused on her toys.

  Jeff knows as well as I do that we have a problem, and we’re in need of some answers.

  I PUT ON a big pot of coffee for both sets of grandparents before they show up. All four of them are solemn when they come through our door, but I can see that they’re trying to be strong for us. As our baby girl walks across the room, back and forth, showing off the new skill she’s mastered, our parents respond with big smiles and cheers. It’s evident that each of us is grieving a future that we’d been imagining for Ryland . . . but I feel a certain comfort knowing that our parents are here to stand with us through this.

  As my parents, in-laws, and husband enter the kitchen to have some coffee, I excuse myself to my bedroom upstairs. I close the door, slump into a seat on the bed, and, wailing, I let it all go: the fears, the pain, the hopes I’d had for my daughter. Will Ryland have a silent future? I picture her as a teenager, sitting with us at a family Thanksgiving celebration, where we’re all laughing and listening to music. Will Ryland exist alone, in silence? And am I being overly dramatic? I’ve envisioned her future with that all-American scenario: married, with two kids, the house, and the white picket fence. It’s never occurred to me that my version of Ryland’s perfect life may be a little different from her reality.

  The next day is the last Sunday of January 2009. When I wake up, I’m amazed that I was able to sleep, and I’m resolved and ready to move forward to the next step. Jeff has taken the day off of work to attend the first day of sign language class with us. He drives Jenn, Gianna, Ryland, and me on the twenty-five-minute trip to So Childish. “Oh, it’s cute,” muses Jenn when we find the quaint little shop that sits on the corner of a street that’s known for its historical buildings. With plenty of spare time before the class begins, we browse the boutique—it features everything from the latest toys to sing-along music books with matching puppets to gorgeous brand-name clothes, some made from organic fabrics, and a pyramid that serves as the store’s centerpiece, stacked high with luxe cloth diapers. “Wow,” Jenn murmurs to me. “You’d have a field day if you were planning a baby shower.”

  A baby shower is the last thing on my mind right now.

  We fold the girls’ strollers and climb through the crowd of moms and babies—the trial class is jam-packed. It’s the typical Southern California mix of moms: some very put together and pretty, in cute jackets and big earrings and heels; others minimalist and Californian, in yoga pants and long tunics or flowy skirts and sandals.

  The room is turquoise, with painted murals of children playing. It’s large enough to double as a play zone for babies to go when their moms are shopping and a class isn’t being held, but the orange-cushioned benches that line the room provide a stashing place for all the toys. The room has soft carpet and a barn-style half door to separate the classroom from the boutique, so children are viewable but contained. Our girls take it all in, jibber-jabbering with each other, as Jenn makes polite conversation with the moms sitting near us. One tells Jenn that she’s come just because she’s dying to meet other mothers. I overhear another brag that her eight-month-old is already pulling herself up by the edge of the couch and trying to take a step. Jenn leans in to me. “You’re quiet,” she says. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod, shaking off her concern. But my purpose for being here isn’t quite like the other moms’. The signs I’ve been overlooking creep back into my mind for the thousandth time in the past two days. How had I not known that my little girl couldn’t hear? Ryland is so healthy, happy, and typical to her peers, I’ve believed . . .

  That is, until we met Jenn and Gianna. As I’ve seen how alert and verbally responsive Gianna is, a concern began to rise in me. I’d begun to question why Ryland isn’t learning to say “momma” or “dada” like Gianna mastered months ago. Who really ever thinks their child has something “wrong” with them? Have I been living in denial?

  There’s a collective straightening up among all of us moms, as Monta, the baby sign teacher, emerges at the front of the room. She’s written a bestselling book on baby sign language and is known as one of the pioneers of this field. As Monta introduces herself, I find myself relaxing into her presence—she’s in her mid-thirties, a natural beauty with short brown hair and a gorgeous smile. She’s cheerful and animated with the children, and next to her sits a stuffed teddy bear. After she goes through some of the basics about the class, she sits down on a stool and pulls the bear onto her lap. Jenn and I are as amazed as the children are when Monta slips on a pair of white gloves and slides her arms inside the bear’s arms. When Monta begins to speak by using her hands, it actually appears that the bear is the one doing the signing! “Anybody up for some music?” she says. She hits the button on a music player and begins to sign the words to a children’s song.

  “Ryland,” I tell her. “Music!”

