THE AUDACITY OF LOVE: THE UGLY SILENCE

Columnist’s Note

These stories are shared as they surface in my memory, not in strict chronological order. I will tell them as the events stand out most vividly.

A Psychological Insight

We all face the inherent tension between the raw truth of our internal struggles and the polished facade we present to the world. This column delves into that very psychological cost, the immense, often unspoken effort of managing self-blame, fear, and grief while trying to appear composed. I invite you to look past the sugar-coated stories we tell. The revelation within this journey was the understanding that the solution to our greatest crises is rarely found in external diagnoses or validation. It is an act of internal empowerment. Crucially, the source of strength to make this difficult shift, and to face this truth, came from my faith. Without acknowledging this anchor, the story means nothing.

The Ugly Silence

Reminiscing now, the years between my son’s second birthday and the threshold between three and a half, going on four, feel less like time and more like a treacherous climb. It was a period defined by the constant, exhausting pilgrimage: doctors' offices, therapists' rooms, the blinding light of brain scans, and the sterile hum of ABR tests. We travelled from one appointment to the next, a relentless, scheduled blur of dates and deadlines, all in a desperate hunt for the single, elusive answer to our only child’s silent world.

The terrifying silence outside was deafeningly amplified by the screams in my mind.

It was the ugly silence that no one talks about.

I was trapped in a relentless loop, a court of self-condemnation where I was both the plaintiff and the accused. Did I do something wrong in the nine months I carried him? I would recall every fraction of my pregnancy and birth, searching for the precise moment I failed to shield him. Then the blame would pivot to the past: were there defects with me that my own parents neglected in my childhood? Who in your family is deaf? The circle of self-doubt widened, drawing my investigative skills out and putting my husband on trial about his family history. I'd even wake him in the middle of the night just to ask some random question about his own childhood and genetic past. His response was always the same groan, "Ahhh, Whenlee, come on please go to sleep." The weary humor of that moment would always make me pause, forcing a brief, much-needed giggle before the dark cycle resumed.

The Silent Battles of the Bathwater

The worst battles, though, weren't fought in the clinics; they raged in the stolen moments of stillness.

I'd retreat to the bath, hoping the warm water would dissolve the tension, but even there, I found no peace. Lying back, eyes closed, all I heard was the metronome of my despair: the slow, rhythmic plop, plop, plop of water dripping from the faucet.

And in that vulnerable silence, the world’s cruel questions would flood in, washing away any calm. “How did he become deaf?” they’d echo. “What happened? Did something happen when you were pregnant?” Then came the inevitable follow-up… “Oh my god, he’s so beautiful! Ag shame man.” And the silent thought that always made me smile and my silent sarcastic thought would be: So I guess it would be fine if he were ugly, then? Then the final blow: “He can't hear at all?”

I’d spend precious minutes constructing a calm, reasoned response to their curiosity. But the words that truly wanted to be spoken were angry and sharp, especially when met with that very South African phrase I once used myself, which had come to feel insensitive to me: “Ag shame man. So sad.”

(For context: in South Africa, “Ag shame, man” is a common South African colloquialism that, in this context, conveys a shallow, dismissive kind of pity, roughly “oh, what a pity” or “that’s so sad.”

The sheer audacity of that shallow pity was an electric shock. I’d clench underwater, and in the sheer lunacy of my exhaustion, a hilarious, yet furious, fantasy would play out. I'd imagine springing up to them, executing a perfect, gravity-defying Randy Orton RKO on the nearest inconsiderate person, and then, standing over them, I’d coolly say, “Nope, Ag shame to you.”

I’d snap back to the reality of the dripping faucet. "Seriously Whenlee, what are you even thinking and have a giggle," I'd silently go back in thoughts, forcing my mind back to crafting the polite, but firm answer that required the grace of a diplomat and the patience for any follow-ups.

It was in those moments, suspended between fury and faith, that God kept me in check. I couldn't verbally lash out, but my true self was written on my face. When I finally emerged to face the world, my expression told the silent story, a tight line holding back the torrent, a testament to the fact that while words may fail, faith endures.

It was in those suspended moments between the urge to lash out with an RKO and the simple, quiet act of faith that the true message began to surface. I had exhausted myself looking for external refuge: in medical degrees, in the kindness of strangers, and in the history of genetics. Yet, every avenue led back to the ugly silence, amplified by the universal, unspoken truth that we all struggle and hide the psychological cost. But the most profound revelation, the one that stopped the endless search, was this: The answer was never outside of me. We spend so much energy seeking refuge from everyone else when, in fact, we are often the only solution.

Much love

Whenlee