I guess, like many others, I take my ability to hear for granted. Sound. It's something that you don't really think about until life takes a turn, and you're forced to take a step back.

I'm a member of Charlotte Ears Tri-County Self-Help for Hard-of-Hearing People Inc. (SHHH). As a member, I attend our monthly meetings and provide CART services (Computer Aided Realtime Translation a/k/a realtime) for my friends and other members. On a regular basis I get hugs and expressions of gratitude. They tell me things like: "If it wasn't for you, I'd have no idea what was happening in these meetings." A lot of the members depend on my CART services quite heavily in order to receive their enjoyment and education from their association's meetings, and it touches a special place in my heart to know that I'm helping them achieve that.

For a Friend

When I attended the April meeting to perform CART services, I was told upon my arrival that our president and friend, Verlin Clepper, had suffered a stroke the night before. The funny thing about Verlin is that like me, he was not deaf or hard-of-hearing. He was a member of SHHH because his wife, Mary, is a late-deafened adult. Since they did almost everything together, it was only natural that he attend the meetings. Eventually he became president - a position he accepted with sheepish gratitude. He often wondered aloud what he could do to get impeached, but it was all in jest. He felt honored to be elected president and made every effort to make life more enjoyable for the members of his organization. I said a little prayer for Verlin when I heard the news, but didn't think that he might actually pass away. He couldn't. He had a job. He was our president. He had to finish his term.

I got the phone call two days later. I was extremely saddened by the news. Verlin was my friend and now he was gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye.

I was told by a fellow member that Verlin's memorial service was to be held on the following Tuesday. Would I be able to provide CART for them? All I could think about was Mary. If ever there was a time when I would truly be helping another human being, it would be Tuesday. Without me there to realtime the service, Mary would be lost. She wouldn't hear the priest's words. She wouldn't hear her friends express their sympathy and sadness over Verlin's passing. She wouldn't hear the recitation of their engagement 40-plus years ago, subsequent marriage and happy life together. Of course I would be there. How could I not? This was going to be my gift to Verlin and Mary.

Usually when rproviding CART, I obtain a list of vocabulary words that need to be entered into my dictionary; however, this situation was different. I couldn't call anyone for their help as they were dealing with their own grief. I just didn't feel right bothering them with spellings of names and vocabulary. Another difficult matter was the fact that I had no idea what to expect. I'd never attended a funeral or memorial service. I'd never even lost someone who I truly cared about before. Every time I thought about Verlin, I cried. I kept wondering how I was going to write. Perhaps the situation would be different if I was realtiming a funeral for someone I didn't know, but this was a person I talked to all the time. This was a friend of mine. I couldn't stop thinking about how much I was going to miss him and his smiling face. Somehow I'd have to focus, and like Nike says, "Just do it."

I read in the obituaries about Verlin: "Verlin E. Clepper, Word War II veteran, a beloved husband and devoted father." I entered all the names that were listed of family that he'd left behind. I also consulted my Bible for passages that would be read by the priest, and I entered any religious words that I didn't have already in my dictionary. All the while I kept thinking about Mary.

Staying Focused

Tuesday arrived faster than I could believe, and I found myself at the church an hour before the service was to begin. I walked up to the information desk and choked back my tears: "Where will the memorial service be held for Verlin Clepper?" The lady directed me to a side room and mentioned that the family had asked for the service to be performed in the anteroom instead of the chapel because of the acoustical situation. I proceeded to set up my equipment, trying to stay focused on the technical aspects instead of the momentous task I was about to undertake.

In the weeks prior, I had been experiencing minor technical problems with the serial port on my steno machine. It seemed as though it was periodically shorting out. I prayed that everything would go smoothly. My heart thudded to a stop when I couldn't get the proper connection. I felt my cheeks flush with fear at the thought: "It's not working! I knew I should have sent this thing in to be repaired!" My stomach felt queasy as I pulled everything apart and put it back together again trying for another connection.

Meanwhile, Mary entered the room, and one by one her friends and family greeted her with hugs and words of encouragement. The priest had arranged for Mary to sit near the middle of the room, but instead she wanted to sit next to me and directly in front of the television monitor where the words spoken about her husband would appear. I approached her with a hug and a knowing look. She can't even hear me say how much I'll miss him, I thought. With tears welled up in her eyes she said, "Verlin always thought so much of you."

Feverishly I struggled with my equipment with Mary seated to my right, unaware of my dilemma. She sat quietly and stared ahead at the pictures neatly arranged in the front of the room. Finally, with 10 minutes to spare, it worked! A clear connection. All of the equipment was up and running, and I was ready. Or was I? I visited the ladies' room and stared hard at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes and nose were red and my makeup was less than perfect. I blinked away tears and said, "You can do this. Just think about the room full of people depending on you. Just hear the words. Don't listen."

I took my place at the front of the room next to Mary and the priest began. I closed my eyes and wrote. "Friends, we are gathered here today ... ." I focused on my fingers and my strokes and tried to ignore the hot tears streaming down my face. The priest was aware of what I was doing and did his best to speak slowly and clearly. I was OK. I was going to be able to do this. I glanced over at Mary intently staring at the screen, reading along with what the priest was saying. Pride welled up inside me. I'm her ears today, I thought proudly. At one point someone from the audience came up to the front and spoke about his friendship with Verlin. He was grief-stricken, and his sadness affected me. I stumbled over his words and went on. At the end of the service, the priest passed out little slips of paper with the lyrics to "Amazing Grace" printed on them. We were going to sing. "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound ... ." Sound. My, how we all take that for granted.

As people were filing out the door, a member of SHHH turned to me and said, "Lisa, I was doing OK until I knew you were here. I thought I'd be comfortable in my own little world, not able to hear the things said about Verlin, and I wouldn't be affected.  You did such a beautiful thing today. Thank you."

When it was all over, Mary thanked and hugged me, and I knew that I had forever touched her life. Whenever she thought of her dear husband's passing and his memorial service and the sweet words spoken about him, she would remember me, too. It's an incredibly spectacular feeling to know that you've truly helped someone in such a profound way.

Lisa M. Rollins, RPR

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