  “Clap, Ryland,” Jeff urges.

  Ryland watches Monta intently but appears more spellbound by the motion of her signing than by the actual song itself. The other babies in the room smile up at their mothers, shrill their voices in thrill, bounce to the music, and flag their arms with the sound . . . all of them, that is, except for Ryland. Our little girl does nothing to respond to the music; it’s as if she’s in her own little world. The truth is beginning to crystallize. Ryland cannot hear. In this communal setting, the even heavier thought occurs to me: my daughter is left out of experiencing life as the other babies are.

  Suddenly, it makes sense that she loves her fire truck toy so much—the noise is enough to make me crazy, but she loves how visual it is, with its relentless flashing light. I also remember a trip we’d taken a couple of months ago to Maui to visit Jeff’s brother Jay. We were relaxing on the patio when their other brother, Scott, came out and said, “Have you guys had Ryland’s hearing checked?”

  As we followed him inside toward the room where she was sleeping, he explained that he’d heard Ryland waking up in her crib, and when he went in the room and called her name, she didn’t turn toward him.

  We followed him into her room, but we didn’t really think much of it at the time—we appreciated Scott’s concern, but he was her uncle! To us it was just sort of cute for him to fuss about her. When the three of us entered and found her in her crib, she was sitting up, smiling. When Scott approached her to pick her up out of her bed, she started waving her hands in circles. “See?” Jeff said. “She’s okay.”

  We didn’t know enough then to acknowledge the truth that’s now growing clearer.

  After class, Jenn continues in her friendly exchanges with other mothers. Jeff engages with Ryland and Gianna, kicking inside their strollers, while I approach Monta in the only quiet corner in the room. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.” I’m soothed, at least a little, by her warmth.

  “Um . . .” I wring my hands. I feel as though sharing this with another person is about to make it all true . . . but I have to look out for Ryland. “I feel like maybe I was meant to come here today,” I tell her, trying to control an unsteadiness in my throat. “I’m not positive, but I’ve been getting some clues that my little girl can’t hear.”

  “Clues?”

  “She’s not speaking, she doesn’t turn to us when we say her name, she didn’t really seem all that interested in the sound of the songs you were playing. . . .” I look at her with desperation, not wanting to list any more of the signs—the many obvious signs.

  Monta responds assuredly. “I know this is hard, but try to stay positive,” she says. “Until you can speak with an audiologist, I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

  She guides me to a bookshelf and fills me in on some resources, and alone, I make my way to the cash register. “Whatcha got there?” Jenn says. We both glance down to the stack of books in my arms: six copies of Monta’s book. “I need to start studying,” I whisper to her.


  “Me, too, I’m rusty after all these years. I haven’t used ASL since college!”

  “No,” I tell her. “Jenn . . . I really think Ryland is deaf.”

  “Hillary . . .” she says. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve seen her,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. “Gianna always responds to you; she can hear you. Ryland doesn’t really respond to loud noises like she should. . . . I don’t even know if she knows her name.”

  “Let’s sign up for the class,” she says. “When we get home, I’ll help you get a jump start on some information and resources.”

  I SPEND ALL night in bed miming the signs in Monta’s book. “Babe,” Jeff says. “Please let’s try not to jump to any premature conclusions with this until we know more.” Jeff is so much more used to handling distress in a cool, collected way than I am.

  “And who knows when that could be?”

  “Let’s just sleep on it tonight, okay? Tomorrow will be the start of the week. I’ll call first thing and make an appointment at Children’s Hospital.”

  When he follows through, I’m relieved to see that we’re sharing the same grasp of the magnitude of what’s happening. He wakes up earlier than usual, and when I bring coffee to him at the computer, I find that he’s emailing his friend who’s in medical school. “What are you saying to him?” I ask.

  “I want to know if there are causes of hearing loss that are treatable or curable.”

  Then, at exactly eight o’clock, he calls a children’s hospital in San Diego, whose audiologist’s office says the earliest they could test Ryland would be in mid-March. Almost as if in response, we drive to Peg and Rand’s. They assure us they have some friends around the city who might be able to at least recommend hearing specialists for us to see in the meantime. Peg accepts a handful of the copies of Monta’s book that I’ve bought and pledges to pass them around our extended family. In my desperation, I’m buoyed by the sense of strength my in-laws are giving us: We’re all in this together.