In late August, as the dog days of summer waned and the dandelions roots grew fat, it came time for Brent to return to his college up in the Pacific Northwest. Sadly, even though our families’ homes were only 5 miles apart, we both lived and attended colleges in separate states. Brent was a sophomore at Reed College in Portland, Oregon, and I was then a sophomore at Fresno City College in California. We would soon begin a long distance relationship that spanned 3 ½ years.
If you have ever been in a long-distance relationship, you know the yearning and heartbreak of not being able to hold the one you love. Those first months apart felt like death to me. Thoughts of my beloved filled my every waking hour. His absence was profound, for now I found myself without a social life.
Spending each day that last summer month with Brent, I had forgotten what is was to feel isolated from the rest of the hearing world. Back at school, I was acutely aware, that once again, I was unable to join in the college social scene because of my hearing loss. The individual daily attention I had received from Brent that summer was sorely missed.
Many long-distance lovers deal with their separation by spending a fortune on phone calls just to hear each other’s voice. However, phone calls were very difficult for us because of my deafness. Even with the volume control turned up full blast on the telephone handset, I could only hear Brent’s words as guttural, monosyllabic grunts. Since Brent did not have his own TTY, we corresponded mostly by mail. This was before we knew anything about telephone relay services, and before the advent of e-mail, text pagers, web cams or video phones.
However, before we resigned ourselves to postal mail, we did experiment with phone calls in those early months. Though most of what I heard was a mumbled blur, at least Brent could hear my voice, as I did most of the talking. The one thing I was sure I could differentiate was Brent’s laugh.
I discovered that “How are you” and “I love you,” sounded exactly the same to me. Because of this, we invented a kind of alphabet code where Brent would go through the letters of the alphabet and stop on the letter which would begin to spell out a word that he wanted to clarify. I could hear the rhythmic grunts and could follow along with him.
Brent would begin saying the alphabet. “A..B..C..D..E..F..G..H..” while I counted along with him. When his voice stopped, I would assume he wanted me to understand that letter was the beginning of the word he wanted to say.
“H,” I would ask? “You want to know how I am?” Brent would respond with 3 sounds as he spelled out “Y-E-S.”
Naturally, that took forever, but I loved that Brent was willing to try anything to communicate with me, in spite of how frustrating it was for us both. Eventually, we concluded that it was nearly impossible for us to have a two-way conversation on the phone. It wasn’t long before we abandoned the use of the phone all together in favor of ink and page.
I remember having dreams about blowing up the phone company in those early months. It was so unfair that a person with a hearing loss could not have equal access to simple phone conversations. I learned that many deaf people had to drive to their friends houses just to see if they were home, whereas a hearing person could simply call to check before they left. Today, assistive listening devices and communication technology has made the lives of deaf individuals so much better. Yet back then, I missed the convenience of picking up the phone at any moment just to say hello.
Fortunately, we both really loved to write. In this way, we could take time to ponder our thoughts, creatively choose our words, and be certain we were both understood. Brent and I wrote tirelessly and endlessly. We awaited each letter with great anticipation. I began to ask for stationery and stamps for birthday and Christmas gifts. Writing love letters was our escape during mountains of college reports, midterms, and final exams. Our love letters were something we could tangibly hold onto across the miles. We could re-visit the letters at any time and read the words over and over to our heart’s content.
We wrote of the challenges of our college studies, of the life-changing attitudes we experienced as we both carved out our identities, and delicious descriptions of the fantasies and dreams of young lovers. We carefully selected soft perfume or cologne to spray onto our envelopes before we sent them in the mail. We wrote secret intimacies under the flaps of our envelopes, and sent each other care packages filled with sweet nothings.
Like a treasure chest filled with gold, almost every love letter we have ever written to one another lies piled in a box, sealed with mailing tape, and stored in the top of our closet. We used to laugh and wonder if we were the primary supporters of the postal service. At the very least, we probably helped contribute to some mail carrier’s retirement fund.
Time and distance did not keep us apart.
and we were determined
that it should endure.”
~ Sheldon Vanauken
A Severe Mercy
